Blood and Bone by Austin Camacho Page A

it.
    â€œHannibal Jones,” Floyd said.
    â€œI take it you’re Floyd,” Sarge said, swinging the door an inch wider. “This must be Joey and Lawrence, or vice versa. Sorry, fellows, Hannibal’s not here right now, but whatever you’re looking for, I figure I can handle it.”
    Floyd’s expression turned to a scowl, and his followers rolled their shoulders trying to look menacing. Sarge kept his face calm and let his bat slide in his hand until he gripped it almost halfway up. He felt the tension, like when a drunk is about to take his problems out on the bartender.
    â€œYou got something in there belongs to me,” Floyd said in movie gangster style.
    â€œYou need to read the papers,” Sarge said, addressing Floyd and ignoring his backup men. “They abolished slavery in this country in eighteen sixty-three.” Then he turned to the man on the right. “Hannibal do that to your nose? That’s nasty, man.”
    Joey kicked the door open and stepped in with one smooth motion. Only the bouncer’s well developed sixth sense for sucker punches got Sarge back out of the way of the swinging door. Joey was a bit bigger than Sarge, but that only counts in the ring. Sarge brought his bat in and down at an angle. Not a hard blow, but Joey’s knee went out and he bellowed as he fell. Lawrence dove in behind him, but Sarge drove the head of his bat forward into his midsection, drawing a loud grunt. Sarge had time to see that Lawrence’s face was already twisted in pain just before he smashed a fist across the bodyguard’s jaw.
    â€œThat’s enough,” Floyd shouted, stepping inside. His gun was already in his hand. Sarge dropped back onto the center staircase. He noticed how different this one was from the other two. Joey and Lawrence were tough, even nasty, but this one was mean. It showed in his eyes as he waved his pistol in Sarge’s face. He would not like using a gun because it was not personal enough, not cruel enough.
    â€œNow,” Floyd said, as if he had to get Sarge’s attention, “Now you get that narrow-assed bitch out here before I blow your fucking face off. The bitch belongs to me.”
    â€œNuh-uh.” A new voice floated down the stairs and Floyd looked up in surprise. Sarge knew what he would see. A tall, white guy with thinning, short cropped hair, an angular face, and a Remington pump scatter-gun sitting on the top step.
    â€œQuaker up there, he won’t much mind splattering you all over the hall here,” Sarge said, getting slowly to his feet. “Me, I hate to have to clean up a mess likethat. So why don’t you put that pea shooter away and take your friends and get the hell out of here?”
    Hatred flared from Floyd’s eyes. “You a dead man,” he told Sarge.
    â€œWe can end this now,” Quaker said, his lanky form bouncing down the stairs in his jerky gait. “You’re a trespasser. I could blow all three of you away.”
    â€œThat would be murder.”
    Quaker reached the bottom step and pushed the muzzle of his shotgun to within five inches of Floyd’s face. “Sucks, don’t it?”
    Sarge pulled the door wide. “Go, man, before Quaker gets too nervous.” Quaker gave a maniacal smile and Floyd signaled his bodyguards. The three backed out the door. Sarge and Quaker watched closely until their car pulled away.
    â€œYou know,” Sarge said, “When Virgil wanted to put that intercom in between the apartments I thought he was nuts. Not now.”
    â€œYeah,” Quaker said, closing the door, “Neat, ain’t it?”

    Hannibal watched a group of boys playing half a block away as the limousine pulled to the curb. Ray was not happy about returning to Edmundson Village, and Hannibal knew part of his feelings came from concern for his limo. Ray’s limousine service and taxi company was new, and like any young business, its profit