Percussions

Five stout men held fast their foul breath as beer-fogged eyes followed the twin cubes of cheap bone across the cracked floor tiles until the dice crashed off the wall. Waitng for the dice to stop their tumbling, the only other sound in the crowded room came from the slow drip from a nearby sink. Finally coming to rest, the targets of drunken greed and half-cast dreams showed the small group each showed the same face. Three blackened dots. Swearing and cursing erupted all around the small group, the meanest and drunkest was started on a loud rumble about what he does to cheats and thieves. The hardened man began working his fingers. With too many long hard days invested in the money he had just lost, he started readying a strong grip that regret and desperation were building up for a harsh mistake.

Somewhere deep inside that brute of a loser a dam of pent up frustration broke. He knew he had to slam that damned lucky shooter back into the wall. No uptown punk was going to walk in here and take his scratch. No matter how the game was supposed to go down.

Taking the last handful of wadded bills and shoving them into his pocket the shooter bounced back to his feet. His crisp uniform unscarred by any wrinkles that might have given away the easy money and sinning he had been up to tonight. He had to get back to work.

Only the grunt of surprise from one of his marks had provided any signal.

A fist big as a mellon and harder than steel came slamming into the roller's gut. With no chance to move he braced himself for the hit. It wasn't like anything he had ever felt before. A wave of nausea washed over that almost lucky bastard. His vision growing dim and only the fear of staining that perfect uniform kept his half-digested dinner down. The second fist found its home at the small of the victim's back. An inferno of pain raced across the uniform's every nerve. A few of the shocked onlookers thought they might have heard the tiniest crack of bone beneath the screams of agony. The winner's legs went limp unable to withstand the strains inflicted upon them. A panicked flaling of his arms kept his head from cracking against the hard tiles.

There were no thoughts of his loving wife, his cute children, the scrawny prostitute who always tricked him for free. Just constant pain and the first hints of dilirium that the realization of certain death is known to bring on. Someone nearby was sobbing and coughing. That much he could still comprehend of the outside world.

The brutal loser was rearing back to kick the som'o'bitch that cheated him when his three closest friends tackled him. The bravest of the trio began to whisper into the assailant's ear. Only when the words "Tom-Tom, he's a cop" were repeated for a fifth time did it begin to register.

You can beat cops. You can't kill'em. Those is the rules put down by that big prick George up at the courthouse. Wasn't posted on no walls or nothin', just plain spoke to the guests. No one takes down one of George's Boys without gettin' burnt by the heat. Not too easy ta Damn a rule like that. Heaving in and out one great gasping breath after another, Tom-Tom brought himself down. It was always a little depressing afterwards. He much preferred the adrenillin of his rages to what passed for jollies most of the time.

His friends helping him to his feet Tom-Tom pointed down to the just saved officer of the law, "What 'bout my money?"

Shaking their heads, "Leave it man, those were our dice, he won it fair." Then giving up on stopping Tom-Tom if he had second thoughts the small gang headed out of the restaurant kitchen that had housed their impromptu game of chance.

Tom-Tom came to a decision, I ain't runnin' out no backroom door like a pimped beggar. So he turned and walked into the dining room proper. As he passed the many empty tables, their dirty chairs upturned for the evening the fading brute noticed that a family was still in here making a deal with Mr. Carolla.

Only one looked over at Tom-Tom as he passed by, the grandpa of the clan judging by his age. With stupidy born from stubbornness, the bruiser glared at the old man. Playing with images of him kicking that old fool's cane out from under him if he saw him on the street, Tom-Tom wandered out into the just setting sun.

Now that they were truly alone the bar's owner pulled the father aside to seal the deal, with only a passing glance back at the odd threesome still sitting at the last table, he took the father's anxiousness as a sign of fear. With the Old Man here, that daddy knew the frontman meant business.

Using only gentle, casual tones, Carolla asked, "You sure she's good with this?"

Looking back to his wife, "I'm sure. She knows we owe you and she wants to help take care of the debt." Facing his collector again he added, "She practically begged to do it. She hates it when we get behind like this."

Carolla was looking at the mother, taking in her face, creases of worry branded all her features. She was going to be old too soon. The he sought the reassurances he would need later, "You saying she's not gone turn tail and kick me out the door right?"

"Not if it makes us even. If we're even its a done deal," the head of the family's nerve had begun to waiver. Was Carolla trying to cheat him? If so, what could an ex-pipewelder do about it? Maybe his dad had been right, maybe he was lost cause. Still he survived that old geezer and that had to stand for something. "We will be even when you've had your fill?"

Carolla extended his hand to his newest patsy and passed off a smile both men knew was phony, "Of course we'll be even. I'll come by tomorrow. It will be like giving her a special gift. And if you want to come back when your having better luck on the ponies, well that will be just fine." the quiet chuckle that slipped between Carolla's tight lips after the last remark was enough to let the fool know that this was only the beginning of the road he couldn't pull off it anymore.

Turning back to the man's family they noticed the Old Man was no where to be seen. The sun had finished setting.

Scooping up his family, the man rushed them out the door, not even letting the two beaten down spirits button up their coats as they were forced into the premature chill.

Carolla watched the trio vanish into the darkness. He loved collecting markers. It was always better to pay with markers. Noticing the kitchen still housed two shadows, Carolla nodded his well groomed head once more. Definitely better to pay with markers.

He wasn't sure how long he was sprawled on the floor, but the officer was becoming aware that he had been spared. He just might get to see his special someones again. A gentle tapping on his shoulder informed him he was no longer alone.

"Let me help you up son," the voice cracked like fingers across a chalk-board.

Weather-beaten hands spotted by ancient age heaved the young man up, propping him up on his feet. Dusting away the filth and muck that shouldn't have been on the floor of such an upscale place, "There you go, all better." So close was the old man to the officer the words stung and hissed into him, more felt by frayed nerves than caught by straining ears.

"Thanks, I owe you old-", the officer finally had a moment to size up his makeshift savior. Suddenly he missed the gentle love of Tom-Tom. Given a chance later, he would like to have told Father Cleary what Hell felt like. Me before my kids. It was the only thought left in his rattled brain.

Twice tonight the fledgling officer understood what it meant to see your own death.

Twice tonight he was given another chance.

Turning his back on the boy playing dress-up his last words to him were delivered with a smile forged from the life-love given by a witch's tit, "Just do your job boy. Just do your job."