A Cool Breeze on the Underground by Don Winslow Page B

him for weapons. The guy is a pro, thought Graham, feeling a little more scared and wishing more than ever that Levine had just let the old Italian guys on Mulberry take care of this.
    “He’s okay,” Johnny reported, smiling pleasantly at Graham.
    “What happened to your arm?” Marco asked.
    “I stuck it someplace it didn’t belong.”
    “Hope she was worth it!” Marco laughed.
    Graham chuckled politely and made a note to add this to Marco’s tab.
    “Good evening, gentlemen.”
    Graham turned with relief at the sound of Ed’s voice and then regretted it. Levine was dressed in a three-piece gray pinstriped suit. What, Ed, are you going to rumble or sell them term life?
    “How ya doin’?” asked Marco, sizing him up. This did not look like a guy who would want to buy dope.
    “I’m doing fine,” Levine answered. “It’s you I’m worried about.”
    “You got no worries about me, my friend. I’m legit.”
    “Your health, I mean. I’m worried about your health.”
    There it was. In the air where everyone could feel it. Somebody was going to get hurt.
    “Who are you?” asked Marco. He wanted to get right to it.
    “I’m the guy who’s going to bust you up bad,” Ed answered in a conversational tone.
    Before Graham could move or shout a warning, Johnny came at Levine from the blind left side with a swooping right hook designed to cave in Ed’s jaw. Graham watched amazed as Levine leaned away from the fist and grabbed the wrist with his own left hand, switched his weight to his right foot, and kicked low and hard with his left.
    The sole of his foot caught Johnny hard on the side of his planted left knee, and the sickening sound of bone and cartilage giving way as the giant crumpled to the ground with a scream made Graham want to lose his dinner.
    Marco began to sweat but forced a smile. “You’re in big trouble, sport. My Uncle Sal—”
    “Thinks you’re a sniveling little scumbucket. At least that’s what he said to me at the social club. He doesn’t like guys who beat up little boys, either.”
    Graham should have known the punk had a gun. Didn’t they all? He cursed himself for not having checked him in the endless second it took for the pimp to reach inside his jacket to his shoulder holster.
    Levine waited until he saw the muscles in Marco’s wrist tense as he grabbed the handle of the revolver. He waited for the exact moment when the forearm lay flat and tight against the chest. Then he stepped back on his left foot, brought his right foot up level with his own chest and then straightened his leg with a lightning kick that hit Marco’s wrist like a hammer on an anvil. Marco’s wrist snapped like a dead branch.
    Marco stood, shocked and stupid, his right arm graciously numb and his hand caught inside his lapel. At least he understood now what was going on, although he couldn’t believe this guy was so pissed off about some stupid hooker’s little kid. Credibility came quickly with a sharp kick that cracked two ribs and doubled him over in pain. He was trying to hit the deck when three fists banged into his face with jackhammer speed, breaking his nose and left cheekbone. He felt only relief when his knees crashed onto the concrete. The alley in front of him spun in fiery red and sickly yellow as he heard the little one-armed guy ask, “ Where did you learn that stuff?”
    Levine was just reaching his stride, his breathing even and the slightest sheen of sweat beginning on his forehead. Chiding himself for getting out of shape, he did a reverse spinning dropkick that hit Marco flush in the side of the head and sent him flying into an unconscious heap.
    “Is he dead?” Graham asked.
    “I don’t think so,” Levine answered. He squatted down beside Marco and grabbed him by the broken wrist, squeezing hard. The sharp pain woke the pimp up. “Are you listening to me, asshole? Your career in New York is over. You got that?”
    Marco listened numbly. An end to physical pain was the