My mistake, Kevin thought.
He had less than a second to move, and in that split second he thought – all appearances to the contrary – that he might actually be okay. That he was just as well prepared for these men as he had been for the kid in the delicatessen. Because a split second was all his mind needed to call up the chapter on multiple assailants from Essential Jiu Jitsu, page 110, and the basic techniques were obvious. You put yourself first in a defensive posture –
The lead man kicked him in the face. Kevin felt his nose crack, and the world around him seemed to explode into stars.
“Thanks for coming down low, bitch,” he heard the lead man say with a laugh. Kevin put his arms out as though preparing for a grab-and-roll-and-throw, but the men skipped around him easily, and then one of them hit him in the side with something that must have been a baseball bat. He grunted in surprised pain and toppled sideways to the ground. The three of them fell on him like dogs, punching and kicking at will. Kevin tried to draw himself into a fetal ball, but the men were accustomed to such behavior. They found his soft spots and hammered, it felt to him as if he were being attacked by five men, by ten, he had been thrown into a wood chipping machine and it wouldn’t stop, and all at once he found himself wondering if they meant to do more than scare him off their precious corner. Maybe it wasn’t enough that he was already down on the ground and bleeding.
Maybe they’re going to kill me.
A high, outraged voice cut through the air, a scream of anger and authority. The beating stopped abruptly. There was the sound of feet moving quickly around him, retreating, and then Kevin heard the three men begin to speak together again. Now they were pleading their case to someone. Explaining why the beating had been so necessary.
The high voice cut them off. It told them to shut the fuck up, and to take a look at what they had just done. Kevin recognized the voice. It was speaking in Portuguese.
With an effort, he opened his eyes.
“Look at what you did!” Cristiana yelled. She was still in her dancing shoes, still in her neat white t-shirt and shorts. She was also the smallest, slimmest person on the sidewalk. But her anger had made her taller. Made her larger. Her eyes blazed, and the slender cords of her neck stood out as she shouted at the three men, who stood before her with their heads hanging low. “No, look!” she yelled again. “He was in the studio, he was taking a lesson.”
The three men shrugged collectively.
He was on our corner. He’s dressed like a high-priced heroin pusher. How were we supposed to know?
Cristiana spat on the ground. Her anger was boiling over. “No, shut up!” she yelled, though the men had not said a word. “He stopped a robbery!” she cried. “At the store, you understand? At my dad’s store last night, and now you’re beating the shit out of him? Mother of God, go pick him up. Pick him up!”
They did. They turned and walked back to Kevin, and then they took him gently under the armpits and pulled, they pulled until he could get his feet underneath him. He gritted his teeth and endured the treatment – he would have preferred to lie there and catch his breath for a minute – and when he was finally standing up straight he tried to feel, tried to individually feel the sources of pain around his body. Looking for breaks, ruptures, serious injuries. There was his nose, of course, which was bleeding freely. And his midsection felt as though he had been kicked several times by an ill-tempered donkey. But the rest of him was only bruised. And he was standing on his own now, though the men were watching him as if he were a poorly-constructed high-rise, one that could topple over at any minute.
All in all, he felt all right. Not much worse than he would have after a football game with exceptionally bad pass-rush coverage. Three bad sacks. Maybe four. Not the best of times, but certainly survivable.
“How are you doing?” Cristiana asked in English.
Kevin nodded. He wiped the blood from his nose, wincing at the fresh jolt of pain as he touched the broken bone there. “Been better.”
She let out a breath of air and smiled with relief. Then she gave the three men a severe look.
“Sorry,” the lead one said, and put out a hand.
“Sorry.”
“Sorry.”
He shook hands with all three of them, a surreal experience. Then he waited a beat, unsure of what was expected of him. Surely he wasn’t supposed to thank them; they had been kicking him in the gut less than two minutes ago. And the idea of saying goodbye seemed even stranger. These were not his friends.
Cristiana solved it.
“The three of you are going to walk him back to his neighborhood,” she commanded.
They opened their mouths and tipped their heads back in silent protest, but Cristiana hissed them into submission. They sighed their acquiescence, and then the lead man held a hand out before Kevin, held it out in the direction of Kevin’s neighborhood.
Slowly, carefully, Kevin began to walk.
The men walked with him.
“Goodbye, Kevin,” Cristiana called. It was the first time she had said his name, and it gave him the push he needed. He could make it to his apartment.
“Goodbye Cristiana,” he called.
Dangerous Things
They walked for several blocks in silence, a big white man moving slowly and painfully downtown, flanked by three Brazilians with dark expressions on their faces. People on the sidewalk stopped to watch them go by, wondering at Kevin’s role in the group. He was either a new neighborhood drug lord or a soon-to-be-dead interloper. It was hard to know. He had blood on his face, but this could mean anything.
“Hey,” the lead man said suddenly. They were stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light. Not something these three men would normally have done, but their man was in no rush. And Cristiana would kill them if they let him get hit by a taxi on the way home.
Kevin looked over at him. “What?”
“You can’t fight like that.”
“Like what?”
The lead man puffed his cheeks out. He didn’t know how to describe the problem, but he knew this big white guy would get his ass kicked again. And again and again. Cristiana said he had stopped a robbery at Alexi’s place, so now they had a responsibility. They had to try to stop the next ass-kicking. Or at least soften it. “You fight like there’s a plan,” the man said. “This isn’t a movie. You looked surprised I didn’t bow to you first or something. My only plan was to kick the crap out of you, yeah?”
Kevin nodded. Any anger between them was gone now; everyone just wanted to get this walk done. Get it done and go home. “Yeah, I saw that. Felt it.”
“Where’d you learn to fight?”
“Never fought anybody. You’re my first.”
The man gave him a sideways look, as though the idea of a man with no fighting experience bordered on scandalous. “But you had your hands up. Looked like you had an idea how to do it, at least.”
“Got that from a book.”
“A book?” he said, in a tone implying that books were strange and mystical things. Dangerous things.
“I’ll throw it away.”
“No, that’s not – ” The man stopped himself. “A book’s better than nothing, sure. But maybe read a few more. They write books about fighting dirty?”
“I don’t see why they wouldn’t.”
“Get a few of those. And remember, there’s no routine. No plan. The only plan is to fuck ‘em up before they fuck you up, okay?”
Kevin nodded.
“All right,” the man said, sounding satisfied. He had done what he could. The light changed, and they continued on their walk.
They went the rest of the way without speaking.
Fighting Dirty
Andrew was waiting for him when he came into the apartment. When the assistant saw Kevin’s face, his expression turned from one of gentle disapproval to shocked concern. “Where have you been?” Andrew demanded.
Kevin smiled. “You sound like my mother.”
; “Your mother would be appalled,” Andrew shot back. “Come into the kitchen and sit down.” He hurried off to fetch first aid supplies, muttering to himself as he went. Kevin walked slowly to the kitchen, and he lowered himself gently into one of the chairs in the breakfast nook.
Andrew returned immediately. He had a box full of tape, hydrogen peroxide, bandages, and Neosporin, along with several small vials and syringes that didn’t look like standard first-aid kit equipment. “What are those for?” Kevin asked.
“No idea,” Andrew said briskly, and he set himself to cleaning up Kevin’s face.
“Easy,” Kevin said.
“It’s broken.”
“I know.”
“Sit still.”
“Stop pushing at my face like you’re mad at me.”
“I am mad at you.”
“You’re supposed to be helping me. Isn’t that your job, to help me?”
Andrew sat back. He stopped trying to treat Kevin’s nose, and he sighed heavily. He looked down and closed his eyes. Then he looked back at Kevin. He seemed to be struggling with himself. “You have no routine,” Andrew said slowly. “The only thing I know is that you go to work each morning. Beyond that, I’m at a loss. You don’t sleep. You sometimes eat, but I can never be sure. I thought you were starting to develop a nighttime-rest routine, but then this morning you were gone without warning. I don’t even know when you left the house.”
“I have to notify you?”
Andrew took another slow breath. “You do not. Your decisions are your own. But I want to help you; as you have said, that is my job. I pride myself on being good at this job, but lately I have felt incapable. I do not seem to be helping you. I don’t know how. And now you are injured.” Andrew gave him a helpless, apologetic look. “Hence my distress.”
“I’m fine,” Kevin said, trying to reassure him. “Just plug up my nose and give me a Band-Aid or two. My plan for the next few hours is to have some food, take a rest, and then maybe take a run before bed. Does that sound reasonable?”
“It does, except for the run,” Andrew said. He returned to bandaging Kevin’s face. More gently this time. “What did you do?”
“Stood on the wrong street corner.”
“Which corner would that be? I’d like to avoid it if possible.”
“Way uptown. Not sure which one. If you go up there, maybe just keep moving.”
“Good plan.”
“There’s no plan,” Kevin said quickly.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just some advice someone gave me.”
“This looks okay now,” Andrew said. He gave the bridge of Kevin’s nose a light tap as though testing the structural stability of the bandages. “I’m going to make your lunch, so leave my kitchen.”
Kevin smiled. “Your kitchen?”
“Mine. Until you fire me. Go wait in the living room. Find a good book and lie down on the couch. Try not to get beaten up in the next ten minutes. Can you manage that?”
“Maybe.”
He went first to the bookcase, just as Andrew had advised. Books on fighting dirty, he thought. That seems pretty specific. I don’t know if we’ve got any of those in stock at the moment.
He searched anyway.
There was nothing that seemed quite right, though the sheer size of his bookcase – and its lack of any discernible organization – left open the possibility that he had missed something. Not that he came away empty-handed; he was able to find several volumes on fighting and self-defense, and if they weren’t actually dirty, they seemed at least practical.
The 286 Best Fighting Moves, Third Edition.
Ultimate Defense: Blocking and Striking on the Street.
10 Key Targets in Self-Defense.
How to Fight Like a Scared and Dangerous Woman.
Kevin took an extra moment to stare at the last one, which featured a cover picture of a woman who did not looked scared at all. Her head was down and her hands were up. She looked ready to maim anyone who came near her.
He put the four books in a little stack on their own next to the couch, and then he returned to the bookcase for more. Of anything. After a few minutes he had made a sizable collection by the couch, and then Andrew appeared with lunch.
“Come eat, and then you’ll lie down.”
Kevin didn’t argue. As he ate and drank, he could feel his energy returning almost as if he were a bucket being filled.
He thanked Andrew and went to the couch, being careful not to move too quickly. His body was still in pain after his street-corner encounter.
“How long?” Andrew asked.
“Just a nap,” Kevin said. “Three hours.”
“Fine.”
Kevin reached for the top book, the one with the dangerous-looking woman on it. “Would have been good to have you with me,” he said to her as he opened the first page. The fatigue was heavy in his legs, and he was glad when the grayness crept in from the sides. He needed the rest.
Andrew’s hand was on his shoulder, and Kevin felt pain go shooting through him. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, from his thighs and back and nose and stomach. Especially his stomach.
Moron.
He hadn’t taken anything before lying down. No Tylenol or Advil or even an aspirin. If this had been the night after a big game at UNH, he’d have already taken three or four ibuprofen pills to reduce the swelling, not to mention the pain. But no, he was an idiot now. An idiot who now knew roughly five hundred new ways to attack or defend in a street fight, but who couldn’t remember to take a simple anti-inflammatory after getting the snot beaten out of him.
I can’t fight if I can’t move.
He groaned.
“Sore?” Andrew asked.
“You can’t imagine.”
“You’ll keep resting, then?”
“I have to get up. If I stay like this, by tomorrow morning I’ll be a full-on cripple.”
Andrew said nothing to this, and Kevin tried to reassure him. “I promise I’ll rest tonight. But I’ve got to get outside first, even if its just to stretch.”
Andrew nodded his agreement. He seemed to appreciate the effort. The attempt at normalcy. He turned and retreated to the kitchen.
Left to himself, Kevin now began the excruciating process of getting up from the couch. He had to do it in stages. He thought he had been in pain before, but now it was different. Everything hurt, as if the soreness from each bruise had spilled over and infected nearby areas of muscle and bone. He managed to swing his legs over and plant his feet on the floor, and then he stopped to catch his breath. Then a slow lean forward, followed by an even slower rising up onto his feet.
Agony.
After another minute he began walking carefully back to his bedroom. Every step was painful, but he was pleased to be able to walk at all. Because if he could walk, then he could take a walk.
And that would be good enough for now.
Unplayable
It took Kevin nearly two hours to get around the loop at his extra-slow, injury-limited speed, and he worried that Andrew might be upset with him by the time he returned home. But his assistant’s mood seemed to have improved, and after a quick dinner the two of them set about making a new set of book stacks for the night.
“You’re getting there,” Andrew said.
“What? Getting where?”
Andrew glanced up at the bookcase. “There’s only three or four shelves left,” he said. “Maybe you want to slow down, start actually reading them from now on.”
Kevin looked at the section of un-read books Andrew had created, and he was satisfied to see that the man was right. As to slowing down, there was no point in trying to explain the situation to Andrew. Especially since he still didn’t understand it himself.
You should talk to Dr. Petak, he thought. He’s very reassuring, even if the stuff he says doesn’t make much sense.
“There’s another case in my bedroom,” Kevin said. “And I’m only going to be doing this readin
g business until next weekend.”
But then again, that’s according to Petak. So no promises.
“As you like,” Andrew said.
Kevin settled himself down onto the couch, and he was pleased to discover that the paranoid voice had already quieted itself. Maybe because Andrew had declared him to be “almost there,” a phrase Kevin found uniquely calming.
Undetectable (Great Minds Thriller) Page 24