The Undertaker

But I had not forgotten about him. He stood whimpering, his hands covering his face as blood ran down the front of his shirt. I hit him with a roundhouse right, putting my shoulder into it and following through. That should have been enough to put anyone down for the count, but this guy didn't want to cooperate. He staggered backward, shook his head, and roared with pain, then lumbered toward me again, wiping the blood out of his eyes, trying to focus them on me. With the image of that kitchen floor seared on my brain, I wasn't running. He wasn't running either, and that was just fine with me. I wanted something to hit.

“Come on,” I said as I squared around and motioned to him. “You want some more?” That only got him angrier. I put up my fists and circled him to the right as he came at me in a bull-rush. His right fist caught me flush on the shoulder and the left side of my body went numb. That was when a dark blur flashed past me. Spinning and grunting like a 100-pound dervish, Sandy gave the goon a lightning fast karate kick to the forehead. She had small feet packed inside those Reeboks. The kick snapped his head back like a hard, straight jab from a middleweight and stood him upright. I remembered what those feet had done to Toothpick on the El platform in Chicago and this clown didn't stand a chance. It was all over in a few seconds and I hadn't even moved.

The goon tried to clear his head, but Sandy gave him a second kick to the face and a third, followed by a sweeping smash to the kneecap that buckled his leg, a straight fist to the throat, and a hard kick to the groin. That one dropped him to his knees, groaning. With his head finally down at her level, she finished him off with a spinning heel to the temple. His eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled sideways on the ground like a felled oak, out cold. She stood over him breathing hard, bobbing up and down. “Come on you turkey!” she screamed, daring him to get back up, but he never did. Lucky for him. She was a lethal little package riding a huge adrenaline high and I had no doubt she would have killed him.

“Hey.” I got to my feet and laid my hand on her shoulder. “You won.”

Eyes wild, she spun around and would have kicked me too if I hadn't backed up. For that instant, I wasn't certain she recognized me and I wanted no part of those size-six feet or those delicate little fists. I raised my hands in mock surrender and smiled. “Sandy, remember me? I'm on your side.”

Finally, she blinked and looked down at the unconscious goon. “Jeez!” she giggled with an embarrassed smile. “Did I do that?”

“It must have been something he said.” I bent over and felt around the dark alley, trying to find his pistol. My fingertips skimmed across the rough concrete, knowing it had to be there somewhere. Finally, I felt the barrel in one of the deep ruts. Picking it up, I brushed the dirt off and slipped it into the waistband of my pants, as she stepped behind the line of cans and rattled around back there in the dark. She let lose with an angry moan as she came out cradling her broken camera in her hands.

“Look what you did!” She glared at me accusingly.

“Me? What did I do?”

“You threw me back there.”

“The guy had a gun. He was shooting at us, remember? I'll buy you a new one.”

She didn't seem to make the connection or care about it. “I don't want a new one,” she mumbled and began to cry.

“Sandy, come on. It's only a camera,” I said, immediately realizing that was a big mistake. “I'll buy you another one, I promise! We gotta get out of here.”

She looked at the broken camera and then placed it gently, almost reverently, in her shoulder bag. “You owe me!”

I bent down and rifled through the goon's pockets. I found his wallet and a spare magazine of bullets for his pistol. I opened the wallet and pulled out a thick stack of fresh one-hundred dollar bills, several thousand dollars worth, which I jammed in my pocket. Any contribution to our cause was appreciated. I also found a Massachusetts Driver's License bearing the name Anthony Grigiatto and his photo, but what I did not find was a badge or government ID. Well, at least he wasn't a fed or a local cop.

Sandy came up behind me, trying to brush the dirt off her new clothes. “Who is he?” she asked as she looked down at the muscular goon. He was wearing an open collar silk shirt, gold chains around his neck, and Italian loafers. She looked at the driver's license. “Grigiatto? Look at him — he's a miniature Gino Parini. Gotta be Mafia. Bet they call him “Griggs”, or “fat Tony” or something. I told you Gino would come after us.”

“We don't know that. The guy could be local help working for Tinkerton.”

“What if Parini knows about the spreadsheets and the flash drives?”