‘The Wrong Man…’ Scene Excerpt [M]

Draft Scene for a Pulp Fiction Story in Development

No guns. No knives. They checked you at the door — so I always carried a cheap pen. An empty… no ink in it. Usually in a back pocket where I could get at it with my hands lowered slightly behind me, on the hips–a non-offensive stance. They can do a lot of damage.

I had learned that trick in Naples, Italy. In the Gut… a dicey place where women, the wrong kind, and trouble were always in abundance. I had watched a local bully-boy get sliced open with one. They don’t make a clean cut though… it kind of catches and rips. After that, he wasn’t so tough. He had picked on the wrong man.

It was like that now.

I’m a quiet man.

People think it means I let shit slide. I mind my own business and don’t give a damn what others do. I got problems of my own and just want to sit and drink. But when that jumbo-sized, scar-faced goon started slapping her around, I had to do something.

I had seen her a few times. What she was doing in this hole wasn’t my business. But she didn’t fit in. Nice clothes. Her face an un-inked ivory oval framed by dark hair caught the dim lights in the bar. Eyes that if the light were better would have probably been a bright blue.

And curves, the kind to make a train jump the tracks.

Distracting, follow her every move just to see things shift under her clothes, kind of curves.

Why’d she have to be like that?

Why’d I have to look?

“Fuck,” I muttered. “Hey gruesome… lay off. Leave her alone.” But he wasn’t in a listening mood I guess. He hit her harder. I pushed back from my table and stood. In three maybe four long steps, I reached and put my hand on his shoulder to turn him. I ain’t no pussy and put my grip into it. He wasn’t one either and when he came around, he grabbed my hand and forearm and twisted. I felt them break. That’s when I pulled my pen from my back pocket, wrote him a little note and stuck it under his chin. He gurgled as the blood filled his mouth and throat. “Fuck you,” I shoved him aside.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.” She looked up at me, one side of her face already had a bruised grape look to it.

“Why’d you do that?” She looked over at the man on the floor still spitting red bubbles and then at my now crooked left arm with the splintered end of bone poking out.

“He fucked with the wrong guy.” I held out my good hand. “You need to come with me now if you want me to live.”

“What?” Maybe it was the slaps and punch to the head that made her slow on the uptake.

“We have to go.” I saw a small guy, the bartender’s runner, head to the back rooms. He’d bring back the even bigger, meaner, motherfuckers. “I ain’t leaving here without you.” Shit. I couldn’t believe I said that even as I said it. She grabbed my hand and I hauled her to her feet. “We gotta go, now, or neither of us will be leaving.”

She stumbled along at my side; me more dragging her than she walking. Outside it was like stepping into a coal sack. Down the street, I saw lamppost lights wrestling with the fog that rolls in off the water in the dark hours after midnight and before dawn. The streets, stone and stucco walls around us were damp with it. The fog hung low in wads that had the look of a tattered, yellowed, rag. The kind you used to wipe off malaria sweats and never washed. I knew the alleys as good as anyone. Five minutes later we were deeper into the maze of old buildings. I had to find my bearings to get to my flop. There I could ask her questions. She probably had answers I didn’t want to hear. But I’d still ask her.

[Story in Development]

THE WRONG MAN cover and excerpt - short fiction from Dennis Lowery

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