by Robert Lopresti

Lorrimer didn’t realize he was in a fight until the little man kicked him.

He had plodded out of the office building, carrying his bulky steel sample case—which felt especially heavy on a day like this, when he hadn’t sold so much as a boiler bolt—when he felt a whack on his backside. Well, really on his upper thigh, because the little man hadn’t reached his target.

Lorrimer was six four and weighed two hundred and forty pounds. Starting in junior high school and continuing right through college he had broken the hearts of a dozen coaches who had begged him to try out for a team, any team. He had never been interested, but even now at age thirty, his weight was more muscle than fat.

Except for the occasional drunk in a bar, no one had ever tried to pick a fight with Lorrimer, and that was fine with him. One reason he had stayed away from athletics was a distaste for physical collisions.

Try telling that to the guy who kicked him.

Lorrimer turned around, slowed by the steel case dangling from one hand.

The little man had made no attempt to run away. He was perhaps four foot ten and weighed half as much as the salesman. He wore a gray suit a few shades darker than Lorrimer’s. His eyes were wide with rage and his mouth was working as if he were saying things he alone could hear.

“Hey, watch it,” said Lorrimer, backing away.

“You big lump!” shouted the little man, and tried to punch him on the nose. He had to jump to reach that high, and Lorrimer had plenty of time to step back.

“Just stop that,” he said, holding out a big palm like a traffic cop.

The little man swatted Lorrimer’s hand, as if it were a pesky fly. Then he tried to punch him in the stomach.

Like many big men Lorrimer had a dread of looking ridiculous. He couldn’t help picturing how this scene must appear. He wondered if anyone out there in the dusky city street was observing them, perhaps getting out a cell phone to call 911.

If so, he was sure most of the callers would be reporting that a big man was beating up a small one. Because who expects a dish to try to break a hammer?

The little man landed a punch on Lorrimer’s left bicep, hard enough to sting. Lorrimer made a fist, but then thought better of it. The way his luck was going, if he landed a punch the little man would crack his skull on the sidewalk. And who would believe he had only been defending himself?

Lorrimer decided to go back into the building. He grabbed the door handle and yanked.

Locked. Blast Wragg for keeping him waiting so long after business hours. At this time of night you needed a pass card to get in.

Damn. The little madman had kicked him again.

Lorrimer turned round in a fury, his heavy case swinging out at a forty-five degree angle. If it had made contact with his opponent he would definitely have broken some ribs.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded.

For an answer the little man threw another punch. Lorrimer tried to grab him but his opponent danced away, still waving both arms and cursing.

What were his choices? Walk away? He had no desire to be kidney punched.

Run away? He couldn’t go very fast, carrying the sample case. Besides, it offended his dignity to flee from the tiny fool.

Not that there was much dignity in dodging kicks to the shins, either.

Shout for help? Again, it seemed ridiculous.

And everyone else seemed to have left for home hours ago on this office block. Obviously no calls had been made to 911, and no cops were rushing to the rescue.

Ouch. The little man had stomped on his foot. Like most salesman, even in the age of cars, Lorrimer had sensitive feet.

Enough is enough. The next time the maniac moved in close Lorrimer grabbed a big handful of the attacker’s shirt with his free hand and slammed him against the wall. The little man stared at him, pop eyed.

“Just stop it,” he said, more calmly then he felt.

He felt the other body knot up and then go limp. “Sorry,” the little man said. It was almost a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“What the hell was that all about?” asked Lorrimer.

“I’ve had a bad day. Hey, let go of me, why don’t you?”

“Are you done with the kicking?”

“Oh, jeez.” The little man hung his head. “I’m sorry about that. No more kicking; I give you my word.”

Cautiously, Lorrimer let go.

The other man slumped forward, all rage gone. He rubbed his chest where Lorrimer’s hand had pressed. “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. My name’s Stan Shanley, by the way.”

“Max Lorrimer.” They shook hands, awkwardly. “So, what’s your problem, exactly?”

“It’s like this, see. My company is downsizing.”

“They’re letting you go.”

“Hah. Not this round anyway.” Shanley shook his head. “No. Today I was told I have to decide which of two people in my department to lay off. My two best friends.”

Lorrimer winced. “That’s tough.”

“And then, I got my final divorce papers, delivered at work, yet.” Shanley rolled his eyes. “My wife left me for a basketball player.”

“Man, I’m sorry.”

“Not a pro, I admit. But he’s taller than you and he played in college. How do you think that makes me feel?”

“Pretty bad, I’ll bet.”

“Pretty bad doesn’t begin to cover it.” Shanley sighed. “On my way out of the building the elevator stuck. I spent half an hour in there, with the alarm ringing the whole time.”

“Oh, brother.”

“The repairmen finally gave up on trying to get the door open. Instead they dropped a ladder down to me. A rope ladder. The bottom only reached to my shoulders. You ever try to climb one of those things when you can’t get a foot on them?”

“Man,” said Lorrimer, “I can see why you were mad.”

“Yeah. And then I turn the corner and see a big guy, looking like he could take on the world—well, I just lost it. You were the scapegoat.”

“Scapegoat?”

“You know. Put all the blame on the goat and kill it. Not that I wanted to kill you,” he hastened to add.

“I get it.”

Shanley shook his head. “I know it sounds stupid. Heck, it was stupid. But while I was hitting you—or trying to—it really felt better. Like I was attacking all my problems at once.”

“Well, it didn’t feel that good to me.”

“No.” Shanley sighed. “I’m ashamed of myself.”

“No harm done,” Lorrimer decided. “The fact is, I had a bad day too.”

“Yeah?” Shanley looked up at him. “Stuck in an elevator?”

“Nope. Look, I’m a salesman.” He patted the sample case. “Mostly gaskets and valves for industry. Sophisticated, high-market stuff.”

“Gotcha.”

“Well, there’s a company in this building that’s been one of our regular customers. The vice president and head of purchasing, a clown named Wragg, kept me waiting around this city for days on the promise of a big order.”

“Well, that sounds great.”

“It did.” Lorrimer sighed. “He could have put me over my quota for the whole quarter. I rearranged my week around him, dropped appointments so I’d be ready when he could fit me in.”

“And he never did?”

“Oh, he finally did. He told me to get over here first thing after lunch. Then he left me waiting until after six.”

Shanley was wide eyed. “And?”

“And it turned out he had a complaint about our last shipment, something he could have taken care of in five minutes on the phone. He made me go through all that just so he could chew me out and tell me he wasn’t going to buy from us anymore.”

“Wow,” said Shanley. “What a creep. Was it your fault the order was wrong?”

“No, and he knew that. But I was the part of the company he could hurt, so he did.”

“That stinks. I’ll bet you understand what I meant about wanting to strike out at the world.”

“I suppose I do. But it sure isn’t fair to pick on an innocent victim.”

“Absolutely not. I feel rotten about that.”

“Forget it. No bones broken.” Lorrimer thought. “You got any plans for dinner, Stan? Thanks to Wragg I have to spend another night in this town.”

“Why not? I’ve got nothing waiting at home. My wife ran off with the Detroit Pistons, right? Hey, what is it, Max? You look like you saw a ghost.”

A man had stepped out of the door at the far end of the office building. He turned away in the fading light, talking into a phone and not appearing to notice that anyone else existed.

Lorrimer pointed. “That’s him. Wragg.”

Shanley studied the man walking briskly away. “Just look at the jerk. That suit would cost me a month’s pay.”

“At least.”

“And that haircut. How much you figure he paid for that?”

“Too much.”

“And the attaché case, and that cell phone he’s prattling into . . . I’ll bet on the hoof he’s worth more than my car.”

They could both hear Wragg’s end of the cell phone conversation. He was using a loud voice to tell someone that the kids had better be ready for bed before he got home. It sounded less like a request than a threat.

“What a jerk,” said Shanley.

“Trust me,” said Lorrimer. “You’re seeing his good side.”

Shanley scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll bet you feel that if you could just take a swing at him, all your problems would go away.”

“Maybe so. I—” Lorrimer’s eyes widened. “What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying.” The little man pounded a fist into his open palm. “I’ll bet the petty cash in his wallet would buy us both a steak dinner. We won’t be able to use his credit cards but at least he’ll have the hassle of replacing them. What do you say?”

Lorrimer blinked. “We can’t do that. He’d know it was me.”

“You saw the way he ignored us. Besides, it’s dark, and we’ll hit him from behind. By the time he recovers his senses we’ll be blocks away.”

He looked down the street. Wragg was the only person in sight. The vice president slapped his cell phone shut with a flourish. What an arrogant jerk.

“Make up your mind,” Shanley urged. “He’ll be out of sight in a minute.”

“Oh, hell,” said Lorrimer. He put his sample case down in a doorway and shook out his muscles. “Why not?”

“All right!” Shanley grinned. “You go high. I’ll go low.”