Page 16 of It Takes a Thief

Noodlum whipped his head to view his Prez. “Not mental,” he growled.

“—and I promise you I had no knowledge of the bank charge thing—”

“Banging hot wife.” Suddenly Noodlum was grinning, almost dreamily.

That was fucking it. I’d been jacked around by these motherfuckers far too long, and I just ruptured.

I stood so fast my stupid little folding chair went flying. I later found out it had bashed Kneecap in the—well, kneecap. I took three steps toward Noodlum, pointing a stiff, raging finger at him. “That’s it,” I roared. “You can’t stop this half-wit from even thinking about my wife and I’m going to put a plan in motion that will kick his butt so hard his asshole will be between his shoulder blades!”

The whole time I was bellowing, Noodlum had fallen over backward onto his stupid ass. I hadn’t touched the slimy fucktard, but the shock of me in his face must’ve galvanized all his limbs, and he made himself sprawl for no reason. This maybe shocked him more than anything else, for he gripped the metal bars of the chair and looked around, almost using the seat as a shield.

Zelov stood too, lazily trying to get in between us. “Noodlum hit his head,” he said, as if that explained anything. “He can’t tell the difference between oranges and tomatoes.”

I guffawed. That didn’t explain the sudden interest in my wife, and in taking down our club. “Oh, no harm, no foul then! Keep a fucking leash on him, Zelov! No amount of toon porn is going to soothe his warped mind when he’s swinging from a bridge.”

I turned to leave without any of the customary goodbyes. All I heard was Zelov going, “Yeah, I know, Illuminati. That stuff about Family Guy and Aladdin fucking Jasmine is a bit much for me too.”

“Oh, God!” Duji burst out. “That’s disgusting, man!” Duji had a few grandkids, so I didn’t blame him. I was pretty sure my two kids had seen that movie too.

I shaped my arms into arcs to herd my brothers out of the warehouse. We owned it, so we couldn’t cane it off in a grand show of anger and leave those fucking Cutlasses there. I took Fox over by our rides to get his assessment of the whackamole.

“Same guy, all right,” Fox said. “Only I don’t remember him being as twitchy. No one said anything about him being hit, so that must’ve happened recently. Maybe some kind of brain damage.”

“Great,” I said. “It’s one thing to deal with out-there sociopaths like Riker”—the name of our former sergeant-at-arms was barely ever mentioned—“but a guy who seriously has brain damage? He should be in a home somewhere, not running a fucking MC.”

“I couldn’t agree more. He’s some loose cannon, operating beyond the boundaries of common human decency.”

Those were harsh words coming from a former hit man. “Yeah. He’s going cowboy to make his bones with Zelov. Where do you land on it?”

Fox said, “I’d say put someone on him. Someone like me or Slayer.”

I didn’t really want to lose Fox for any amount of time. Besides, he ran a local bird of prey sanctuary as his day job, and I sure as hell didn’t want the birds to miss him. “I’ll contact Slayer. Come on. Let’s get these pieces of dirt out of our warehouse.”

But when the slightly-built Noodlum came staggering from the darkness, still slapping that phantom arm, he turned into a statue when he saw Fox. It was clear, as brain-damaged as the thug was, he recognized Fox. So, long-term memory: good.

“Well, well, well,” he sneered, like a character in a western. Taking a stroll around my red-haired right-hand man, Noodlum looked him up and down. “If it isn’t Fox Isherwood, back from the fucking dead. You used to gun for the Joneses.”

Fox admitted it. “I did. Can’t say as it’s nice to see you again.”

Noodlum’s next words were puzzling and chilling. “You took my woman.”

Fox frowned. “What woman?”

“You know what fucking woman.”

Just as I was getting a bad feeling, seemed like everyone’s hands went to their pistols. Cutlasses were still filing out of the warehouse listlessly, but the Bare Bones were on top of things as usual.

Noodlum was quick on the draw, had to hand that to him. His barrel was pointed smack at Fox’s head, quick as a shadow.

And Fox, of course, had drawn at the same split second.

It was a Mexican standoff, and soon I was facing down Zelov, who didn’t know where to point his fucking Smith and Wesson.

“Tell your man to stand down,” hollered Fox.

Zelov pointed his piece at his own man. “Come on, Noodlum. Put the fucking iron down. This guy didn’t steal no girl. You’re imagining things.”

I had the feeling Noodlum wasn’t imagining things—this time—but he stood down, sticking his piece in the back of his jeans.