Big Man Floyd

By Abigail Falanga

My neighborhood can be mean, and some might say I’m the meanest around, but I only do what I do to keep the riffraff in line. And, yeah, maybe I enjoy it a little.

One evening in late winter, with the pavement still slick from slushy snow and the streetlights making the haze a dismal glow, I’d gotten off work late from the factory and was feeling foul about it. Some new guys had come into the neighborhood over the last few weeks, and I didn’t like the look of them. On my way home that night, I met some of them loafing around on a bench, up to no good. I asked them who they thought they were; they mouthed off in answer. So, I invited them back around the corner and roughed them up a bit.

Just a reminder. Just keeping them in line.

As I came out into the main street again, warmed from the encounter and rubbing my knuckles, I heard a sharp gasp. It broke me out of my simmering thoughts, and I looked up in time to see a figure hesitantly step into the golden glow of the streetlamp.

And what a figure she was! Young and breathtakingly beautiful, with wide green eyes and golden hair that sparkled under a hat that was the latest thing in fashion, and slim curves framed in a fawn-colored coat with a fur collar. She had appeared so suddenly that I would have believed it if she declared herself a fairy.

Right now, though, she stared at me with something like fear in her eyes.

“Wait!” I said as she took a halting step backward. “It’s all right, miss. You’re safe here with me.”

“Am I?” Her gaze darted toward the alley. “I saw what happened back there. It looked like you were beating those men up. Not a nice kind of man for a girl to encounter on her own in a dark street.”

“Just keeping the place cleaned up for you, miss.” I smiled. “Those new guys don’t know how to behave respectfully around ladies.”

“I’m a newcomer myself,” she said in a voice that purred attractively.

“Welcome to the neighborhood. I hope to see you around more often.”

“Maybe you will. But, uh… you could avoid beating guys up, maybe?”

“For you,” I said, and tipped my hat.

***

But when you’re provoked, you gotta take action. That’s what happened a couple of days later when one of those new guys threw a shovelful of dirty snow right in my path, mussing my shoes. I let him have it, of course, only to turn around and realize that the beautiful dish was perched on a bench across the street near the bus stop.

“I thought I told you to lay off beating people up,” she said with a sad head shake.

“You saw what happened!” I started to defend myself automatically but then shut my trap and crossed the street to offer her a cigarette. “I’m Floyd, by the way. Floyd Bunns.”

She puffed a cloud of white smoke. “You can call me Fay.”

“Pretty name. What about getting a drink, Fay?”

“Later. This is my bus.” She rose and stepped up to the curb, nodding to a disembarking businessman like she knew him.

“But—”

Fay paused with one foot on the bus’s step and frowned at me over that fur ruff. “Not sure I want to be going with a guy who gets his aces from beating people up.”

“I’ll stop,” I lied.

“Do,” Fay said. “And then we’ll see about that drink.”

***

I saw her a few times the next week, as she shopped or talked with various neighbors and businessmen, though I could never get a handle on what had brought her to the area, and never got close enough to talk. And luckily, she wasn’t around at the same time I had to take care of business.

But that didn’t last.

There was this guy, see, who really had it coming to him. I gave him more than a black eye late one night after coming out of a picture. He punched back. Didn’t do much damage, but I dropped into the corner bar for some ice and a drink to soothe the bruises.

There she was, with the kind of look that told me she’d seen everything.

“We spoke about this, Floyd.” Fay shook her head.

“Yeah,” I grumbled, sliding onto the stool beside her. “But will you still let me buy you that drink?”

“No, I don’t think so. But, I do have a proposition for you, Mr. Bunn.” She turned on her stool to survey the bar, confident as a queen. “Notice anything different? This place is under new management, you might say… the kind that needs muscle. The whole neighborhood will be soon.”

“What are you getting at, Fay?”

“You’ve got skill, I have to admit. So, what do you say? Come work for us, and we’ll make it worth your while. Or…” With a swift, graceful motion, she had a sleek little derringer out of her purse.  “Well, shall we say that we could make things very uncomfortable for you.”

I thought about it for a minute, though it was the gun she leveled at me in one hand and the high-denomination bill in her other that made the decision. “Sure.”

“Welcome to my neighborhood, Floyd.” She grinned, sliding the gun away and the bill toward me. “You’ll make a good goon.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Abigail Falanga may be found in New Mexico creating magic in many ways—with fabric, food, paper, music, and especially with words! She’s loved fantasy ever since playing out epic adventures of swords, fairies, and monsters with her siblings, and loved sci-fi since her dad’s stories around the dinner table. Besides sharing mad little stories on Havok, she is busily trying to launch approximately five hundred novels into the world. Some of them are even finished!

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