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a bit
closer to Tyler’s side of the park bench.
    “Nice try, kid.
I don’t know it. . .even if I did, I still wouldn’t tell you.”
    The hooligan
put on his black leather gloves, which looked oddly heavy. “Yeah,
well. . .that’s what I was afraid you’d say.”
    A fist crashed
into Tyler’s left ear. The sucker punch was so fast and hard it
knocked him off the bench. Tyler scrambled to get back to his feet,
still dazed from the shot. Another fist crashed into his sternum,
leaving Tyler gasping for air.
    “I don’t have
time for this shit, Tyler Kwan. I know who you are, and I
know what you did last night. You’re the one who killed
Pruitt and Glenny. Tell me the fucking combination, and I’ll keep
your secret to myself. You hear me, motherfucker? Huh? You hear
me?”
    The hooligan
picked Tyler up by the collar and slammed him into a brick wall,
his hands moving towards his throat after the first slam. His grip
was tight enough to nearly black him out. Tyler managed to pull out
his flask and smash it into his assailant’s jaw hard enough to
break the hold. The second strike landed on his swollen nose,
loosening a torrent of blood. The third strike landed on the top of
the hooligan’s shaved skull and left him flat on his back.
    Tyler put the
flask back in his pocket and reached for his gun. He clicked the
safety off and pointed the gun at his downed foe, still panting
heavily from the fight. When his vision stopped blurring, he
noticed that the skinhead had a gun of his own and was ready to
return the favour.
    The skinhead
carefully got back to his feet, his hand shaky but the gun still
pointing in Tyler’s direction. His nose continued to seep
blood.
    “Last time,
Kwan. Tell me the fucking combination. So help me God, I’ll take
your ass down with me if you don’t give it up.”
    Tyler slowly
tucked his gun back into his belt and pulled out his flask for
another drink. The skinhead seethed with anger.
    “Cocky
motherfucker! You think this is a joke? Give me the goddamn
combination!”
    “Tell you what,
kid. I’ll make you a deal if you put the gun down. You don’t tell
anyone you may have seen someone that looks like me last
night. . .and I won’t tell Metzger that you’re a fucking
cop.”
    The skinhead’s
eyes went wide in mute terror.
    “Yeah, I know
you’re a cop. You don’t fool me. The Fourteens don’t let their
low-level toadies like you carry guns. . .and definitely not the
kind you’ve got in your hands. I should know, because we sell the guns to your gang. We don’t sell any goddamn Glock 22s.
Only cops pack that kind of shit.”
    The skinhead
wiped his bloodied mouth with his sleeve, cursing under his breath.
“Okay then, so why don’t I just shoot you down, or haul your ass to
the station for assaulting an officer?”
    “You won’t,
because I’ll give you the combination. I’ll be taking those gloves
of yours too while we’re at it. What do you say?”
    The undercover
cop holstered his gun, took off the gloves and threw them in
Tyler’s direction. “Fine. This shit never happened. No one has to
know. Now. . .the combination, please!”
    “ Three-ten.”
    The cop sighed
in relief and pulled out a bandana to dab at his bloodied nose.
“How sure are you? Did you see Metzger use that number to open the
briefcase? Did you see what was inside?”
    “No. The
combination’s right, though.”
    “Okay, I better
get my ass back to the lair. I’ll keep my end of the bargain. With
some luck, I’ll be able to take down the Fourteens before you
do—and then we’ll be coming for you and your Family.”
    “Yeah, well. .
.good luck with that.”
    Tyler then
turned his back and walked on home. Along the way he drained what
was left of the vodka and tossed the dented flask into a nearby
alley. It was no longer of any use. He put on the gloves and
realized that they were heavy because they were reinforced with
powdered steel.
    Fucking
cops. I should have let Khaled give me a ride