Mickey Coyle was king, and Billy intended to be him someday.

No, better than him.

It was a family business, and Mickey was a part of the family - the oldest child, and only son, of his father's sister. His father loved Mickey more than his own kids. He could do no wrong.

It should be him.

But Billy was young yet. At 21, still too young. You wait till you're 25, Mickey said, then we'll talk. He tossed him milk-and-cookies jobs, the shit the organization members wouldn't touch, and took most of the profits. With not enough earning potential, Billy and Bodie took to making their own way, knocking over liquor stores and gas stations. It was usually simple: these mom-and-pop business owners didn't want a fight. Usually.

When Billy had pointed his pistol at that guy at the liquor store, the last thing he expected was for him to pull out one of his own. Who did he think he was?

"C'mon, let's get outta here," Bodie said, backing away.

Billy looked at Bodie. He looked at the guy who had the audacity to pull a gun on him. Then he shot him.

He jumped on the counter and opened the register. The guy was still alive, writhing around on the floor. He shot him again, and yanked the bills out of the register.

"Fucker," he said, before bolting out.

Bodie was already running. Billy ran after him, nearly catching up. It was like he'd had a burst of superhuman energy.

--

Billy dropped the newspaper in front of Mickey. Local business owner, 42, killed in holdup. No suspects.

"That was me," Billy said.

Mickey pushed the paper away. "Bullshit it was," he said.

"Bodie was with me."

"Oh," Mickey said, "your little toadie is your witness? I'm gonna believe him?"

"I won't get caught, either," Billy said.

"You didn't kill no liquor store guy," Mickey said. He threw back a shot. "You're a little shit who don't know when to quit. You didn't kill your girl -"

"I never said I did."

"Why don't you go back to your little playhouse, Billy? Go pitch pennies with Bodie, or whatever the fuck you do. I don't have time for you."

Billy pushed away from the bar. "This is bullshit," he said.

Mickey stood up and faced him. "You know, Billy, you're really starting to annoy me," he said. "You're like . . . a little mosquito that won't go away." He pulled out his blackjack and rolled it across the back of his hand. Mickey's boys were paying attention now. Billy could feel them closing in on him. "Get the fuck out of here, before I have to take your pretty face-"

"Fuck you, Mickey."

Mickey's eyes narrowed. Except for a snicker from Tommy, the bar went hush.

Mickey went for his nose first. The blade cut across it in a flash. Billy tried to fight back, but it was no use. Jamie held his arms tight behind him.

"That's how you're gonna do it?" Billy said, blood streaming from his face.

Mickey spit. He reached into Billy's pockets, and pulled out a blade. "A switchblade?" he laughed. He flipped it open and pretended to comb his nonexistent hair. "Just like Fonzie." His boys chuckled. He pulled Billy's gun from his jacket. "A Glock 17? Now, there's a thing of beauty." He jammed it against Billy's cheek, then tossed it over his shoulder at Mooney. He nodded at Jamie. "Take off his jacket."

Billy surged forward as he was freed from his jacket. They circled him, and he was unarmed.

Mickey laid his blade on the bar. He took off his jacket, and pulled two pistols from the waistband of his jeans, handing them to Jamie. He cocked his shoulders. "Fair fight," he said.

Billy scanned the scene. "Seven to one?"

"Step back!" Mickey barked at his boys. They did. He looked at Billy. "One to one."

Billy sniffed. He tasted the blood. There was a lot of it already. He couldn't actually take Mickey down, he knew that. But if he could hold his own in a fair fight, that was enough.

He didn't see the point in dancing around - he reared back and punched Mickey in the face. He was surprised when Mickey wobbled on his feet, even looked a little stunned. Billy took advantage of the moment and struck him again, in the jaw. This time, Mickey didn't reel.

Mickey was on him, his fists landing blows to his face, his ribs, his kidneys. Billy hit the floor on one knee, as far down as he was willing to go. As he started to stand up again, he felt a blow to the back of his head.

Fuck. He thought. Seven to one.

Of course it was. Billy knew better than to believe it had ever been a fair fight.

Billy's vision blurred as all hell rained down on him. The sound was deafening.

Then it stopped.

He tried to pull himself up, but a pain jolted through his side, keeping him down. He looked up, or tried to. His vision had blacked out.

Footsteps approached him on the floor. Footsteps he knew well.

He felt himself lifted up by his bloody shirt.

"You've all had your fun, now."

The pain was agonizing.

"He was asking for it, Bones," Tommy said.

"Oh," said Bones, holding Billy up with his shoulder, "there is no fucking doubt in my mind he was asking for it."

Bones dragged Billy out to his car and shoved him in the back seat. Billy's vision was coming back. He couldn't tell if he was coughing up blood or spitting blood from his open lip.

"Little shit," Bones said, turning to him, as he backed out of the lot. "Now I get to waste my whole night cleaning you up."

Billy coughed. "I didn't ask you to come."

"Yeah, well, I didn't ask to be Father of the goddamned Year," Bones said. "But here we are."