Free The Antagonist by Lynn Coady Page B

right to —”
    “Then! The minute I try to defend myself. The minute I assert my rights, you assholes — pardon my French, Bill Hamm — you fellas, you show up here —”
    “ Gordon ,” said Hamm. “Let’s step back. Let’s not get angry. We’re just here to find out what happened. We got a report of a disturbance. We just want your side of the story.”
    “When you should be out there arresting every last one of those little bastards! Not here harassing me and my boy.”
    Hamm and I sighed simultaneously.
    “You should be thanking this boy,” added Gord, taking the opportunity to thwack me in the sternum with the back of his hand. “This son of a bitch right here, Bill Hamm.”
    “And why is that?” said Hamm, eyeing me, abruptly deciding to let Gord take the conversational lead.
    “He’s the only thing kept me from ripping the little bastard’s head off. He’s the law and order around here.”
    I met Hamm’s gaze and tried to get some ESP going between us. Don’t worry, I transmitted. Sanity exists here at Icy Dream. No teenage heads will be torn asunder.
    But Hamm didn’t look reassured. In fact the amused indulgence that had been dancing in his eyes while dealing with Gord dropped out of them completely when they met up with mine.
    “You know, Gordon,” he said, sitting back. “That’s not actually what I hear.”
    Gord was as surprised by this as I was. That anyone could hear anything but good about his boy.
    “What’s that supposed to mean? What do you mean that’s not what you hear?”
    “What I hear is that the boy starts fights in the parking lot is what I hear.”
    Gord and I looked at each other, both astounded and both of us realizing simultaneously, I think, that, strictly speaking — keeping within the letter of the law — it was true.
    Gord’s reply, therefore, was entirely predictable.
    “Horseshit! That’s goddamn horseshit is what that is, Bill Hamm!”
    After all, I was there to bust punks’ skulls. Gord had made that clear from the moment I started working with him. And it’s not that I literally busted anyone’s skull exactly, it’s just that I threatened to do this to some random punk pretty much every weekend and — yes — I even got into a tussle or two. The thing is, there were a lot of little shits of the Mick Croft mould who knew Gord couldn’t stand the sight of them and who would therefore get liquored up and wander in around closing time precisely for the sport of it.
    They had been banned from the restaurant, which of course my father had every right to do. So Gord could have easily called the cops to get them kicked out of there. But Gord didn’t want to do that. He liked to handle these things, he said, “himself.” Meaning getting me to handle them.
    So my job was to take off my hat (my own stipulation), stalk over to wherever the punks happened to be seated, and growl at them to vacate the premises immediately. If they didn’t, I was within my rights (according to Gord) to wrestle them out the door — but I rarely had to do this. What happened more often than not was that the punks would tell me: Fine. We’ll just be in the parking lot then.
    The parking lot, I’d say, is our property, and we want you off it.
    You got it, man, they’d say. And go wait for me in the parking lot. They’d smile and wave at me through the window if I didn’t go out right away. Or sometimes they would be in the Legion parking lot, immediately next door. The two parking lots were separated only by a sign and a concrete rail — it was easy to get them confused.
    That, apparently, was what constituted me “starting fights.”
    But Gord was all over the situation before I could even draw a breath in my own defence. He leaned forward as far as he could in the booth so that the table between us and the cops cut into his scrawny chest.
    “You listen here, Bill Hamm. Let me tell you about this boy. This boy is at the top of his class at school [this was not