Chapter 28

When Coffler opened the door, I gasped, which was unintentional. His face was a puffy and bruised mess, and somewhere in that blue-purple fold were his eyes and nose. The man’s right arm was in a cast, broken in two places according to a recent article of his condition in the local rag.

I knew Tommy had done him in, blowing his face to smithereens with fists, a wrench, and superhuman kicks. Tommy wasn’t a boxer, but he could act like one. He followed through with his plan to get a little bit of untasteful revenge on Coffler and somewhat dismantled the wide receiver with top-notch skill. Bottom line: Tommy’s retaliation had clearly panned out, and Coffler was suffering dearly because of my apartment guest’s rage.

Although Coffler’s condition was physically not up to his athletic par and potential, his vision—what little he could muster through his pulpy and swollen eyes, I assumed—was accurate. He recognized me, but didn’t smile.