Broken by Mary Ann Gouze Read Free Book Online Page A

behind the row of whiskey bottles. He tightened his fist on the mug handle. “That’s none of your business.”
    Salvador Tamero’s dark eyes radiated anger. “It is my business.”
    Tamero’s railroad sidekicks were getting nervous. Some had backed away. Some avoided looking at either Salvador or Walter. A short, husky railroad man put his hand on Tamero’s shoulder saying, “That’s enough, Sal. The bastard ain’t worth it. When the doctor told us to go, Lipinski left with everyone else. I saw him!”
    “So? My wife went back to the hospital to give Dobie’s wife her heart pills. She saw Lipinski and his wife going through Emergency.” Louder and directed straight at Walter, he added, “And they ain’t never been friends with Irene and Dobie!”
    A wave of fear gripped Walter in the gut. Did Tamero know something? No. He couldn’t. Nobody was around when that ladle slipped. He drummed his meaty fingers on the bar.
    “Calm down, Lipinski,” said the pensioner.
    “Che voi anascondere?” shouted Salvador.
    “What’d he say?” Walter asked leaning to his right.
    “Nothing. Nothing important,” said the pensioner.
    “Come on,” Walter nudged the older man. “What’d he say?”
    “It’s nothing.”
    “Tell me!”
    The old man’s face paled as he reluctantly gave in. “He asked what you’re hiding.”
    Walter slammed his mug on the bar, so hard that the beer splashed onto his jacket. He slid off his barstool. At the other end, Salvador Tamero also slid from his stool, his enormous size a fair match for Walter Lipinski.
    “Knock it off,” warned the bartender.
    Tamero sat back down. Walter, still standing, yelled, “Kurze gowna!”
    Tamero ignored it.
    “Wanna know what it means, Dago?”
    Tamero remained silent.
    “Chicken’a shit! Chicken’a shit!” Walter shouted, mimicking Tamero’s broken English.
    The huge Italian stood up and quickly began elbowing his way through the crowd.
    “Hey, you guys!” the bartender yelled, “Take it outside!”
    The foundry worker with the black face and white eyes jumped in front of Walter in an attempt to shield him from the oncoming Italian. However, when the engineer emerged from the mass of sweaty laborers, Walter’s would-be protector vanished.
    Tamero’s thick arms bulged against his uniform sleeves. “You need you head kicked in,” he growled, reaching for Walter. Two railroad workers stepped forward, each grabbing a muscular arm, saying, “It’s not worth it, Sal.”
    As the railroad men held Tamero, Walter swung, his fist making solid contact, snapping Tamero’s head back and sending his cap flying. His black curls now in his face, he staggered sideways. Tamero’s two sidekicks lunged forward as Walter grabbed a chair, knocking a table over in the process. Walter threw the chair, sending glasses of beer and whiskey crashing to the floor. One railroad man managed to jump away. The other was caught in the side and he doubled over, gagging.
    “Fuckin’ coward!” yelled the man who had dodged the chair. He then catapulted across the room and grabbed Walter by the throat. With tremendous force, Walter brought up his knee. The man fell and rolled around on the floor in agony. Tamero leaped over his friend and punched Walter square in the face. Walter reeled backward, his nose spurting blood. Three mill workers jumped Tamero, sending both themselves and Tamero smashing through a table. His hand gushing blood from having landed on a broken beer mug, Tamero lunged at the nearest leg and pulled down another hard-hat.
    As Tamero struggled to his feet, a monster railroad track-man lifted the young blond kid and propelled him up and over the bar, shattering the row of whiskey bottles and clearing the mirror to reflect the free-for-all.
    After six minutes of chaos, the brawl was beginning to wind down. Suddenly, the bartender, his white T-shirt splattered with Southern Comfort, climbed on top of the bar and yelled, “Cops!”
    Everything stopped.