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“The Mayor’s guy.”
Romeo shrugged, finally getting it. “So?…”
“So?”
“Yeah, so…”
“You don’t care?”
“Not any more.”
“The girl you like is out on the lake with another guy and you don’t care?”
“Nope. I’m done. She doesn’t want me. She made that crystal clear. Why should I care what she does?”
Then a voice came from the small crowd in front of him. From behind all the people still waiting for a plate. “You should care,” came the voice. “You should care because life is short. You should care because what goes around comes around.”
Then the voice stepped forward. It was Perry. All steampunked up and looking for trouble.
“Ahhhhh, not you again…” Romeo groaned.
“Yeah me.”
“How’d you even get in here? ”
“I have my ways.”
Romeo eyed his outfit. “Seriously. Aren’t you hot in that get up?”
“Trust me. I’m fine.”
Who knows. Maybe he was fine. But he sure was sweatin’ underneath all those clothes.
Perry had maneuvered himself to the front of the line. The only thing between them now was twenty four inches of plastic folding table and a couple of cheesesteaks on white paper plates.
“What do you want?”
“I told you. I want satisfaction.”
Romeo was exasperated, bordering on pissed. “Dude, I am seriously not in the mood for this right now.”
“Really? You in the mood for this?”
Then Perry snapped his right arm forward and flicked his wrist. Immediately, one of those old-timey, overly complicated, hidden up the sleeve, gun on a slide contraption things whipped out.
“Whoa! Are you serious?”
“I am.”
In his right hand Perry now held a pistol and it was pointed right at Romeo.
The woman in the blocky white heels, patiently waiting for her sandwich, no onions, saw it all. She screamed. “Oh my god! He’s got a gun!”
Confusion and panic immediately ensued, as those who were close enough to see what was happening began to freak and flee.
Romeo had never faced down a gun before. Not a real one. He’d played with plenty of them as a kid. And he’d disarmed countless opponents with prop guns in karate class. Advanced weaponry, the use of and defense against, was one of the things you had to master to get your black belt.
He’d even shot a whole mess of different firearms over the years with his dad down at the range. A nine mil, a couple of forty-fives, a cute little pink handled twenty-two that Monty had bought for the Mrs, even a modified Mossberg twelve gauge that almost dislocated his shoulder when he was fourteen. But he’d never stared down the barrel of an enemy with a gun before. Not for real.
