They Call Me...Montey Greene

Chapter Twenty Two

A COMMOTION WAS brewing directly in front of the entrance to Armani-Nobu when Montey's feet crossed the threshold out onto the street. "Goddamn paparazzi," he swore under his breath thinking it was the photography hounds going crazy over another celebrity sighting.

He just wanted to get back to his flat.

As he pushed his way through the crowd he caught glimpses of what everyone else was staring and gasping at—a man was trying to force a woman into an awaiting car.

Why was everyone more concerned with just looking or taking pictures and not helping her Montey wondered? Then again, intervening in what appeared to be a domestic dispute could find one on the wrong end of a beat down.

The man had his back turned towards the flashing lights, and though the woman's face was obstructed from his view it was the oversized bag falling to the ground that stopped Montey in his tracks.

'Fuck,' he said to himself, for he doubted very seriously if a bag such as the one Alejandra carried was a common accessory piece for the everyday working woman. He hadn't paid much attention to the clothes she had on or what shoes she wore when they were sitting down in the restaurant not even thirty-minutes ago. But he knew that bag. It had to be her.

Montey was good with his hands not God, he knew no one was above an ass kicking. He learned first-hand that if you ever found yourself in an altercation outside of the United States you best be wary of being kicked or head-butted, since most people, especially the men, grow up playing the real definition of football, soccer. It would be ingrained in them to instinctively use both to defend themselves. He had that lesson introduced and then reiterated to him the hard way while traveling abroad in years past.

For a split second Montey thought about pulling the burner from his pocket and firing a shot into the air. That would at least scatter some of the crowd and startle the man forcing the woman, who he believed to be Alejandra, into the car. But Montey had been lucky not to find himself in jail or worse the last time he let some bullets fly across the streets of Milan. Plus, he damn sure didn't need it caught on camera and a bunch of eyewitnesses. Right now there were plenty of both.

A life owed is a life saved, or was it, a life saved is a life owed. Whatever the phrasing, Montey heard Alejandra's father's voice, Juan Carlos, ringing in his head.

They were even-steven. The debt was paid in full.

So why did Montey feel like he was about to hand Juan Carlos another bill.

"Goddamn paparazzi," he swore out loud as the camera clicking and light bulb flashing continued. The last thing he wanted was to have his face plastered in the paper, so he flipped the hood of his jacket onto his head.

Lessons learned from the neighborhood Montey was raised in were forever ingrained in him. He knew the last thing you wanted to do in a street altercation was make it last too long. You wanted it over and done with before the cops showed up; put in work and be punching the clock before the law arrived. Because cops meant paperwork, and paperwork meant explanations, and explanations led to whispers by nosey neighbors, and nosey neighbors led to rumors, and rumors could lead to one being labeled a snitch, and snitches got their wigs pushed back—it was that simple.

Montey's only thought was to do just that, keep things simple. Simple is always effective. Simple always works. Simple always catches people with their backs turned by surprise.

Now his feet were propelled him towards the man.

If it wasn't Alejandra then Montey guessed he'd be doing another good deed for the day. Captain Save-a-Hoe he wasn't, but if he did prevent a man from forcing a woman against her will to go somewhere she didn't look like she wanted to go, he was sure someone up in heaven would reward him some brownie points. And he needed them, 'cause he knew just by association with his friend Spider he wasn't gonna make it through those pearly gates on the first try.

Montey couldn't remember the last time his first instincts were wrong. And that oversized handbag was sealing the deal. It had to be Alejandra. And the man trying to force her into the car had to be one of the remaining two knuckleheads he encountered in her store seven days ago Montey surmised.

To her credit she was putting up a good fight, which kept the man distracted.

Montey had crouched down and crept up behind him. Then he rose, jammed his shoulder into the back of the man's upper thighs as he yanked his feet out from under him simultaneously.

The only thing the unsuspecting bully probably felt was his dental work chipping paint when his face slammed into the roof and the edge of the door frame of the car.

His head bouncing off like a handball and him rolling over on his back into the street semiconscious, that part would be a little fuzzy. What wasn't fuzzy was the man's face.

It was indeed the Italian thug Montey nicknamed Curly in the boutique the day he got shot. And the woman he was trying to force into the car was indeed Alejandra.

Which could only mean that the person occupying the driver's seat of the car which was now spinning its rear wheels as it tried in vain to pull away from the curb was undoubtedly the man whose wrist he'd broken during their first encounter, the thug he nicknamed Moe.