Call Me Joe by Steven J Patrick

again."
     
    "You got lucky," he spat, getting to his feet. "I wasn't ready."
     
    "Okay," I sighed. "You ready now?"
     
    He did an elaborate series of kung fu moves and settled into his battle stance.
     
    "Try it now, smart ass," he growled.
     
    "You sure you're ready?" I asked.
     
    "Whassa matter?" he sneered. "Can't take a man straight on?"
     
    I moved slightly toward him. He bit, committed, and came in with a slightly less pitiful jab.
     
    I stepped inside the punch—the last thing he expected, I knew—and gave him the same shot as before, but a bit harder.
     
    There was nothing left to puke, so he settled for just the fetal curl.
     
    "Better," Simmons nodded. "You punch like a swabbie, though. Too straight-on. You should come up at more of an angle."
     
    "Damn, shoulda been a marine, I guess," I sighed, glancing down at the kid, still moaning on the gravel. "Now that the big Dick contest seems to be over with, Mr. Bartinelli here—who actually is one of the partners in this thing—would like to talk to the site manager."
     
    "No problem," Simmons smiled. "I'm liaison between security and projects. Could I just see your driver's license, Mr. Bartinelli?"
     
    Jack popped out his wallet and passed it over. Simmons checked it carefully and handed it back. He looked at me and I shook my license out of its holder and passed it over.
     
    "I'll be dipped," Simmons said softly. "You're Tru North? Colonel Truman North?"
     
    "Am Tru," I nodded, "was Colonel."
     
    "Damn," Simmons smiled. "You really took out Saropoulou?"
     
    "So they tell me," I shrugged. "I didn't stick around to find out."
     
    "You busted Sam Wilkins out of Laos, too," he smiled. "I owe you one for that. Sam was best man at my wedding."
     
    "Sam's the best man in most crowds," I chuckled.
     
    "I'll be damned," Simmons grinned. "Look, buy ya a beer after shift, swabbie? You got any Sam stories? I'm lookin' for blackmail material."
     
    "He tell you about Kuala Lampur?" I asked.
     
    "No," Simmons grinned evilly. "Not a word."
     
    "Uh-huh," I laughed. "You're buying."
     
    "I'm filthy rich," Jack interjected. "I'll buy if we can go see the site manager now?"
     
    "Sorry, sir," Simmons murmured. "Let's saddle up."
     
    Simmons rode with us, after cramming Sarge—real name Aaron Weber—into our back seat, where he groaned and muttered until I offered to clean his clock for him again.
     
    The site manager turned out to be a natty little Brit named Dennis Steptoe, whose wispy red moustache, khakis with epaulettes, and wire-rim glasses caused me a great deal of effort in struggling not to whistle the theme from "Bridge on the River Kwai."
     
    Steptoe managed to be thoroughly accommodating while providing no real help at all.  He made numerous poorly-veiled references to the utter impropriety of Jack's showing up without proper notice.  He made a very brief phone call to New York and was evidently told to be courteous but not too courteous and became even less helpful than before, if a tad less disapproving.
     
    Jack endured all this for maybe 30 minutes longer than I would have. I wondered if rich guys become more patient because they know that, sooner or later, they'll win little set-to's like that. Just as I was fumbling with the concept, Jack finally hit the wall.
     
    "Mr. Steptoe," he said mildly. "I've come to see you today as a courtesy. I felt that we were on the same team. Perhaps we actually are. But you seem to feel—to extend the analogy—that you are the coach of the team, while I am the water boy."
     
    "Actually, the reverse is true. If I were to become, uh, disillusioned with all this, and withdrew my $100 million, you'd be back in Watford within the week, probably asking folks if they'd like tartar sauce with their chips."
     
    "I see no need…" Steptoe began.
     
    "You see no need to be helpful, is what I'm getting," Jack continued. "More to the point, you don't seem to know much of anything. I ask where the nearest motel