by Mark Arundel
I walked past the plants, beyond the pillar and out into the open. Slowing for a second, I scanned the sidewall, the reception desk, the seats and the glass entrance doors to assess whether anything had changed. Both security guards were standing in the same positions; the oddness of the “strawberry” women had not lessened; the reception desk was much quieter and Ana Luiza still had a serious face. I quickened my pace and headed directly for the exit.
Passing the first security guard I kept my eyes frontwards and focused ahead on the glass doors and the sun-drenched scenery beyond. I sensed the man’s eyes on me. His head turned slightly as I went by and I thought he took a step away from the wall.
Nearing the reception counter I maintained my discipline and resisted the temptation to look directly at Ana Luiza. Within the periphery of my vision, I was aware of her presence. Two further paces brought me into her sight range. I sensed her head turn quickly in recognition and her eyes fix onto my face. I felt the intensity and decided to look at her and look into her eyes. It was a good decision because what I saw in her dark eyes told me I was in trouble. It was the reason for her downcast mood and the reason she was still behind the reception desk: she could identify me. With what I thought looked like regret she turned her head away and looked back at the mirrored wall beside what I then realised was a door that the interior designer had skilfully positioned within the marble facade. As I watched, the door flew open and rushing out I saw the two police officers from earlier eager to get their hands on me and no doubt their fists too. Before they could do that, though, they had to negotiate the long reception desk.
I stopped and looked ahead. The stocky security guard from beside the entrance doors had begun to advance towards me. I turned my head back and saw the other guard from the sidewall, the wiry one, heading directly for me too. His manner and the position of his hand told me he was anxious to pull his gun.
Sticking with the plan, Snowy was far enough behind me to see what was happening and it was far enough back so that neither of the guards had noticed him. I met his eyes and tried to convey two things at the same time: the first was that we were going to be all right, and the second was to stay back, out of sight and out of the way. I hoped he understood. All I saw from his eyes in return was fear.
Before making my final decision on what to do, I took an instance to glance at Ana Luiza. She was watching me from behind the desk. Behind her, a man stood wearing a tailored suit. I supposed he was the hotel manager. I found it hard to read the expression on her face. Perhaps it was apprehension, perhaps curiosity.
I had made my decision.
There were four of them. They were coming at me from three directions. Given that the two police officers had chosen to involve the hotel management by asking for their assistance in apprehending me, I reasoned it unlikely the hotel security guards would have permission to fire their weapons particularly as we were inside the hotel alongside the reception desk. Paying guests with gunshot wounds would not help with maintaining the hotel’s exclusive five-star rating. This thought persuaded me to leave the Taurus made police pistol in my waistband.
I chose the lighter, faster man first. When fighting a number of attackers, speed and the importance of making a debilitating strike with your first contact is essential if you are to avoid the enemy overwhelming you. Four against one was a ratio that could certainly present problems. Remembering the importance of the first strike, I turned towards the wiry man, raised my bag and threw it at him. Within the same movement, I ran at him and covered the short distance like a sprinter off the blocks. My throw was accurate and hard. It caused the man to stop his advance and involuntarily raise both hands in a defensive action. The bag hit him and then fell noisily to the floor. As it struck the hotel marble, I struck the hotel guard. The bag had successfully diverted his attention and allowed me an open target. I went for the body and then immediately regretted my decision because under his shirt he wore a Kevlar vest. Luckily, I had gone for a flying kick, due to the fact it had worked so well for me earlier, so my hands remained free from any damage. Although the kick had not hurt the man as I had hoped, it did project sufficient force to unbalance his stance and cause him to stumble. This allowed me the fraction of time I needed.
The thickset security guard from the entrance doors was now close to me and his strained voice was clear and loud. His shouted Portuguese had something to do with “stop” and “police”. I missed the other words, but I got the general idea of what he was saying. After glancing at his position and ensuring his hands were empty of a gun I struck the first guard across the side of the head with the underside of my fist in a club like action. I had to time it accurately as the stumbling made him a moving target. My blow was true and solid enough to give gravity the assistance it needed to send the man down painfully onto the hard marble floor.
I felt my free arm grasped at the wrist. Instinctively, I spun away, turning to escape the danger of a half nelson or other joint lock and pulled the security man with me. His heavy physique slowed my progress and as I turned fully he stepped closer and swung a punch. Fortunately, his doughy fist was not a fast moving object and presented me with the opportunity to step inside his swing. It was an invitation I took gratefully. My own punch, in contrast, struck squarely on the jaw and besides the pain to my knuckles was as sweet as any that one might witness in any ring anywhere in the world. The old saying “the lights in his eyes went out” was exactly what happened. His grip on my wrist vanished and his unconscious bulk smacked the floor.
A scream rang out, followed by a second and then several more. A piercing cacophony filled the hangar-sized reception area like a horror version of Recordare from Verdi’s Requiem. It was the “strawberry” women. The sound of unexpected fighting had shattered their cosy party and now they were expressing their shock and fear. On another occasion, I may have been tempted to reassure them and calm their fear with a friendly gesture or a soothing word or two, but not today. Both the police officers had reached me and from the expressions on their ugly faces, I could tell that shaking my hand and patting my back was not the welcome they had in mind.
I wanted to check on Snowy, but there was not enough time. The first police officer, the one I had surprised with my kick earlier, grabbed my forearm just below the elbow and with his other hand attempted to turn me. He pushed on my shoulder and while I stepped to rebalance, the second police officer gripped my other arm. Using his leg, he attempted a basic fall manoeuvre. I was in trouble. They both had their hands on me and once on the floor, no doubt, they intended to use their feet and stomp all over me. Successful defence of a fallen position was very difficult and getting back up again was highly unlikely. I risked losing the fight. I had to remain on my feet. Tensing every muscle, including the ones that I only use on very special occasions, I pushed back against the forcing pressure and successfully rammed in my hips. The weight transfer went my way, and I kept and held my upright stance. However, this defensive action opened my body and allowed the first police officer a clear target. He struck my abdomen with his pudding fist, which was actually less like a pudding and more like a brick. Even though the punch took me unaware, I benefitted from the old Houdini trick because I already had my stomach muscles fully tightened due to the strenuous effort required in keeping on my feet. The brick-like fist failed to penetrate this protective wall of knotted sinew and despite sharply feeling the blow I remained uninjured.
Landing the punch had caused the man to place his legs wider apart and to turn his upper body, which exposed his midriff.
From the very first lesson in unarmed combat, my army instructors had taught me how to fight and how to win. Rules were for the ring. In a fight for your life or a fight to the death, the British army had taught me how to use every conceivable advantage no matter how distasteful.
Without hesitation, I made a weight transfer onto one standing leg, raised my foot, took aim and stabbed out a vicious kick. The man’s open stance was undefended. The heel of m
y shoe did the damage. Poleaxed, he screamed and dropped to the floor, incapacitated by pain and with both hands pressed desperately between his legs. Knees bent and on his side, with features creased and eyes screwed shut his fight was ended.
Three of the four were now down and two of those I had injured sufficiently as to remove any further danger. The third man, although less injured, had not yet managed to recover enough to stand. The last of the four was now my only threat and a real threat too as both his hands still held me in a strong grip.
Despite focusing on the fighting and giving all my attention now to the predicament of having one very angry police officer determined to throw me to the floor, I still caught sight of movement over my left shoulder. My claim to have powers beyond those of a normal man I ground solely in my unwavering desire for self-preservation. The movement was slow but steadfast. It was Snowy. Wheeling his case and with only a brief glance at me, he was headed towards the exit and freedom. He had the right idea.
Beyond Snowy, the “strawberry” women were now watching the fight intently. They had forgotten their screams and were staring at the violent drama with big eyes and expressions aghast.
Luck was with me. Snowy’s movement had caught my eye just at the right time. If not I would have missed the man rushing across the wide expanse of marble floor like a charging bull with the single intention of butting me senseless.
He had his shirtsleeves rolled back over anvil like forearms and a heavy brow that squatted menacingly above enraged eyes. He looked every bit as dangerous as any angry bull I could imagine.
Even though the time for consideration was limited, I did think it likely he was a hotel employee of some kind or perhaps a visiting sumo wrestler. Either way, he had managed to reach a high speed for such a big man and avoiding the collision was impossible. I had just enough time to turn my body away and in the process place the unsuspecting police officer in line to receive the bull’s full force.
The impact was even more devastating than I had expected and despite the buffer of a man’s body, I still felt the jarring brunt reverberate through my shoulders and chest.
Remaining on our feet was impossible. We fell together and I managed to land safely on my side. The policeman had involuntarily released his grip, enabling me to slide free across the smooth marble. Winded and dazed he was less fortunate and I heard the unmistakable sound of his skull as it struck the hard floor.
The four original men were now all down, but in their place, I had a new adversary: “bowling ball” man. He glowered at me snorting fury like a demented ogre. Perhaps his outrage stemmed from my perceived disrespect for luxury hotel etiquette or maybe it was simply that he had taken a natural dislike to me. It had happened before, someone disliking me. Sometimes I have that affect. I can find myself unpopular and I am not always sure of the reason.
Anyway, my only concern now was avoiding this new threat and escaping the hotel uninjured. I made a fleeting glance at the door and saw that Snowy was almost outside and clear. I made the decision to join him and quickly.
“Bowling ball” man lacked any subtlety when it came to the art of hand-to-hand combat and this flaw in his otherwise exemplary approach assisted in my endeavour greatly. Instead of exploiting his advantage of standing over me, by pounding my head with his oversized fists, he leant down in a clumsy action to grasp my arms. It was a foolish mistake.
Before the giant’s stubby fingers could do their work and grip me like iron pincers, I raised my feet, pulled my knees in and grasped his loose shirt, which had conveniently dropped forward just above me. His weight was tremendous, but momentum and gravity are wonderful things. Many know it as the “sacrifice” throw and just as many consider it dangerous as it puts the thrower into a potentially disadvantageous position. However, as I was already on the floor, events had made the decision for me. Although I missed the action of pulling my opponent with me as I fell, which greatly assists the throw, my grip on his shirt was strong and my thigh muscles did the rest. He landed straight behind me and the sound was enough for me to know that he was only getting up again with considerable help.
I sprung to my feet and checked on the fallen colossus. He must have hit his head because he was unconscious. I turned to look at the exit and just caught sight of Snowy. He had now made it through the glass doors and was continuing to walk away without looking back.
All five men were on the floor around me like a collapsed rugby scrum, all that is except for one. The wiry security guard had made it to his feet, but from the way his hand gently rubbed his head above sagging shoulders I could see his mood for fighting was over.
It was time for me to leave and catch up with Snowy. I picked up my bag from where it had fallen and headed for the exit. As I passed the reception desk, I met the eyes of Ana Luiza. I gave her a grin and an expression that I hoped conveyed regret. In return, her expression was hard to read, but I like to think it was relief mingled with wonder. Behind her, the hotel manager’s expression was not so difficult to read. I left them without a word and hurried away through the glass doors.
Outside, the late afternoon sunlight shone in my eyes and the humid air tasted old in my throat. I searched for Snowy. Where was he? He was probably hiding somewhere I thought. Then I got that feeling. It was the feeling that something was wrong. I ran out into the street and searched urgently. Rapidly turning my head, I looked up and down. Then I saw it.
The car was about seventy yards away. It was an ageing American manufactured sedan: possibly a Chevrolet. A coating of dry dirt had darkened the light green paintwork and dulled the glass. Beside the open door, a tall man stood with his back towards me. He held onto a smaller man. I watched him turn and then push the smaller man into the car. The smaller man was Snowy.
I shouted loudly and began to run. Smoke from the exhaust and the sound of whining revs told me the driver had the engine running. The tall man turned his head and looked at me before following Snowy inside the car. It was too far away for me to get there in time. I slowed my running as I watched the dirty Chevrolet accelerate away and disappear round the corner.
I had recognised the face of the tall man. He was somebody I knew.
10
THURSDAY, 18:20—19:10
I stood in the middle of the street and felt...felt what? I was not exactly certain how I felt: surprised, defeated, angry. Maybe I felt all three of those emotions, maybe none.
Either way, my mind was already trying to work out what next I should do. Time spent considering how I felt was not productive or important.
What had happened? An answer did not readily come to mind. I was puzzled. The man I had seen throwing Snowy into the Chevrolet, the tall man who had looked at me, the man I had recognised was one of the “knife” men I had fought with earlier beside the church.
Why was he outside the hotel now with a dirty, light green Chevrolet and why had he taken Snowy? It was obvious to me that my previous encounter with this tall man and his friend had not been a coincidence. I had suspected it at the time and now I had had it confirmed. What was going on? I only knew one person who could answer that question and she was waiting for me at the Ipanema beach bar. That person was Grace.
A car horn sounded. The first thing to do was to get out of the middle of the street.
Automatically, I knew that time was an issue. I wanted answers. I know how I felt. I felt like a man whose disappointment needed absolution. Forgiveness, so they say, cleanses the soul.
Adjusting the straps, I positioned my bag like a rucksack and then began running in the direction of the sea, Ipanema beach and Grace.
Although the Rio sun had fallen, allowing the buildings to throw deeper shadows, the motionless air retained its heat like an open pizza oven. My fast running soon produced sweat-drenched skin and a forehead that I had to wipe dry using my t-shirt.
Tourists filled the pavements, which meant I had to dodge between them or jump into the road and run past just to maintain a good pace.
Despite requiring both an agile sidestep and quickstep I was able to cover the short distance in just a few minutes.
On the front, the wider pathways and fewer tourists made my passage easier. Many sun seekers had drifted away from the beach in search of other pleasures.
I hung back for a few seconds. A cautious approach to the bar allowed me the opportunity to ensure Grace was alone and that nobody had followed me from the hotel. Satisfied with my security checks I joined Grace at her table.
She lifted her face and looked at me through dark glasses. I felt a coldness from her that was somehow different. It gave me a reason to think she already knew some or all of what had happened since we parted. I pulled off my bag and sat down beside her.
‘You’re soaked in sweat,’ she said. ‘Did you run here?’ I studied her for a second and then beckoned over the waiter. I needed a moment to consider my thoughts.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the girl wrapped in a white apron. How she knew my first language was English I do not know. Perhaps waiters in tourist spots get a sense of nationality.
‘Coca-Cola, ice-cold,’ I said. The girl bobbed her head once and then left. My scuffed knuckles hurt from contact with the hard jawbone, so I rubbed them. I watched Grace stir her tall drink and the ice cubes against the glass played their familiar tune. I had decided on the direct approach. ‘Who snatched Snowy outside the hotel?’ I asked flatly. Grace made an unattractive sound like a scoff. It annoyed me.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she replied with a hint of disdain. I held my temper and forced civility to persist.
‘Grace, answer my question, please.’ She stopped stirring her drink and turned to me, but before she could speak, the girl returned with my Coca-Cola. She placed it on the table in front of me and then left. Grace watched her walk away. The bar was quiet and the tables around us were empty. The air so close to the sea was not so oven like. I lifted the glass from the table and took a long drink. My throat was grateful.