The Lion at the Door by Newton Thornburg

Author:Newton Thornburg
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Diversion Books
Published: 2013-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Though a cold rage was building in him, Kohl was bathed in sweat by the time he reached his truck. Bobbi was lying down in the front seat again and wouldn’t even look up or unlock the door until he banged on it. As he got in, she sagged back against the seat.

“God, it was already over twenty minutes, Tom!” she protested. “I been goin’ crazy!”

Gripping the steering wheel, Kohl lowered his head onto his hands. “Yeah, I know the feeling. It wasn’t all fun in there either.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I ate shit.”

“Why?”

“Seemed like a good idea.”

“But what happened?”

Straightening up, Kohl got out a cigarette and lit it. Bobbi took the pack from him and lit one for herself.

“The black girl was there,” he said.

“The same one?”

“Or one just like her. But I didn’t have any leverage. I had to eat shit and walk.”

“That’s not so dumb, you know. That’s smart.”

“Yeah, I know.” Kohl rolled the window down and tried to wave some of the smoke out of the cab. “But what now?” he said. “What the hell do we do now?”

Just then a huge car passed behind them, a light-blue early-eighties Cadillac hardtop. Kohl stopped breathing as it pulled into a reserved spot at the end of the row, next to the alley. Two men got out, one of them burly and potbellied, with a full head of light-red hair, brush-cut.

“Hey, that’s him!” Bobbi said, in a whisper.

“Yeah, I figured.” Kohl thought of taking the gun with him, just for protection, but decided again that it was too damned large, almost impossible to conceal. And anyway the two men didn’t know him—he would have the initiative. As he scrambled out of the truck and headed for the alley, Bobbi yelled at him.

“Hey! What about me?”

Kohl gestured for her to stay in the truck, but didn’t say anything—the distance between the parking lot and Tony Jack’s was much too short. Reaching the alley, he called to the red-haired man.

“Hey, Red! Hold up—it’s me!”

Both men turned and looked at Kohl, who realized suddenly that the second man was probably Tony Jack’s other brother, a pale imitation: smaller, balding, not as well dressed, in fact absurdly dressed, wearing a plaid jacket and red pants, with a white belt and white shoes—the same sort of outfit farmers wore to church when Kohl was a kid. And the red-haired man was no easier on the eyes, with his splotchy white skin and flattened nose and a mouth that appeared locked in an open sneer, the better to show off his snaggly brown teeth.

“Tom Orwell—remember?” Kohl said, almost upon them. Ignoring the brother, he directed his words at the red-haired man. “Tony said I should drop by and see about a job as a bouncer.”

The men looked at each other, as though in the expectation that the other would know who Kohl was. In that moment Kohl moved in on them, casually reaching out as though he intended to shake the redhead’s hand but instead kicked

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