Page 119 of Thug

As we sauntered through the yard, I blamed Brisco for my involvement in the situation. It seemed lately he was bearing the brunt of the blame for any and everything that went wrong in my life. Not being able to forgive him had me angry at him and at myself. Consequently, when I walked into situations like what we were facing, I reacted other than favorably.

“What’s this asshole doing home at noon, anyway?” I asked. “What’s he do for work?”

He shrugged. “Good question. Fucker’s always home.”

Chin was an eclectic mixture of races, but the Chinese gene pool appeared to be more prominent than the others. One wouldn’t look at him and immediately claim that he was of Asian descent. His eyes, however, weren’t quite round. The thin slits he peered through—and the fact he was proficient with many martial arts techniques—earned him the moniker, Mister Chin.

He liked the name so much he named his auto repair shop after it.

I rapped my knuckles against the door. “Here to collect the rent.”

The offensively loud music permeated through the walls. I pounded harder. The music continued. Frustrated, I beat the base of my fist against the door so hard I wondered if I was going to knock it off the hinges.

The music stopped.

The door swung open. A barrel-chested man with a big bushy beard and beady eyes glared at me.

Most would consider the home’s occupant to be frighteningly large. I wasn’t intimidated by anyone. I gave him a quick once-over and returned his glare.

“Rent’s due, asshole,” I said. “I’m here to get it.”

He nodded toward Chin. “Told him yesterday that I was going to be a little late.”

“A little late would be right now,” I said. “Heard you were wanting an extra three weeks. That’s not a little late.”

He looked at me like I was out of line. “Can’t get blood out of a turnip, Brother. I’ll have it in three weeks. Come back then.”

He attempted to push the door closed.

I wedged my boot between the door and the frame. “Two things,” I said, meeting his angry gaze. “One, I’m not your brother. Two, I’m either getting that rent money this morning or I’m going to put $1,150 worth of bullet holes in the side of that new truck. I’ll let you pick.”

He looked at me like he could give two shits about the threat I’d made. “You think you’re the only one with a gun?” he asked. “You touch that truck and I’ll put six bucks’ worth of bullets in the back of your skull. How’s that?”

Using my shoulder as a ram, I shoved all my weight against the door. When it opened far enough, I stormed through it. Chin was right behind me. Before Big Boy could react to the intrusion, I thrust the web of my hand against the base of his neck.

The air shot from his lungs. I planted my right fist in the center of his solar plexus. Bug-eyed, he stumbled into the living room. I kicked the door closed with the heel of my boot. Before he realized what happened, I pulled my pistol from my ankle holster.

“Listen, asshole.” I pressed the barrel against the side of his head. “There’s a lot of motherfuckers you can threaten. I’m not one of them.”

I fished his wallet of his pocket with my left hand and tossed it to Chin. “What’s in there?’

He thumbed through the wallet. “Two hundred and forty-two. Couple of credit cards. ID. Sam’s card.”

“You’re nine hundred and eight bucks short,” I said. “Any ideas?”

Still struggling to breathe, he shook his head.

“Owe any money on that Sporty?” I asked.

He nodded.

“The truck?”

He nodded. “It’s new.”

“I’m either leaving here with $1,150 in cash or $1,150 in satisfaction,” I said. “Just so you know, so far I’ve got about five bucks of satisfaction out of this.”

“I don’t…have…the money.”