“Mr. Shumer’s busy right now,” the mustached one said. His face looked as if it’d been carved from granite.
The bald man, who was shorter, just as muscular, and ugly as a box of armpits, said, “Gotta make an appointment, pretty boy.”
Ethan hated being called pretty boy even more than AnnieLee hated being called little, but he pretended he hadn’t heard. There was still a chance that this interaction would end well. “I need to speak with him now.”
“That’s not possible,” said Baldy.
“Real sorry, bro,” said Mustache.
Ethan felt his hands clench into fists. He was coming up on the point of no return, and though he’d wanted to keep things civil, he wasn’t leaving without talking to Shumer. He said, “I don’t think you’re sorry, and you definitely ain’t my bro.”
“That’s it.” The bald man slapped his enormous hand around Ethan’s biceps and tried to shove him back in the direction he’d come, but Ethan shook him off. Mustache made to grab his other arm, but Ethan was done being touched by these goons. He swung at Mustache. The blow glanced off his jaw, but the attack took him by surprise, and he stumbled backward. The bald one reacted quickly, shooting a straight jab at Ethan’s face. Ethan ducked, coming up again and bringing an uppercut from way down low to connect with Baldy’s chin. Ethan’s knuckles exploded in pain as he heard the man’s teeth snap together. His head went back, he wobbled for a moment, and then he was on the floor.
Again Ethan faced Mustache, who was wary now, dancing around like a boxer. Big guys like these weren’t used to being hit. But Ethan didn’t have the time or inclination for a boxing match. He lunged forward, grabbed the man by the back of the head, and yanked Mustache’s head down as he brought up his knee. Blood from the man’s nose soaked Ethan’s jeans.
The fight was over after that, and Ethan burst into Mikey’s office, watching as the manager’s face twisted under a barrage of emotions: disbelief, fury, and a grudging admiration.
“What the hell?” Mikey said from his chair behind his desk.
“They came at me first,” Ethan said. He rubbed his sore knuckles. “I hate fighting, so I got it over with as quick as I could.”
Mikey gave a low whistle. “Do you know the kind of retaliation I’m capable of?”
Ethan said, “I do,” and left it at that.
Mikey looked down at his fists as if he was wondering if he should give them a go. But instead he cracked the top of a Red Bull and took a long drink. Then he said, “You must be a fighter.”
“I boxed in the army,” Ethan said.
“Class?”
“Middleweight.” Ethan marveled that they suddenly seemed to be having a normal conversation, as if there weren’t two giants in the hallway that Ethan had personally KO’d because he wanted to speak with Mikey without an appointment.
“Maybe I should hire you as my muscle instead of those jokers,” Mikey mused.
“I don’t think you’d like me,” Ethan said.
“I like everyone, as long as they do what I want them to.”
Ethan decided that there’d been enough chatter. “Are you harassing AnnieLee?” he said. “Because if you’re trying to scare her into switching management and signing with your crooked operation, it’s not going to work.”
“Did Joe hit you in the head before he went down?” Mikey got up from his chair and walked over to the window. “Of course I’m not. I wouldn’t waste my time.”
“You wanted to work with her.”
“I did, and if she was as smart as she thinks she is she would’ve signed with me,” Mikey said. “But I don’t hold a grudge.”
“Yeah, that’s what everyone in town says about you, especially the guy you dangled out a third-story window because you thought he was trying to poach your talent. ‘Mikey Shumer, he’s a real forgiving guy.’”
Mikey laughed. “You know what I think?” he said. “I think Ruthanna Ryder’s getting paranoid. She’s got no more career to keep her busy, so she cooks up conspiracy theories and sends you out to investigate them. How do you feel about being her errand boy?” He pitched his empty can into the wastebasket. “I hear you’re a good musician. You ever try to do something with yourself besides dive bar open mics?” he asked. “I started Will Rivers, you know. He can only play about five chords, but his voice is good, and now he’s got girls running up to him and asking him to sign their tits. Who knows? Maybe that could be you someday.”