“What? You telling me we ain’t friends?” the blond man said. Ike curled his fingers around the handle of the machete. He let his eyes linger on the blond man for a long time.
“Not even a little bit,” he said finally. The man nodded as if that was the answer he expected. He straightened and turned to his sergeant at arms.
“Fuck this shit up.”
As Dome raised his pipe to smash the complimentary candy dish on the counter, Ike’s left hand shot out like a tiger’s paw. He grabbed Grayson by his right arm. He snatched him forward and at the same time pulled downward until his head bounced against the countertop. Dome froze with his pipe raised above his head as Ike placed the edge of the machete against the side of Grayson’s neck. The big man started to struggle until Ike pressed the edge of the machete into the soft flesh below his ear.
“Back the fuck up or I’ll cut off his goddamn head,” Ike said. Dome didn’t move. The pipe was vibrating like a tuning fork. The other three bikers were similarly paralyzed.
“What the fuck are you waiting for? Get this motherfucker!” Grayson said. Ike sucked his teeth. He felt like the room was rapidly shrinking by the foot, then by inches. His heart was fluttering in his chest. Once upon a time, he had found himself in a situation much like this one. It had not gone well for him. Not well at all.
Ike bit down on the inside of his bottom lip and gripped the handle of the machete tighter. He couldn’t let his face betray one ounce of the fear that was slowly working its way up his spine. You let an animal know you’re afraid of it and it loses all respect for you. If it doesn’t respect you, it has no qualms about ripping your belly open and showing you what your stomach looks like. Men might walk on two legs but they were the most vicious animals of all. Especially when they thought they had a numbers advantage. If these biker boys caught one whiff of weakness, they’d be on him like a pack of wild dogs.
Dome swallowed hard. He took a halting step toward Grayson and Ike.
Ike pulled the blade backward across the blond man’s neck. A needle-thin ribbon of blood appeared as if by magic. It slipped over Grayson’s throat like quicksilver and spilled onto the counter.
“This thing sharp enough to shave with. I’ll cut his throat to the bone before you get around that corner. Believe that,” Ike said.
“Jesus Christ, Dome, rush this nigger. It’s five against one for fuck’s sake!” Grayson said. It came out somewhat muffled, but Ike heard the word “nigger” loud and clear.
Grayson tried to push himself up off the counter again. Ike applied more pressure to the blade. It bit deeper into his thick neck. He stopped struggling.
“Them is some good odds, boy,” Dome said. The shock of seeing Grayson thoroughly overwhelmed was wearing off. Ike watched as the other three bikers seemed to shake off their own malaise and began to advance as well. He’d have to take out the president first, then move on to the one called Dome. Ike caught his gaze as he moved toward the end of the counter. If you had blinked you would have missed it, but for a split second Dome hesitated. There was murder in Ike’s eyes, as pure and as potent as corn liquor.
“How about five against a .38? What do you think about them odds?” Jazzy said. Ike chanced a glance to his left and saw his receptionist pointing a small chrome-plated pistol at the biker holding the pipe. He stopped in his tracks.
“You ain’t gonna shoot nobody. A pretty little thing like you ain’t got it—” Dome started to say, but then Jazzy fired into the ceiling and he closed his mouth with an audible plop. The echo from the shot reverberated through the building and bounced off the exposed girders above their heads.
Ike tried to hire a lot of ex-cons for his crews. He knew the value of a second chance, and he also knew how hard it was to get a job when your employment history had ten-to-fifteen-year gaps. But for once he was glad one of his employees wasn’t a convicted felon. Jazzy was the only person in the entire building who could legally own a gun. Ike gestured to Jazzy with his head.
“She real nice with that thing. So if I was you, I’d back my ass up to the door. Then I’ll let your boy here go. Trust me, you don’t wanna test her,” Ike lied. He didn’t know if Jazzy could hit the broadside of a barn. Right now, that didn’t matter. All that mattered was if these peckerwoods believed she was a markswoman.
Dome licked his lips. No one spoke for what seemed like hours. Then Dome lowered his pipe and stuck it back in his waistband.
“Y’all back up,” he said.