The chain rattled. The door swung open. And behind her, sitting on the edge of the unmade bed with a beer in his hand, was a man I'd never seen before.
He was maybe fifty, thick through the shoulders, with a gut that strained against his t-shirt. He looked at me the way men like him always looked at me, sizing me up and deciding I wasn't a threat.
"This the son?" He took a pull from his beer. "The figure skater?"
My mother's hand found my arm, her nails digging in through my jacket. "Joel, this is Danny. He's helping me with the Vic thing."
Danny. There was always a Danny. A Ray, a Mike, a Steve. Men who drank too much and hit too hard, and stayed too long.
"Danny," I said.
"That's right." He didn't get up. "Your mama's told me a lot about you. Says you're famous. Says you got money."
There was a bruise darkening on my mother’s cheek, and she wouldn't meet my eyes. "Who did that to your face?"
She touched her cheek. "It's nothing. I fell."
“Right into his fist,” I muttered.
“The fuck did you say to me, boy?” Danny found his feet.
"Joel." My mother's voice was thin. "Baby, let's just talk about Vic. Danny's got nothing to do with it."
"Danny's got everything to do with it." I kept my eyes on him. "How much of that fifteen thousand went to the tables and how much went up his nose?"
Danny clenched his fists. “Boy, you better watch your fuckin’ mouth.”
"Here's what's going to happen," I said, pulling my gloves out of my pocket. "You're going to pack your things and leave. You're not going to call her. You're not going to come back. And if I ever see your face again, I'm going to break it."
Danny laughed. "The figure skater's gonna break my face."
He stepped closer, reeking of stale beer.
“Last warning,” I said, and pulled my gloves on.
Danny swung first. They always did.
I stepped inside the arc of his fist and drove my elbow into his solar plexus. The air left him in a grunt and he doubled over, which put his face at the right height for my knee. Cartilage crunched. Blood sprayed across my jacket. I noticed the pattern it made: a fine mist across the gray wool. Dry cleaning or replacement? Probably a replacement. I didn’t want to pay for the dry cleaning, and Danny didn’t look like the type who could afford to reimburse me.
He staggered back, hands going to his nose, and I followed him with two quick jabs to the ribs. He tried to grab me, and I ducked under his arm, planted my feet, and put everything I had into an uppercut that snapped his head back.
My mother was screaming somewhere behind me.
Danny hit the dresser and knocked the lamp off. Glass shattered. I grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed his head into the edge of the dresser once, twice, and let him drop.
He went down hard and stayed down.
The whole thing had taken maybe fifteen seconds. My breathing was even. My hands weren't shaking.
Danny groaned. His hand twitched against the carpet.
I crouched next to him, close enough that he could see my face through the blood in his eyes.
"If you ever touch her again," I said, "I'll kill you."
Then I peeled off the gloves and dropped them in the trash can by the door. They were ruined anyway. I'd buy new ones before next time.
There was always a next time.