by Ann Raina
Again, Eric looked at Michael as if he were a brick short of a load. “As long as the lady will have me, I won’t go.” His grin was all male. “Or as long as any other lady will have me. Like tonight.”
“Eric, careful,” Patrick warned him from behind. He had also spotted the restless boyfriends, who held tight to their drinks and their women’s hands. “I’ve been there and it wasn’t nice. They’re some possessive goons among ‘em.”
Eric shrugged it off, brought order to his jacket and darted after the blonde. “Take care of my beer for a moment, will ya?”
Though Patrick stepped in Eric’s way, he couldn’t keep him from flirting with every skirt-wearing, long-legged female, who shot him a glance, no matter if they had male company. Eric just forgot that he was in the bar for fun and a drink with his friends. The drink was fine, but when it came to the action, Eric’s joyous attitude was not well taken.
The blonde had given him eyes, no doubt, and played with him the way she probably played with every testosterone driven human being. Maybe she did it to upset others or just to find out if she still had the right appeal. Her boyfriend was a teetotaler when it came to talking with his chosen girlfriend and the shit hit the fan when blonde’s boyfriend got company, who was pissed as quickly as a bull in a stadium full of waving sheets.
Michael turned in time to grab the arm of a stout man in the apex of the turn. The man grunted, off balance for a second, before his body followed the turn to face his new adversary. Beady eyes amid a strong, bearded face. He blew out air and if he said a word, Michael could not tell.
“Calm down!” What Michael considered polite was taken as an invitation to smack another guest. The second fist shot up, only to be blocked as well. “I said, calm down!” The man’s head rushed forward, missing Michael by an inch for he moved his head backward. He brought up his elbow in time. The bearded man was hit hard enough to stumble.
“Son of a bitch!” Blood trickled from his nose. He wiped it away, one angry, hate-filled motion.
Michael had a second to see Eric fight off a man in a blue polo shirt. It was the bearded man’s roaring friend, who had just waited for a chance like this. His chest was broad like a horse’s, and his eyes wild enough to scare the living daylights out of most guests. The area around him quickly cleared, the shouts of the bartender were ignored. They exchanged one-twos in one smooth motion. The possessive boyfriend of yet another woman, who had shown interest in Eric, was driven by the single thought to beat the shit out of this good-looking man. Eric defended himself for about thirty seconds, then went down after an uppercut.
Michael saw him hit the ground. “Shit!”
“You gonna eat shit when I’m through with ya!” Ignoring the blood, the bearded man attacked again, fists swinging like a boxer in a warm-up round.
Michael slipped from the barstool. “Back off!” He could have talked better with a bull. Michael used the momentum of the other man’s right arm to turn and pull him over his shoulder. It wasn’t a perfect judo throw, but sufficed. The man crashed on the barstool, then hit the ground with a dull thud.
Michael never heard the warning from behind. He was pushed against the counter hard enough to knock all air out of his lungs. His ribcage protested. For a second, he couldn’t breathe and saw stars dancing across the mirror behind the line of bottles. Steadied against the counter, he brought up his right leg to kick backward, taking the attacker by surprise. His foot hit the other man’s thigh, forcing him two steps away, granting Michael enough time to turn and face bearded man’s friend.
Eric lay on the ground, panting, grimacing. He tried to pull himself up, but couldn’t. Patrick had left the bar to fetch cigarettes from Michael’s car. He would be of no help and other guests kept a safe distance.
It was up to Michael. He lifted both hands. “Hey, listen, don’t do that!” He had no time for more. Either spurred by the first easy success or driving on too much booze, the broad man in the polo shirt was out to grab Michael the same second, large hands in front of strong arms and a no-nonsense face. A second guy in a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms, came up from the left side, pushing another guest out of his way. He grabbed a bottle from the counter. Michael ducked the first blow, brought up his left fist for a kidney shot and when Polo Shirt twitched, Michael hit him straight in the face. The man stumbled backward and sat on the floor, stunned. The audience gasped.
The fist with the bottle came from the right as Michael had known it would. He wound his right arm around it, too fast for the adversary to react. Small, round eyes widened when the man realized his arm would break any second. He went on his knees with the move of Michael’s arm, avoiding the painful snap of bones.
“Enough!” It was the bartender’s loud voice. He had jumped the counter, baseball bat in his right hand. “Everybody out! Now!” He pointed at Michael and his companion as well as the goons with their bloody noses. Michael let go of the last man, but stepped out of his reach, not knowing how far he could trust the other to accept defeat.
The blonde’s boyfriend was up first. He spat in Michael’s direction, wiped his nose again and helped his comrades to get up. They shot hateful glances.
“Sorry, but I insist that you leave, too,” the bartender said, sounding only a tad apologetic.
Michael couldn’t blame him.
“And take smartass with you. If he comes here again, he should keep his hands to himself.”
“Tell that the girls,” Michael mumbled, but not for the bartender to hear. He grabbed Eric under the armpit and helped him to his feet.
“What’s wrong?” Patrick asked from behind, his cigarettes and a lighter in his hand.
“Let’s get out of here,” Michael urged. “Bring the car! Now!”
Patrick held the door, then ran across the parking lot to get behind the wheel of Michael’s Toyota.
“What about…” Eric lifted his head with an effort to look where the bearded man and his friends had gone.
“Car’s coming.”
Patrick stepped on the brakes that gravel spread and was out to help Michael put Eric on the rear bench. Michael shook out his left hand. It had been a while since his last brawl. Fights on the dojo mat were more civilized and not entirely meant to hurt. He knew he’d be sore in some places and his ribcage was bruised.
Eric was worse off.
“Let’s get out of here,” Patrick suggested. “Before the others try for round two.”
“Agreed.” Eric’s fingertips came off his face bloody. “Fuck! Jesus, fuck!”
“Shall I drive?” Patrick asked.
Michael only nodded, slipped in the passenger seat and closed the door while Patrick ran around the hood.
“We gonna see ya, you motherfucker!” the bearded man cried and shook his fist. “You gonna pay for this, asshole!”
Suddenly, Michael was very eager to leave. He would not risk another fight. Even he might run out of luck. Patrick slipped behind the wheel and got the car in gear before the goons thought about getting closer.
Patrick looked in the rearview mirror to see Eric slumped on the seat. “Next time we tie you up before we go anywhere.”
Eric grinned. It turned a grimace. “Smart idea. Do you think that’d keep ‘em from me?”
“Blindfold?”
“Nah, I’d still be a bite for ‘em.” Eric gave a graceful shrug. “What shall I do? I’m a ladies’ man.”
“You’d be a bag full of clattering bones if it hadn’t been for Matt,” Patrick reminded him.
“Yup, so right.” Eric let out his breath and gently tapped the backrest of the seat. “Thanks, pal, for saving my sorry ass. You got quite a punch.”
Michael grimaced. If his life went on like this, he wouldn’t live to see the case solved.
Patrick helped Eric out of the car. Michael took the lead to open the back doors to the men’s wing. They didn’t want to be seen by some guests on their midnight tour through the building. Eric suppressed groaning wh
en they reached Michael’s room.
“Do you have a nurse around here?” Michael asked when he came back from the bathroom. “For the first-aid kit isn’t worth the name.”
“We got a doc. I’ll go get him.”
Patrick left and while they heard his steps fade, Michael cocked his head to have a closer look at Eric. “Don’t you ever listen to a warning?”
Eric looked at the night-filled window and took a deep breath. It hurt and his voice was pressed. “I just wanted some fun. They got no right to punch us up.”
“Even so. The bartender was right. You should keep your hands to yourself.”
“If you got an invitation to dance do you pretend not to know the steps?”
“That’s idle talk, Eric. You knew they wouldn’t just ask you to leave their girls alone.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Eric turned his head. A bruise, big as the knuckles of his attacker, bloomed across his chin. There was a bloody scratch on his right temple, a swelling would follow. It would not be as bad as a black eye, but not invisible. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He lifted his hand from the cover. His knuckles were reddened, two of them scraped bloody.
“You were reckless.”
“I know.”
Michael lowered his gaze. He had been the same: Reckless. Always enjoying company, but never thinking about the feelings of others. Regret had come too late. He had already ruined his reputation with the agency and hurt a lot of relationships. He wasn’t proud of his behavior, but knew there was a snowball’s chance in hell to make out with the women.
The door opened and an elderly man, white-haired and bowed by age, entered. Silver-framed glasses sat on a round nose. He was wrinkled, sun-tanned and though Michael thought him to be beyond seventy, his light blue eyes were lively. It was an odd time to be called, but he was fully dressed in brown pants and yellow pullover, showing the collar of a white dress shirt beneath. He wore loafers on his bare feet, only indicator that he might have been on his way to bed.
“Good evening, sons, I heard you had an emergency that needs my attention?” He closed in on Michael and mustered him. There was a sparkle of amusement in his eyes, as if he had seen everything in life and still found it funny. “I’m Doc Wilmington and I think we haven’t met before.”
Michael had not expected such a rich baritone. He imagined him holding a lady’s hand after she had overdone her time in the sauna. “I’m Matthew. And, yes, sir, we got in an argument. Eric was hurt.”
“Eric again, hmm?” Doc Wilmington wrinkled his thin lips to a lenient smile. “My young son, you’re like a sparrow.” He put down his large bag on the bedspread and opened it. “My father used to say that I’ll only become reasonable if the sparrows learn to walk.” He winked at Eric. “But you know they don’t, do you?”
“Yes, sir.”
The doc examined Eric’s chin. “It’s the same with you. You’re like one beautiful, fluttering bird that doesn’t know that not every female bird is out to be wooed. The chin’s not broken, but badly bruised. Don’t be surprised if you can’t eat properly for some days. And this scratch here—you got lucky it’s not deep. If he had hit the eye, you wouldn’t be seeing much. There’s more, right?” Eric nodded like a child, reluctant to confess a silly trick. Doc Wilmington helped him out of his sweater.
Eric winced.
“Some bruised ribs. That’ll look like a new landscape tomorrow.” He turned to Michael. “Who was that guy? A wrestler? He got an awful hard punch.”
“He had a lot of muscles in the right places, sir.”
Doc Wilmington chuckled. “Got entangled with the wrong guy, hmm, son?”
“How did you get rid of them?” Patrick asked quietly, eyes wide. He still hadn’t digested the fight and its consequences. “I saw them. They were three and they looked pretty smashed. You roughed ‘em up!”
Michael made an effort to shrug as if the fight hadn’t meant anything. “Luck, I’d say.”
“No, no.” Patrick shook his head and pointed to Eric. “See what one of them did to Eric. And you fought ‘em off. All of them.”
Doc Wilmington turned, frowning. “You fought three men and still stand? That’s more than luck. I had some tavern brawls in my time, but I never got out without a bloody nose myself.”
Michael flashed a grin. “Yeah, same with me. Usually. But they didn’t know how to fight. Just muscle, no brains.”
The doc cocked his head and shot Michael an amused glance while he wound a bandage around Eric’s ribcage. “You learned to fight somewhere, right? Ah, come on, don’t be shy. Without you, Eric here would be in hospital, I’m sure.” He finished the bandage and helped Eric back into his sweater. “I can’t do much about the swelling, son. Put ice on it and hope it goes away soon.” He patted his shoulder then turned to Michael. “Thank you, son, for taking care of him. Maybe he’ll learn a bit from this night. What about you?”
“One of them smacked me against the counter, but it’s nothing. Really.”
Doc Wilmington looked at Michael for a long time, then took a deep breath and turned to fetch his bag. “If you say so, son, I won’t argue. I’ve got better things to do than pampering you young folk.” He nodded briefly at Patrick and Michael. “Good night then. I’ll come and check on Eric tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good night, sir.” Patrick walked him to the door and closed it behind him. “What the fuck did you do at the bar while I was out for my cigarettes?”
Michael wanted him to leave or at least stop asking questions. He was tired and angry at himself. He should behave like a handyman turned callboy and not fight some drunken muscle men at a bar. If Bellard got wind of this, he’d be pissed. “Just like I said. They would’ve beaten me if they had known how.”
“You had some karate? Tae Kwon Do?”
“When I was younger, yes.” Michael wiped his eyes. “Listen, Patrick, it’s late, I wanna go to bed. So why not talk about this tomorrow?”
“Oh, sorry, Matt, you’re right. Goodnight. Goodnight, Eric, keep your head up.” He left the room.
Eric winced as he attempted to sit up.
Michael walked to the bed to help him. “What’re you up to?”
“Did you forget? I sleep on the couch.”
Michael sat down beside him. “No, not tonight. You look awful. Stay put.” Only then he realized tears in Eric’s eyes. “It’s all right, Eric, you’ll be—”
“Don’t say it!” Eric wiped away the tears angrily, suppressing a cry when he touched the scratch. “She’ll fire me! Don’t you understand? She’ll kick me out!”
“No, she won’t. It could’ve happened to anyone.” He put a hand around Eric’s shoulder, but resisted the urge to pull him close. “She’ll know that.”
“It’s not the first time, Matt. You heard the doc.” He wanted to take a deep breath and couldn’t. “Ouch! God, I’m such an idiot. I should’ve known.”
Michael thought of something encouraging to say while Eric hung his head. “You didn’t start the fight. That’s what you can tell her. And I’m sure Lady Summerston knows she has some studs in her house and that some of them can’t resist a challenge.” He cocked his head. “The ladies want you, Eric, and Lady Summerston won’t throw away your potential.”
“But look at me. He had to punch my face! I tried to protect my face above all, but he was so damn strong.” He glanced at Michael. Nothing was left of the self-confident young man, who tried to appear older. He could have been a college boy right now, beaten and hollow. “He just hit again.” Eric pulled up his sleeves. Dark bruises spread like some ill painting across his forearms. “See? I felt like a fucking punching ball.”
Michael didn’t know what to say so just sat beside Eric until he calmed down.
“I don’t know what I’ll do when she fires me.”
“Get a real job, maybe?”
Eric flinched. “Yeah, what a prospect.”
“Oh, I’m sure there are ladies out there, who’d take you in their firms
without you filling out an application form.”
For the first time, there was a glimpse of hope in Eric’s eyes. “You think so?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t got any offers.”
“I got them. But I can’t think of leaving. I just can’t.”
* * * *
It was past two o’clock in the morning when Linda got back from the crime scene and sat down in an armchair in her luxurious apartment. She slipped the sling backs off her aching feet and took a deep breath before she called Jonathan Bellard, knowing in advance he wouldn’t like the news.
Bellard got the call through the operator. “This is Bellard. Linda, better make it a good call.”
She suppressed a sigh and sat up straight in the chair. The dark burgundy dress rustled and she smoothed it automatically. It helped her to calm down. Her voice was neutral. “Sir, I got an unidentified body in the backyard of a Chinese restaurant. Hands and face cut away. There’s no telling who he is unless we got his DNA in the database.”
“Police found him?”
“The owner of the restaurant called 911. After he choked up on the body.”
“What a mess. Is there a connection to our case?”
“Possible. It’s the handwriting of a Middle East gang, but I’m not sure. I compared him to the pictures Michael took of the staff. He might fit, but without a face, it’s hard to tell. I requested contact, but Michael hasn’t answered yet. Only he could confirm if there’s a staff member missing.”
“Good. Stay on it. You were already briefed that the bugs Michael installed aren’t working?”
“He blew it, I know. Don’t tell me you’re surprised, sir.”
Bellard’s voice didn’t give away his mood. “Op tech says he didn’t blow it. Bugs are working, but the signal’s too scrambled to be read. They try to filter a frequency, but if they got a jammer installed, that’ll be of no use.”
“You don’t expect them to have such elaborate spec, sir, do you?”
“By what we know, there’s such a lot of money involved they could hire the best technicians available. We supervise the brains, who would be able to install such design, but so far we haven’t as much as a hint. Other news?”