Friday night, 9 o’clock, downtown Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Corner brick bar, three days before Christmas. Some 60 years of coal dust had robbed the ceramic stone of its color and replaced it with flat black. Two Shovelheads were parked at the curb. A drizzling rain formed a puddle on the solo seat of one of the two black bikes. Christmas lights flickered on the rain-slicked concrete sidewalks. The worst storm of the winter was still a day away, and the wind was gathering up an icy momentum.
Ella, a dumpy and dowdy waitress wearing a worn, Christmas red and green blouse, leg warmers, and a mini-skirt, hung flickering white lights above the bar’s hundred-year-old etched mirror. The yellowed glass was surrounded by dark mahogany and ornate carvings, chipped and stained with years of downtown saloon abuse.
Ella’s father, a large, old, grizzled bartender, slowly stroked a tall tumbler with a soiled towel. He was somber, his eyes reddened by four decades of beer breath and cigar smoke. He stared intently at the glass that reflected two days of whisker growth, cracked glasses, and a split lip. The day before yesterday local hoods had barged in to collect protection money. He didn’t have the cash and a check would have bounced. They threatened to take the only family member he had left and turn her out.
His eyes lifted slightly to watch his daughter trembling on the step stool, festooning lights from rusty nails; she pretended nothing was wrong. One of the men had held him down while the other one gangster-slapped his leathered mug. As he turned the glass in his hand he could still see the terror in his daughter’s face as she witnessed the beating.
“Whatta ya doin’ old man, tryin’ to rub through that fuckin’ glass?” sneered the shorter of the two bikers sitting at the bar, jarring the old man back to the present.
He looked at the glass, then set it down. He was bald, and although the temperature in the pub had dropped some 15 degrees, pearls of sweat rose between his few wisps of remaining hair. He wondered about the bikers. Overnight they had become regulars, coming in daily at 2 p.m. and staying until closing. Had they been hired by the threatening hoods?
“Now we made him sweat,” the wiry, devilish-looking biker said, nudging his partner.
The other biker was a massive, menacing man who stirred the ice cubes in his tumbler of Jack Daniel’s with a short straw. Staring at the amber liquid, he had nothing to say. His rope-thick, auburn hair cascaded over his shoulders. The full beard was matted and untrimmed. He wore Levi’s, a black belt with a brass wheel buckle, a solid blood-red flannel shirt and a black vest with long leather fringe that married with his hair over his shoulders. He looked powerful, like an angry volcano. He glanced up at the frightened bartender. The old man flinched at his direct gaze.
The younger and smaller of the two had an itchy trigger finger. He scratched the growth of beard between his goatee and sideburns. Shifting in his seat, he gulped his rum and coke as he watched the bartender wipe the glass.
The bartender set his towel down and went to his daughter’s aid. He steadied the ladder while she completed hanging metallic reindeer on a Budweiser sleigh. He was nervous about turning his back on the bikers. They always sat in exactly the same stools at the darkest end of the bar, farthest from the door.
“You boys live ’round here,” ventured the old barkeep, searching for some hope.
“No,” said the shorter man who wore a black leather shirt and vest. Gimme another drink, old man.” He was slick and scary looking.
“Sorry, boys. Didn’t mean to bother you. You been coming in here a while, now, and haven’t said a word.”
“We don’t need to say shit, just pay our bill and get out, right?” Blade said, spinning a razor-sharp buck knife on the edge of the marred, varnished mahogany.
“Yes, sir, right. Couple of days before Christmas. Ya got family in town?” The old man continued to press into dangerous waters.
Blade stood up abruptly and kicked his bar stool, spinning it into the jukebox across the room. “Silent Night” screeched and skipped. “Shut the fuck up, old man. I don’t want to talk about my family, and I don’t want to talk to you or your fat-assed daughter. Just bring me a goddamn drink.”
The bartender nodded, sweat dripping down his cheek, while he turned toward the well bottles. He fumbled with the tall glass. The mob had leaned on him for months. Then a week ago they’d made a mess of the place, smashing furniture and glassware. When they saw that the old man didn’t have a pot to piss in, he thought they’d leave him alone. That wasn’t the case. They abandoned his fleeting material wealth and initiated beatings and threats against his daughter. He checked the revolver in the drawer next to the sink. It was an old .22 caliber rusted by years of barroom mildew. He slipped the new drink onto a clean napkin in front of the nasty biker. The biker spun the knife, and the startled ‘keep dropped the empty glass on the floor. It shattered. “Sorry,” he said, leaning over with a soiled towel to clean-up the mess.
“Don’t let it happen again,” Blade said, nudging the other biker. Mun just shifted his eyebrows. The wind whistled against the wooden shutters covering the windows. He looked at his watch. Lights in the bar flickered and hail tapped against the foggy windows. It was nearing 2 a.m. Mun leaned closer to Blade. “Let’s go,” he said.
“What the fuck for? We ain’t got no place to go.” Blade had come to Pittsburgh to see his child. He broke parole in the process, then his ex refused the visit and reported him. Both men were on the run, but trapped by an incoming winter storm. Gulping the drink, he slammed his glass down on the tacky wood surface. “Okay.”
They got up and headed for the door.
The old bartender had spent 40 years behind the polished varnish and had never witnessed bikers riding in this kind of weather. They grabbed their jackets and scarves from the antique coat rack. Rain and hail pelted their jackets as they mounted the bikes and kicked them over. The old man listened as the Harleys rounded the corner, then the storm drowned them out. For the first time that day, he felt safe. “It’s all right, baby,” he said to his daughter, holding her close. “It’ll all blow over.” A storm shutter tore free and violently slapped the side of the building. The explosion jarred the only two inhabitants.
“Not this time, Daddy,” she said sobbing and stomping her worn running shoes against the sticky floor. “I can’t take it anymore. We’ve got to get the hell out of here. They’re coming back.” She stomped up the stairs behind the heads to their equally dingy apartment above.
Christmas eve, 2 p.m. The rumble of the approaching Harleys filled the drizzling air. A chill rolled up the bartender’s spine. His knees felt weak. It was raining and freezing outside, yet the bikers were returning. Their drinks were on the counter, along with small plastic bowls of chili, before they turned the brass handle on the door.
“Looks like I got the old man trained,” said Blade, tossing his heavy, wet riding gear on a nearby stool. It rocked and almost went over. Mun said nothing. “And chili, too. I’ll bet little miss interior decorator cooked it up.”
“Yes, she did,” said the old man, “and it’s damn good.”
They pulled up their favorite stools, guzzled their drinks, and dug into the chili.
“Smells good in here. Maybe you can it and sell it for what you owe us,” Frankie Devino said, kicking open the door. “You got the money, old man?”
“I told you I don’t have any money,” answered the barkeep.
Devino opened his expensive cashmere trench coat and withdrew a submachine gun. He was young, handsome, well dressed, about 6 feet tall, and mean to the bone.
“Then you’ll make a fine example for the neighborhood, you scroungy piece of shit.” Two other bent-noses kicked in the feeble doors, shattering one of the classic stained glass windows. Shards of glass dripped to the floor. One of the other two men also wore a trench coat, a cheap, vinyl one. It was slick, black, and soaking wet. His hair glistened in the dim light of the bar as flakes of snow slid off his padded shoulders. He had the long form of a pump shotgun under his coat. The other bodyguard was short, with wavy hair and a pockmarked face. He reached for his .45. The storm wasn’t just outside the door.
Ella turned and dropped a large vase of poinsettias; it shattered at her feet. She ran to her father behind the bar, “Daddy,” she screamed, “it’s not worth it.”
The other coats opened and the two forms of lethal weapons came into view, a High Standard, 18-inch barrel, 8-round pump shotgun and a stainless .45 automatic. Both men shifted their gaze to Ella, her legs visibly shaking as their stubby forms scrambled around the open end of the bar. Frankie focused on her nipples beneath the loose sweater and her sizable breasts bouncing in their halter. Tears were already streaming from her eyes.
Frankie cocked his weapon and lifted the muzzle in the direction of the old man. The first round split the mahogany of the bar as lightning cracks a tree trunk. The old man bent to ward off the oncoming barrage and reached for the frozen .22 in the drawer.
Mun took advantage of the girls heaving distractions and drew a freshly oiled 9mm Browning out of his vest. Blade dropped his plastic spoon beside the half-empty bowl of chili, and the two slipped behind the bar.
“This isn’t our battle,” Blade hollered. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
Bullets cracked across the bar, chewing up the surface like a chain saw, bits of wood exploding in the air. The girl dove behind the bar as another round of gunfire shattered glasses in an explosion of jagged shards reflecting against the array of colored Christmas lights. Snow was dumping outside; inside the flurries were razor sharp.
Mun didn’t reply; instead, he leaned around the corner of the bar and fired. Caught off guard, the enforcer with the stocky legs planted them shoulder width apart. His .45 was cocked and chambered and leveled in the direction of the girl. Surprised, pockmarked face turned as the bullet slammed into his elbow, spinning his torso against the wall. “What the fuck? ” Frankie shouted, turning the muzzle of the auto in the direction of the bikers and pulling the trigger. Frankie’s weapon discharged, chipping the top of the bar as if it was clawing in the direction of the bikers. Blade grabbed Mun and pulled him around to face him. They slid into the slime of decades-old snot, piss, and puke that coated the underbelly of the bar.
“Goddammit, it’s not our fight,” Blade shouted. “We’re wanted. We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
“I’m not,” Mun said, his dark brown eyes boring into Blade’s. “Code of the West. They’re firing at a woman. We’ve gotta fight.”
Blade looked in his brother’s eyes. Just then, Ella screamed. He turned in time to see a half-dozen bullets rip through his black riding jacket. He’d owned that leather for 12 years. The automatic’s user paused to reload. Blade and Mun slid up the gooey facade of the bar, coated with puke, smears of thousands of shoes and boots, bubble gum, and boogers. Their heads pressed against the underside of the bar; they listened for the reloading of the machine gun. The firing paused, but the smell of gunfire lingered. Mun brought his thick mane of hair around the lip of the bar as the old man did the same with his rusty .22. Mun motioned Blade to move across the room to shelter behind the jukebox. “I’ll cover you,” he said.
“I was hoping you’d all come to the fight,” said Devino, watching Blade run for the jukebox. “Makes it more interesting.” His confidence and adrenaline pumping, Frankie didn’t hesitate. He ducked, drew a fresh clip out of his suit jacket, and slammed it in the chamber. Then as the old man raised the rusty, small-caliber revolver, the Italian cocked the fully automatic weapon.
“Let me get him,” hollered the tall, slick goon, while pumping a round into the chamber. He fired. The short weapon jumped in his gloved hands, the .32 caliber pellets missing the owner but blowing a hole the size of a trash can lid in the wall behind the bar-magnum load.
“He’s mine,” said Frankie, “Get the bikers.” His eyes were as cold as a New York steel bridge in winter.
The old man leveled the gun at Frankie, cocking the double-action revolver.
Frankie started firing. Splintered wood, bits of razor-sharp glass, and screaming filled the bar again. Mun stood. “Code of the West, muthafucker,” he hollered, distracting Frankie. The gunman glanced in the direction of the massive biker at the dark corner of the bar, then back at the old man. His bullets slashed through the wooden bar like a bandsaw cutting balsa wood. The old man pulled the trigger, the gun misfired, and two of Frankie’s bullets split the old man’s shoulder like a cherry bomb in the center of a watermelon. Spinning, the old man careened into the remnants of the well bottles behind the bar. “You bastards!” Ella screamed and sprinted to reach her father.
Mun chambered his weapon, stood, aimed, and fired. Nothing happened. The 9mm had jammed. Blade dove from behind the music machine toward the center of the room and fired, catching the guard in the knee. The thug screamed, flinched, and fired, blowing out the corner of the bar where Mun stood. Mun crashed backward, overturning tables and chairs. Blade’s second round split Frankie’s teeth and tore out a chunk of his jaw like a cleaver through a chicken thigh. Devino’s eyes bulged out, and he squeezed the trigger of the automatic as Blade fired a second time, blowing Frankie’s cold heart out the back of his single needle shirt.
Blade shifted his attention to the stocky enforcer with the big-bore automatic. The man was confused, splattered with Frankie’s blood, scared, and in pain. He shot at random around the room. Blade caught him in the thigh with his last round. Stunned, the man was driven against the old wall. First his face went white, then noticing the biker attempting to reload, while squirming in the rubble, his fear turned to rage. He took the massive auto in both hands and aimed toward the biker.
The .45 sounded like a cannon, ripping into the hardwood floor. Blade ducked, but a sliver of lead caught his gun hand. He tried in vain to conceal himself behind the semi-auto, while attempting to reload. Only one clip remained.
The wounded gunman, a fireplug of a man, followed Blade with the muzzle of his gun, blowing holes in the floor as Blade rolled toward the jukebox. Bullets tore into the music maker, spilling fragments of vinyl Christmas records over Blade. He hadn’t had the time or composure to reload, and he found himself under the lethal eye of the .45. He could hear the weapon rechamber after the last bullet. He had nowhere else to go. He fumbled for the clip, on the inside of his heavy leather shirt. He knew his time was running out. He wondered whether Mun would make it? How bad was he hit? He thought about his kid, her perfect red hair, her bright green eyes. Mun had jeopardized his job and his freedom to come along on this risky ride. He hoped his friend would survive. Blade pulled the clip free and drew it closer to his auto. It was empty.
The pain in Mun’s gaping left thigh was unrelenting, yet he rolled free of the rubble and fired into the ceiling fan, tearing at the cords holding the porcelain lamp and rotating fans. Severed, the unit fell at the feet of the gangster. He ignored it and took final aim at Blade. Mun rolled along the sticky floor and fired again, splitting the man’s navel. His next bullet pierced the gangster’s skull; he died instantly.
“Fuck you, biker trash,” came the voice of the wounded slicker with the shotgun, the color leaving his narrow face as his hand slipped to the trigger of the shotgun.
Coming to his dead brother’s aid, the lanky pasta maker fired at the wounded biker. Mun returned the fire, but his weapon clicked with the frightening sound of an empty clip. For a moment there was silence. Only the storm, sirens, and the tinkling of glass set the disastrous tone. Then, the sound of a 12-gauge cartridge slamming into its chamber interrupted the storm. “It’s my turn to be the boss, now,” he said. The slicked back hair of the tall hood glistened in the dim light. He went after the ammo-less biker. His first bullet took Mun’s weapon out of his hand . Lead pellets tore into the muscular fiber of his forearm. Mun rolled to avoid more of his medicine.
Blade cocked the heavy pistol in his good hand and threw it at the greasy hitman. It slammed into the side of his face. Mun took the opportunity to take two massive steps and dive for the shuttered window. Blade pulled out his Buck as the young hood recovered and began to fire again. The bullet shattered the floor at Mun’s escaping feet. Blade’s arm screamed with pain, but his namesake was for his ability to open a Buck lightning fast, with just a flick of his left wrist. Another shell exploded and blew out the adjacent window as Mun fell onto the street and the mounting snow outside. Blade let the knife sail and turned to follow his brother. Shattering the wood slates and the glass it was protecting, Blade made a similar exit, spilling onto the snowdrift outside. Two rounds followed them onto the street, then stopped. The knife had struck just above the slimeball’s heart, slid in between a couple of ribs, and severed the main artery.
Ella held her injured father in her arms. Blade reached back in through the broken glass to retrieve his riding gear and shouted as he strode toward his bike, “Merry Fuckin’ Christmas.”
