Big Trouble Read Free Page A

floor smelled like puke.
    Snake was making his fourth attempt to stomp Puggy’s face when there was a ringing “bong” sound and Snake went down. This was because the bartender had hit him in the head from behind with an aluminum softball bat. The bartender had never played baseball, but he had a nice, efficient swing. He preferred the aluminum bat because the wood ones tended to break.
    With Snake down, the bartender turned to Eddie, who was backing toward the door, hands up in front of him, the peacemaker again.
    â€œListen,” Eddie said. “This ain’t your problem.”
    â€œYOU are problem,” said the bartender, taking a step forward. You could tell he expected Eddie to run, but Eddie didn’t. This is because Eddie could see that Snake—who could take a bat to the head better than most—was getting to his feet behind the bartender, picking up one of Puggy’s longneck beer bottles. The bartender didn’t see this, but Puggy saw it, and for no good reason he could think of, even later, he rolled over and kicked out hard, his left foot catching Snake’s right leg just above the ankle. The ankle made a cracking noise, and Snake, saying “unh,” went down again, dropping the bottle. The bartender spun back around, saw Snake on the floor, spun back to see Eddie going out the door, then spun back to Snake again. Leaning over, holding the bat like a shovel, he gave Snake a hard poke in the ribs.
    â€œOut!” he said.
    â€œHe broke my ankle!” said Snake.
    â€œI break your head,” said the bartender. He gripped the end of the bat, cocked it for a swing, waited.
    â€œOK OK OK,” said Snake. Using a stool for support and keeping an eye on the bartender, he pulled himself up, then hobbled to the door. When he got there, he turned and pointed at Puggy, still lying under the bar.
    â€œWhen I see you,” Snake said, “you’re dead.” Then he pushed open the door and hobbled outside. Puggy noticed that it was dark.
    The bartender watched Snake leave, then turned to Puggy.
    â€œOut,” he said.
    â€œLook, mister,” said Puggy, “I . . .”
    â€œOut,” said the bartender, gripping the bat.
    Puggy got to his feet, noticing, as he did, that he had peed his pants. He looked on the bar. His voting money was gone, all of it. Eddie must have grabbed it while Snake was trying to stomp him.
    â€œOh, man, ” said Puggy.
    â€œOut,” said the bartender.
    Puggy was starting toward the door when, from the other end of the bar, the bearded man, who had watched the fight, not moving from his stool, said, in English, “You can stay.”
    The bartender looked at the bearded man, then shrugged and relaxed his grip on the bat.
    Puggy said, “I got no money. They took all my money.”
    The bearded man said, “Is OK. No charge.”
    Puggy said, “OK.”
    He was drinking his second free beer, feeling better again about how the day was going, except for peeing his pants, when the door opened. He flinched, thinking it might be Snake come back to kill him, but it was a guy in a suit, carrying a briefcase. The suit went to the far end of the bar and started talking foreign with the other two men. Then the bearded man called down to Puggy.
    â€œYou want to make five dollars?”
    â€œSure,” said Puggy. This was some town, Miami.
    It turned out that the job was moving a wooden crate out of the trunk of a Mercedes parked outside. The crate was very heavy, but the bearded man and the man in the suit did not help. Puggy and the bartender, breathing hard, lugged the crate inside, past the bar, past the toilet, down a hallway to a room that the bearded man unlocked, which took a while because there were three locks. The room was bigger than Puggy thought it would be, and there were other crates inside, different sizes. They set the crate down and went back out. The bearded man locked the door and