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kind of thing. Crowe let him get close enough to take a wild swing that he sidestepped, and then Crowe was behind him, bashing the sap down on the back of his head, right at the base of the spine, the magic spot.
    He went down without another sound.
    Crowe stood over them for a moment, getting his breath back. It had been a few years and it took a little more out of him than he would’ve guessed.
    The first kid, the one who’d done the talking, was still conscious. He curled up on the sidewalk, groaning. Blood streamed from his nose, but he was clutching his torso. A rabbit punch to the kidney. There aren’t too many things much more painful than that.
    Crowe was still getting his breath, trying to push down the adrenalin rush. Fifteen years ago—hell, even seven years—all of this would’ve been a walk in the park, but he wasn’t a kid anymore, not like these guys. And maybe prison had made me a little soft after all.
    Before the kid could pull himself together too much, Crowe got down on his haunches next to him and said, “What’s your name, kid?”
    Between clenched teeth, he said, “Mother… motherfucker…”
    Crowe slapped him hard across the bridge of his broken nose and to his credit he didn’t scream. Crowe said again, “What’s your name?”
    “Garay…” he said. “Garay. Ah, you motherfucker…”
    “Listen, Garay,” Crowe said, like a benevolent dad. “If I see you around here again, I won’t have a sap with me. I’ll have a knife. And I’ll gut you like a fucking pig. You understand?”
    He didn’t answer, so Crowe hit him again. This time, the grunt of pain was louder, and he said, “Yeah, fuck, yeah, I get it… Jesus fuck, man…”
    “Good boy,” Crowe said, and stood up.
    The cab was just pulling around the corner. It stopped at the spot where Crowe got out and waited. He walked over and climbed in.
    “That was no five minutes,” Crowe said.
    The driver was looking at the three guys sprawled out on the corner. He didn’t look at Crowe or say anything. Crowe handed him another bill, which he took and shoved in his pocket.
    “Take me to the Cuba Libre. You know where that is?”
    He nodded, and off they went.
     

The Libre was a nightclub just off Sam Cooper, glittering in the gray-black evening with pink and green neon, smack in the center of a small industrial area. The front was done up in a sort of Miami-deco style, with a rounded archway leading in and a curvy overhang with lights that were in constant motion. It was cheerful and decadent and made you want to have a tall, exotic drink.
    The cab driver let him off, took a twenty dollar bill, and drove away. Ice had begun to fall again, and the wind swept bitter across the nearly empty parking lot, so cold it made his gums ache.
    Back in the day, there was always a doorman at the entrance, but not now. He went in through the heavy leather-padded door and paused just inside for a moment to shake off the chill.
    It was pretty much just as he remembered it. There were pictures of palm trees and famous Cuban guerillas. A short hall opened up into the club, a large, high-ceilinged place with more neon in funny shapes, dim track lighting in more pink and green and the occasional ocean blue. The Libre usually didn’t get going full swing until after midnight, but he could smell the lingering richness of cigar smoke, marijuana, and earthy perfumes from the New Year’s celebrations the night before.
    To the left, wrought iron tables and chairs and a multi-colored dance floor and a stage for the rare live act that would show up. To the right, the long oak bar, lined with soft green plastic to rest your elbows on.
    He remembered nights when the Libre was so jammed with sweating, drunk, desperate people that you could barely move three inches, but at the moment it was all but dead. A couple of businessmen-types, in good suits with ties loosened, sat at the far end of the bar, heads together in some sort of half-sloshed negotiations.