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Authors: Thomas Adcock
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the corner of his mouth. He went to his hideout with his gang, put the Host on the ground and hammered a nail through it. The Host spurted blood.
Darcy closed his throbbing eyes and smacked himself on the forehead. Maybe that would blast away the sudden awfulness of a Hell’s Kitchen remembrance. Religion class, a nun’s exemplum vérité as prelude to the lesson of the day from old Father Gerald Morrison—a treatise on one of only two subjects of interest to him: agony and memory. “Creepy” Morrison, he and his classmates called the priest.
He opened his eyes and forced himself to divert his attention to the rabid cop from Manhattan Sex Crimes sitting next to him who had been all on about the night before over in Newark. Only not now. King Kong Kowalski tipped back his head and poured straggling crumbs and custard globs from the cruller bag into his open maw.
Darcy asked, manfully, “So in this ultimate fighting deal— what, anything goes?”
“Gouge the eyes. Bite the neck...” A puff of crumbs from Kowalski’s lips, then he went on. “Elbows. Whatever.”
“Knees? Butt heads?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Kick a guy in the nuts?” Darcy decided, Yes—a boot in the groin, that would feel lousier than Pm feeling.
“Whatever,” Kowalski affirmed. “Last night, for example, I seen this one guy beef-jerky another guy’s lips.”
“Beef-jerky?”
“Means he bit the guy’s lips right off his freaking face.” Definitely—that would feel lousier.
Kowalski belched, crumpled his empty bag, dropped it to a file floor as bubbled and beige as vomit. Darcy felt two things: a case of the whirlies coming on, and an equally powerful need to get away from the sight and sound of Kowalski. He cast his eyes around the room for a vacant chair. Too late. It was nine o’clock now, and the place was filled to capacity. A hundred sullen men, some as whirly in the head as Darcy himself, waited for the headmaster of school to show up.
Darcy turned from Kowalski and pretended to be absorbed in something from a back page of The Chief newspaper he was still carrying around. He reread an advertisement his warden had circled for him in red grease pencil:
Diagnostic & Counseling Services
851 W. 13th St.NYC 10011
phone 212.904-9202 or 516.765-5922
APPEAL! Attention: police, fire, corrections, courts, teachers, transit authority, state employees, sanitation. APPEAL a psychological or character disqualification that may affect you for life. FIGHT BACK! Clear your name & Establish your Eligibility. (Professional staff has over 75 years combined experience in the evaluation, assessment, and treatment of mental health problems for law enforcement officers & their families. Free consultation.)
“Listen,” Kowalski said, butting Darcy’s ribs with a pillowy elbow, “I heard this great freaking joke at ringside.”
“I bet you did. I bet you’re going to repeat it.”
“What goes ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-THUMP?”
“I don’t know.”
“A leper laughing his head off.”
Harry Darcy sighed and thought again about the small revolver riding his hip. Lucky for Kowalski, a trim gentleman of about sixty years wearing a navy blazer, bow tie, buck shoes, and a cloud of cotton white hair took his place up front at a lectern.
The white-haired gent pulled some papers from a briefcase and smoothed them out on the lectern. Then he took a pair of black horn-rims from his blazer pocket, put them on his suntanned face, and surveyed his bleary-eyed class. He shook his head, after which he turned around to a blackboard on the wall and chalked up the lesson of the day:
MANNERS ARE WHAT WE USE TO GET WHAT WE WANT WITHOUT APPEARING TO BE SWINE.
“Freaking beautyful,” Kowalski said in a brushy laugh-snarl-whisper, audible enough to reach the front of the room. “The professor there, he must of took a wrong turn somewheres on his way to poetry class at some rich girls’ college up in Vermont.”
Fump, fump, fump. The professor
Darcy closed his throbbing eyes and smacked himself on the forehead. Maybe that would blast away the sudden awfulness of a Hell’s Kitchen remembrance. Religion class, a nun’s exemplum vérité as prelude to the lesson of the day from old Father Gerald Morrison—a treatise on one of only two subjects of interest to him: agony and memory. “Creepy” Morrison, he and his classmates called the priest.
He opened his eyes and forced himself to divert his attention to the rabid cop from Manhattan Sex Crimes sitting next to him who had been all on about the night before over in Newark. Only not now. King Kong Kowalski tipped back his head and poured straggling crumbs and custard globs from the cruller bag into his open maw.
Darcy asked, manfully, “So in this ultimate fighting deal— what, anything goes?”
“Gouge the eyes. Bite the neck...” A puff of crumbs from Kowalski’s lips, then he went on. “Elbows. Whatever.”
“Knees? Butt heads?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Kick a guy in the nuts?” Darcy decided, Yes—a boot in the groin, that would feel lousier than Pm feeling.
“Whatever,” Kowalski affirmed. “Last night, for example, I seen this one guy beef-jerky another guy’s lips.”
“Beef-jerky?”
“Means he bit the guy’s lips right off his freaking face.” Definitely—that would feel lousier.
Kowalski belched, crumpled his empty bag, dropped it to a file floor as bubbled and beige as vomit. Darcy felt two things: a case of the whirlies coming on, and an equally powerful need to get away from the sight and sound of Kowalski. He cast his eyes around the room for a vacant chair. Too late. It was nine o’clock now, and the place was filled to capacity. A hundred sullen men, some as whirly in the head as Darcy himself, waited for the headmaster of school to show up.
Darcy turned from Kowalski and pretended to be absorbed in something from a back page of The Chief newspaper he was still carrying around. He reread an advertisement his warden had circled for him in red grease pencil:
Diagnostic & Counseling Services
851 W. 13th St.NYC 10011
phone 212.904-9202 or 516.765-5922
APPEAL! Attention: police, fire, corrections, courts, teachers, transit authority, state employees, sanitation. APPEAL a psychological or character disqualification that may affect you for life. FIGHT BACK! Clear your name & Establish your Eligibility. (Professional staff has over 75 years combined experience in the evaluation, assessment, and treatment of mental health problems for law enforcement officers & their families. Free consultation.)
“Listen,” Kowalski said, butting Darcy’s ribs with a pillowy elbow, “I heard this great freaking joke at ringside.”
“I bet you did. I bet you’re going to repeat it.”
“What goes ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-THUMP?”
“I don’t know.”
“A leper laughing his head off.”
Harry Darcy sighed and thought again about the small revolver riding his hip. Lucky for Kowalski, a trim gentleman of about sixty years wearing a navy blazer, bow tie, buck shoes, and a cloud of cotton white hair took his place up front at a lectern.
The white-haired gent pulled some papers from a briefcase and smoothed them out on the lectern. Then he took a pair of black horn-rims from his blazer pocket, put them on his suntanned face, and surveyed his bleary-eyed class. He shook his head, after which he turned around to a blackboard on the wall and chalked up the lesson of the day:
MANNERS ARE WHAT WE USE TO GET WHAT WE WANT WITHOUT APPEARING TO BE SWINE.
“Freaking beautyful,” Kowalski said in a brushy laugh-snarl-whisper, audible enough to reach the front of the room. “The professor there, he must of took a wrong turn somewheres on his way to poetry class at some rich girls’ college up in Vermont.”
Fump, fump, fump. The professor
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