They Call Me...Montey Greene

Chapter Twenty-One

THE SOLES OF Montey's shoes had barely hit the main floor of the restaurant when he spotted a familiar but unfriendly face pushing their way through the crowd. In the time it took for his pupils to adjust to the dim lighting of the lounge area confirmation had hit his brain that his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.

'You gotta be shittin' me,' he said to himself realizing it was one of the Italian thugs who he had the run-in with at the boutique the day he got shot; the one he nicknamed Larry after the Three Stooges to be specific. If Larry was here then Montey was willing to bet the other two knuckleheads he nicknamed Moe and Curly were not too far away.

Montey could see the harmful intent in Larry's eyes.

Still, he took a quick look over his shoulder out of habit. But it was no mistaking that Larry was coming straight for him.

Montey's fingers tapped the gun in his jacket pocket.

The feeling of his days running the streets of Brooklyn with his childhood friend Spider crept into his psyche at this instant.

Montey knew that if Spider was with him now, in this lounge bar in Milan Italy, he would just pull out the strap and blast this fool, morphing that face with harmful intent written all over it into splattered brain matter on plates full of sushi. The time of day or locale wasn't of any consequence to Spider. You got stretched out where you showed out, that was Spider's philosophy. He caught more bodies than any killer Montey had ever known and Montey knew a lot of killers, from the streets, to the federal government level.

All Montey wanted to do was get back to his flat, but it seemed like tonight was the night for games. First Alejandra's fiancé Paolo had to amuse himself by playing peek-a-boo with Montey's passport. Now here comes this fool, jacked up on testosterone and God knows what else, looking like he's got something to prove.

But Montey wasn't in the mood to play in anybody's sand box. He was tired, agitated, and the dampness in the night air had already irritated his bullet wounds to the extent that they wouldn't stop throbbing or itching. It was driving him nuts.

Now Montey had a little bounce in his step. A swag in his walk. He was about to be on some Brooklyn Bullshit. Ironically, if a true hardcore Brooklynite from Brownsville says they're about to be on some Brooklyn Bullshit, especially from way back in the day when the Jews and Italians were running it, they wouldn't be bullshitting at all. And if you were familiar with the term and had an ounce of sense in your head you wouldn't stick around to see how the ending turned out either.

The first time Montey found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time and played nice, at least by his standards, he almost lost his life. That was shame on him. The second time, well, that would be shame on them.

The man he nicknamed Larry was almost on top of him now.

Montey didn't have to think of what he was going to do, his body already knew.

He felt it before he saw it; Larry's right shoulder moving. Then he saw his arm swinging up.

Montey stepped to the outside of Larry's swinging arm, his weight instinctively shifting to his forward leg the instant his left foot planted onto the floor.

His right hip rotated back as he struck down on Larry's arm with the side of his left hand. The blow was such that it caught Larry flush in the bicep area causing his rising hand to stop abruptly enough that Larry found the energy he put into trying to strike Montey traveling back through his own body causing his knees to buckle.

Montey's right hand was already engaged instinctively moving upward under Larry's chin. When he felt his thumb, forefinger and middle-finger crawl around Larry's Adam's apple he squeezed, then rotated his wrist upward, his fingernails raking flesh as his fingers scraped further up the neck, digging deeper into Larry's larynx amping the pressure.

It was a subtle yet abrupt way to interrupt someone's air supply; yet violently shocking enough to have them feel as if the makings of their throat are being snatched out. And that's exactly what Larry thought when he heard a crack-pop sound. Then his leg gave out, as if someone had pulled a chair out from under him.

Even amongst the noise Montey could hear the sounds of anguish hissing through Larry's curling lips.

It was all over in a matter of seconds as Larry soon found the floor rising to meet his face, his falling body parting the small crowd before hitting the polished concrete floor with a thud.

Only then did Montey see the blade on the floor that Larry attempted to gorge him with.