The Bad Beat

The thug with the knife lunged.

Leo didn't think. He reacted. He stepped into the guard, just like in the gym, aiming to block the arm. But the gym floors were dry, and the mat didn't have garbage on it.

Leo slipped on a wet newspaper.

The block missed. The knife slashed down.

Leo hissed as fire erupted in his left forearm. The blade sliced through the polyester suit and into the muscle. He stumbled back, crashing into the brick wall.

"Leo!" Dante shouted.

The thug raised the knife for a second strike, aiming for the gut.

Leo fumbled for his gun. His hands were slick with rain and blood. He couldn't get a grip. He was going to die. He was nineteen years old, and he was going to die in a pile of trash because he slipped on a newspaper.

* Bang.*

The sound was deafening in the confined space.

The thug with the knife dropped like a puppet with cut strings. He screamed, clutching his kneecap, which was suddenly a ruin of bone and red mist.

Leo looked up, stunned.

Dante Vargo stood there. In his hand was a snub-nose .38 revolver, pulled from an ankle holster Leo hadn't even known was there. The old man’s hand wasn't shaking. He held the gun with a casual, bored competence.

O’Malley froze, the tire iron raised halfway.

"I hate violence," Dante sighed, the cigarette still dangling from his lip. "It ruins the suit."

He shifted his aim. He didn't warn them. He fired again.

* Bang.*

The tire iron flew out of O’Malley’s hand as the bullet sparked off the metal, sending a shockwave up the Irishman’s arm.

"The next one goes in your ear," Dante said. His voice wasn't raspy anymore. It was cold. "Walk away."

O’Malley looked at his screaming friend on the ground, then at the old man holding the gun like he was born with it. He looked at Leo, who had finally managed to draw his Glock, panting and bleeding.

"Crazy old bastard," O’Malley muttered. He grabbed his wounded friend by the collar. "We're leaving."

They dragged the bleeding man backward, disappearing into the rain.

Leo slid down the wall, clutching his arm. The adrenaline was starting to crash, leaving him shaking.

Dante holstered the .38 and walked over. He looked at Leo’s arm. "Clean cut. You'll need stitches, but you'll keep the arm. Ruined the jacket, though. shame. It was a nice shade of black."

"You..." Leo gasped. "You shot him."

"Kneecaps are bigger targets than heads," Dante said, offering Leo a hand. "And less paperwork. Up you get, sidekick."