eyes went dark.”
Mancini didn't say anything.
Vincent said, “Ever since then, he's kind of had a thing for brass knuckles. Every guy's got a preference, and that's his. Some go for knives, some for shotguns, some for piano wire. But Mancini? Brass knuckles.”
I said, “What's your point?”
“What's my point? Look around you. If you want to survive in this business, you have to know what you're dealing with.”
I shook my head.
Vincent said, “My point is, if you're going to work with men like us, you've got to know what it’s like to kill someone up close. Personal. As far away as you're standing from me, right now, no further. If you're going to work with us, you've got to kill someone close enough to smell their fear and watch their eyes go dark. Plunge a Ka-Bar into somebody's chest until you can feel his heart stop. Can you do that?”
I said, “I told you, I don't like fighting.”
He said, “And killing?”
I shook my head. “That especially.”
“That's cute,” Vincent said. “Real cute. You practice that? You say that to yourself in front of the mirror?”
“It's true.”
“Well, I hope you've got it in you. Because if the moment comes, you better have the stuff to finish the job. Because if you're holding us up, I won't hesitate to put you down.”
“You won't--”
And just like that, Mancini took a swing at me.
It was a big and wide and dirty thing, one of those punches that people don't get up after. He punched with the force of his whole body behind it. Stepped forward, wound up, and everything. If the punch had made contact, it would have left me in a puddle of blood and spinal fluid right there in the parking lot. It didn't, though. The shot was wide and I jerked to the left on pure reflex. Mancini stumbled after the miss.
I grabbed his hand by the brass knuckles and twisted his wrist back. The joint came to a lock and his arm straightened out against the unnatural motion. From there I twisted clockwise. The wrist doesn't naturally allow much rotational motion, so all of the ligaments locked up. There are a bunch of nerve endings at the base of the bones in the forearm, near the bottom of the wrist. I kept going until his bones were pressing right into them.
Mancini screamed.
I took a quick step behind him and twisted his whole arm around with me. He stumbled with me because of the pain. I twisted his arm back until it was completely straight, then pushed my other hand into the small of his back. Now all of his joints locked up, from the shoulder to elbow. Three times the pain. I held him like that for a second to make sure he could feel the full extent of the agony. If I wanted, a small punch would shatter all the bones in his arm.
Vincent drew a gun.
It was a small thing, a Beretta Tomcat with that matte-black finish that blended into the shadows. He held it sideways in one hand and took a bead at my head. I pulled up Mancini by the collar and put him between me and Vincent as a human shield. Mancini was like butter in my hands now. The pain made him compliant.
We froze like that for a moment. Cars rushed by on the highway in the distance and wind blew off the ocean through the pine trees. The neon bar sign flickered and then went out. I jostled Mancini again, twisting his elbow joint against his veins and cutting off circulation to his arm. He clenched his jaw and the scar on his face turned purple.
Vincent smiled. Started to laugh. The sound came up from deep in his diaphragm, like I'd just told the greatest joke in history. He put down the gun and slid it back into his pocket. He raised his other hand up with an open palm to show he meant no harm.
I released Mancini. He stumbled away from me like a drunk and fell to his knees, clasping his arm in his hands. Just like that, as suddenly as the fighting started, it stopped. We were friends again. Comrades. Partners in crime.
Vincent said, “I'm sorry about that. We had to make sure you were cool.”
“So you tried