"Huh," I said.
Purcell gave the man a little kick in the hip and said something in Spanish. Then he grabbed the man’s arm and tried to haul him up. He didn’t budge. He was dead weight. Purcell dropped his arm. "All right," he said, "you get his shoulders and I’ll get his legs," and he stepped around the man to his feet. I didn’t move.
He waved. "Come on, let’s go."
"That’s my coat there," I pointed.
"Yeah? So?" he said.
"It’s ruined," I said.
His expression deadened as he figured it out, which took about two seconds. He shook his head and cursed again. He took out his wallet and handed over a fifty.
"I need a hundred more," I said.
If either of us had been smoking the whole block would’ve exploded. "Listen," he said, "I wouldn’t be paying anybody anything if I could speak enough Spanish to make these tacos understand if they don’t do what I say I’ll tell the police whatever I want. But even though you’re a goddamn briar you understand me, don’t you?"
"The police might hassle me on your sayso," I said, "but that’s about all they could do. And think about it. If I do end up talking to them, I’m such a briar I might let it slip how you run a straight cash business."
He turned his back to me and started muttering. He stayed that way at least a half-minute. Then he turned back around holding out five twenties. His mouth was very tight.
Lifting the man was like picking up one end of a rowboat full of water, if you’ve ever done that. We carried him ten yards, rested, then went the last ten yards to the street. Purcell dropped the man’s feet and stayed be