BILL CADY Word Count: 149,227 - At My Friend's Place

Bill Cady, The Early Years … by Bill Cady 302
“Give it back!” he demanded.
“Fuck you,” I explained.
Things kept getting better by the second. Now he started crying, sobbing about
how it was the only one he‟d ever get and he wouldn‟t be taking another vacation to
Mexico soon, so he had to have his knife back.
“Okay,” I told him, “here‟s what I‟m willing to do for ya.” I shifted the closed
switchblade to my left hand and started walking toward him.
His eyes were glued to the knife, and his hands began rising, as if he‟d just take it
back, no harm, no foul. When he reached for it, I jerked my left hand back and sent a
jarring right cross into his jaw. He did that “sack of cement thing” again and flopped to
the ground.
I faced the guys, a huge grin on my face. “Can you even believe just how stupid
some people can be?” Then I got in my car and left. I never saw that Mama‟s boy again,
and can‟t even recall what I might‟ve done with the knife. I carried a straight razor by
that time, so I probably tossed it in a drawer and forgot about it.
There was one more noteworthy event that occurred at the Willow Bar. It was
when I was nineteen, so I must‟ve been back home between road trips down south. I
went in one night when the party I was at died down, shortly after one. As soon as I
came in I recognized some guys I barely knew, but enjoyed drinking with.
They looked like typical bikers. Early 20s through late 30s, enough grease on any
head of hair to lubricate a half dozen cars. Black leather jackets and leather pants, or blue
jeans so oil encrusted they almost looked like leather. Tattoos beyond imagination, dark
glasses in a dark bar, and a general look of griminess.
Leviticus, Limited 33-0505963