New York Minute

Friday Morning 8 July 1977, Part III

A headlight makes a unique popping sound when it shatters. Kane heard the first one as he walked toward Trimble Place, off of Duane, a block and a half away from Marcelle, van Dyck, Feinstein & Marcelle. He heard, and saw, the second one on his old Jeep get broken.

The weightlifter from this morning's visit at Vic's Diner had just done a swing and a hit, not that it's hard to miss an inert object. He wore sweat pants and a skintight workout shirt with thin straps over his massive shoulders.

"Yo, Reggie," Kane called.

The weightlifter turned. "My name ain't Reggie."

"I was guessing, you know, because you swing like Reggie Jackson. Powerful. Smooth." Kane angled his walk to put the hood of the Jeep between himself and the bat with the muscles. Trimble was one block long, more an alley between Duane and Thomas. There was nobody on Trimble, but pedestrians were hurrying by on both the end streets. Being New Yorkers, they were aware of, but pointedly ignoring the brewing confrontation.

"Reggie Jackson is a punk," weightlifter said. "He should shut the fuck up and listen to Billy. Always gotta to listen to the coach."

"Technically, in baseball, I believe Billy Martin is called a manager." Kane halted on the driver's side. "You're a Yankees fan?"

"Of course." He frowned. "Ain't you? Not the fucking Mets, are ya?"

"Neither. Baseball has never done much for me," Kane admitted. "People get all excited if there's a no hitter, but doesn't that mean nothing happened? What's your name?"

"Cibosky."

"That doesn't sound Italian."

Cibosky choked up on the bat, bringing it up for a swing. "I'm Italian. My mother was pure and my father half and half. It was my father's father who—"

"I don't want your family history," Kane said. "I was trying to be polite. I was recently told my social skills are lacking. Now we're done with that. Why are you beating up my Jeep?"

"Alfonso Delgado is sending you a message."

"What? He doesn't like classic jeeps?" It was old, 1965, the first year the engine got an upgrade with the six-cylinder option, spray painted flat black, windshield folded down, with the original Army canvas seats on metal springs, no top, no doors, four tires, an engine, a locked footlocker chained down in the cargo space, and now, two busted headlights. Classic was a stretch. "You didn't break my taillights, did you?"

"Not yet."

"How about not ever?"

Cibosky began to come around the front of the Jeep.

Kane drew the .45. "It'll hurt you more than me."

Cibosky spit. "Coward gotta hide behind a gun."

"You have a bat."

Cibosky tossed the bat aside and showed off, rolling every muscle in his upper body like an anaconda on steroids spotting a deer with a broken leg and preparing to swallow it whole. He frowned when he saw that Kane hadn't lowered the .45.

"I got rid of the bat."

"I didn't ask you to."

"Chicken-shit," Cibosky said. "Mister Delgado was right when he said you wasn't much of a man. Fucking Army failure."

"But he didn't say I was stupid," Kane pointed out. "How did he know I was in the Army?"

"You gonna shoot me?" Cibosky wanted to know. "An unarmed guy in broad daylight? There's a firehouse around the corner. They'll come running."