The Real McCoy

[Peg Herring]

He didn't look like much when he walked into the poolroom. Skinny, kinda gawky looking, a real rube. We figured to have some fun with him, but the guy was focused: no drinks, no "friendly" game, no small talk.

"I'm looking for someone," he said in a soft drawl that had to be deep South, maybe Mississippi or Arkansas. "He owes me some money."

What happened next is the stuff of legend. Our local tough guy came in the door, stopped when he saw the plow-boy, and smiled in a way that didn't bode well for the visitor. Nobody messes with this guy. In fact, you try not to be noticed by him at all.

Feeling a little sorry for the newcomer, I muttered to him, "Hit the road, kid. There's a back door, and you should use it soon. Walker's strong and just plain mean."

"Thanks for the advice." He didn't even turn to look at me, just stared at his adversary.

We formed an interested circle, some greedy for blood, some a little sorry for this kid who was outweighed by half and definitely out-classed in pure evil. Or so we thought.

The outcome was quick and it was surprising. Jim moved to pull a gun from his fancy holster, but he never even got his fingers around the grip before McCoy was on him. I've never seen knife work like that: quick, efficient, and deadly. Walker managed to draw his pistol, but the kid took it from him like it was a toy and capped him in both knees. There was blood and brutality, and if I hadn't seen Walker torture and kill at least four men in the same way, I might have felt sorry for him as he sank to the floor.

The police questioned us all, but no one saw anything. We swore that we were having a friendly game of pool with my visiting cousin from Alabama when Big Jim staggered into the place, bleeding from everywhere, and died. Not that the cops much cared who took him out.

We talk about it among ourselves, of course, but none of us is willing to be the next to make McCoy angry. Nobody wants that particular Lone Ranger to visit 42nd Street again.