raised by wolves

They call me Legbreaker because that’s what I do. If you don’t pay the Boss on time, you get a leg broken. If you don’t pay the Boss on time next month, you get your other leg broken. If you’re still behind after that, well…don’t get that far behind.

It’s hot. I’m sweating like a waterfall in the doorway of The Crab. The place is actually called Cosmo’s #3, but it looks like a giant crab, so people call it The Crab, and there’s two other clubs called Cosmo’s already.

Cosmo’s the Boss, but everyone just calls him the Boss.

I pitch my cigarette and go around back to look at the ocean and wait for the band to get here. It’s some honky-tonk southern blues band or some shit. Four guys with trumpets. They’re supposed to be pretty good. I can’t remember the name of the group. Billy B and the something or another. I light another cigarette.

I wait.

“There he is,” someone says. It’s the Boss. He’s short, shorter than me, which isn’t saying much. They used to tell me if I didn’t stop growing I’d get too big for this small town. Then when the town got bigger they used to say it was the mayor redecorating for me. I know they were kidding, but it made me feel good. I was relieved I wouldn’t have to move somewhere with higher ceilings. I like it here.

“Band showed up yet, Legs?”

The Boss just calls me Legs because he never knows who’s listening. He pretends it’s not short for what they really call me because he doesn’t like the ugly side of this business. He lost his taste for it some years back. I suppose that’s why he hired me. He brushes his mustache away from the corners of his mouth and runs a comb through his greasy hair. I tell him no, the band’s not here yet. I’ll see them in when they show up though, I assure him. He nods and slaps me on the shoulder like a friendly uncle from out of town.

“Thanks, Legs. So where’s your girlfriend tonight, huh?” he asks with a grin and nudges me in the ribs with his elbow.

“Who?” I say, acting like I don’t know.

“You know who!” he says and digs his elbow in harder. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s certainly not comfortable. “That little blonde gal you were sitting with the other night. You know the one,” and he makes a shape like an hourglass in the air with his hands. He whistles and winks at me. “Ass like an ocean liner? Mole on her cheek? Ring any bells?”

I smile and try to keep myself from blushing. He’s talking about Gracie.

“Sorry Boss, can’t say I know who you mean.”

He laughs. “Sure, sure. Can’t expect you to keep track of every piece of tail that comes in the door, huh? Our man Legs, a face like yours and still you get more gals after you than anyone I seen in thirty years. And you can’t even remember her name!” he slaps me on the shoulder again and we laugh.

It’s funny when things like this happen. The Boss can call me ugly and stupid all he wants, but I know he doesn’t mean it. He wouldn’t keep me around if he didn’t like me. And besides, what’s it matter if I’m ugly and stupid? I’m happy enough. I do good work that I’m good at. The Boss knows it.

Anyone else called me ugly or stupid though, well…I’d show them how I got my name but quick.

“Legs, you got a smoke for me?” the Boss asks. I nod and hand him my pack. He lights one and hands the pack back to me and winks. “I owe ya, kid.”

He takes a long drag and we both see a white van roll up. It must be the band.

Four black kids in suits hop out of the back, leaving two in the front seat. Maybe they’re getting dropped off. They’re holding hard black plastic instrument cases, two shaped like trumpets, one shaped like a saxophone and one shaped like a trombone.

“That’s him!” the one in the driver’s seat yells out the window. The four outside the car exchange an odd look among them, then drop their instrument cases and pull guns from their waistbands.

This, I was not expecting. Shots rain down, shattering glass and splintering wood on the back of the club. The Boss yells something profane and drops to his knees clutching his guts. I see a flash of white, and then black, and then I’m on my side and I can’t move. I see the Boss bleeding and the black kids moving closer. The Boss pulls a knife at the last moment and cuts one of their hands. The black boy curses and spits on the Boss and then kicks him squarely in the neck.

“This is it,” he says, reaching down and plucking something off the Boss’s immobile form. It looks like a necklace. I wonder why I can’t move. These guys need a beating bad, and for the first time ever, I can’t give it to them.

One of them sees I’m still alive. He can tell I want them bad.

“What about this freakshow?” he says, pointing at me with his gun.

“Leave it,” another says. “Headshot. He just got death spasms. We gotta roll, man, fuckin’ yesterday, get me? 5-O’s showin’ any minute.”

The one pointing the gun at me spits on my shirt and puts the piece back in his waistband. The four of them climb back into their van and are gone in no time.

In the distance, I hear sirens.