Page 3 of The Damage Man

“Fuck you, you fucking idiot. I offer great deal! You waste my time.”

Evan says, “Right.”

Cyrus crawls less than a foot and then vomits across the backs of his hands. He stares down at the amoeba splotch of puke beneath his face. A tendril of saliva connects his chin to the ground.

“Clean up fucking mess! And get off property.”

Evan says, “Yes, sir.”

The clerk storms away, bottle swinging at his side.

“Sit up,” Evan tells Cyrus.

“… can’t.”

Evan prods his floating rib with the steel toe of one of his Original S.W.A.T.s, flipping him up onto his ass to tip against the wall. “Who do you work for?”

Cyrus’s nose is surprisingly intact, if flattened. His eyes, clogged with tears, are already swelling, inflammation puffing at his zygomatic bones.

He wipes his lip. “I think … brain bleed, guy.”

“Just a concussion.” Evan crouches over him. “Who do you work for?”

“Need … hospital.”

“I’d say so. Answer.”

“Dude who hires me is serious. He’s the damage man. I don’t actually—hang on, hang on.” A dry heave. “I don’t actually do the beatdowns. I’m just the collector for low-level street banker stuff before shit get serious.”

“Name,” Evan says. “Address.”

“Fuck, guy.” Cyrus’s pupils are dilated and glassy, stuffed animal eyes. He gags a bit more. “I need some medical fucking attention.”

Rusty is standing beside Evan now, distraught, a fist clenching the fingers of the opposite hand, the effect oddly effete for a meat-and-potatoes guy.

“Name. Address.”

“Guy, c’mon.”

“Don’t make me ask again.”

“Okay, okay, okay. I’ll tell you.” Cyrus wipes his hands on his pants, dusting both sides. “Joe Musselman. Outta Henderson by Vegas.”

“Address.”

Cyrus’s wan lips rattle off an address.

“If you’re lying, you’ll learn about the different punch.” Evan taps a number into the RoamZone.

Instead of hello, Josephine Morales answers with: “X! Glad you called. I’m, like, sooo emotional right now. Just did yoga with my favorite instructor. Inez? She’s got, like, serious Alicia Keys energy. So cool you wouldn’t believe it.”

Joey, Evan’s seventeen-year-old associate, is a world-class hacker and world-class yammerer.

“Need you to run name and address.”

“We did hips this morning,” Joey continues, undeterred. “Hips, X. We throw everything in there, unprocessed emotional shit. They’re like the junk drawer of the body.”

Evan tells her the name and address.