pushing me toward the door. I gave no resistance. I figured we had a staircase to go down, then the alley, before they shoved me into the backseat . . . or the trunk. I would much rather take my chances in the alley than in this confined space.
With my good-natured cooperation, there was no reason for the bouncer to latch on to my left wrist and hoist it into a hammerlock over my shoulder blade. I’d separated the shoulder three times. Then there was the rotator cuff surgery with its requisite scar tissue. So, I didn’t much care for the pain shooting through the joint.
That’s why I stomped hard on the bouncer’s instep. How hard? Two hundred forty-five pounds hard. I thought I heard his talus bone cra-ack . I know I heard him scream something in Russian.
With my left hand free, I pivoted and threw a short hook into the bartender’s huge gut. I caught a slab of his ribs instead of his solar plexus, but he still let go of my right arm. I threw my right elbow at his throat and smashed his Adam’s apple. He gagged and crumpled forward. But Alex came up from behind me and tossed a punch or a karate chop—I never saw it—at the back of my neck. It is a thick neck attached to a thick skull.
Still, I saw stars and staggered two steps forward. Joining in the fun were Marina and Elena. Marina leapt onto my back, wrapped an arm around my neck, and raked my cheek with her lacquered nails. Elena had removed her shoes and pounded a stiletto heel into my chest, which only a few minutes ago, she was lovingly stroking. Then she reached inside my suit coat, no doubt trying to pick my pocket. Fortunately, that’s not where I keep my wallet. But maybe that was a diversion, because I immediately noticed that my watch was gone. One of the women was now the proud owner of a knockoff Piguet.
Nearing the top of the staircase, I shook off both the women, turned, and ducked as Gorev threw a sloppy roundhouse right at my chin. His punch sailed high, and I did the manly thing. I kneed him in the groin because I hate hitting people in the face. I have missed the face so many times, slugging the skull instead and breaking knuckles.
Gorev squealed something in a Russian falsetto and doubled over. The bartender moved toward me and threw a big paw toward my face. I stepped backward . . .
Right off the top stair.
Arms windmilling, I caught the bartender’s wrist and pulled him toward me. I shifted my hips like a sneaky little wide receiver and pulled him around me like a dance partner.
We both tumbled down the stairs, but he was a three-hundred-pound pillow of lard that helped cushion the roll. The only downside, his breath smelled of beer and garlic as we bounced to the bottom.
I stumbled to my feet. The bartender stayed down.
I staggered outside, hearing rapid footsteps on the stairs behind me.
Alex and the bouncer. Followed by Marina and Elena.
I didn’t have my sea legs, and as I wobbled away, the gimpy bouncer easily caught up, then used both hands to smash me into the side of a nearby Dumpster. A garbage can sat alongside. If this were the 1950s, the can would be metal, and I could have grabbed the lid and brained the bouncer, just the way Sonny Corleone beat up his lousy brother-in-law in The Godfather . But this was 2014 and the can was blue rubber—recyclables on Thursday—and there was nothing to grab but maybe some Styrofoam peanuts inside.
The bouncer came at me with his fists, in a stand-up prizefighter stance. I covered up, bringing my elbows in to protect my gut and my fists up to shield my pretty face. He took a few swings, hitting me with short punches, my forearms taking the abuse. I would be black-and-blue tomorrow. When he paused to take a breath, I snapped a short left jab that hit him squarely on the nose, which spouted a Trevi Fountain of blood.
He brought up his hands to his face, so I pivoted and put all my weight into a right hook that dug deep into his solar plexus. That dropped his hands, giving me
With my good-natured cooperation, there was no reason for the bouncer to latch on to my left wrist and hoist it into a hammerlock over my shoulder blade. I’d separated the shoulder three times. Then there was the rotator cuff surgery with its requisite scar tissue. So, I didn’t much care for the pain shooting through the joint.
That’s why I stomped hard on the bouncer’s instep. How hard? Two hundred forty-five pounds hard. I thought I heard his talus bone cra-ack . I know I heard him scream something in Russian.
With my left hand free, I pivoted and threw a short hook into the bartender’s huge gut. I caught a slab of his ribs instead of his solar plexus, but he still let go of my right arm. I threw my right elbow at his throat and smashed his Adam’s apple. He gagged and crumpled forward. But Alex came up from behind me and tossed a punch or a karate chop—I never saw it—at the back of my neck. It is a thick neck attached to a thick skull.
Still, I saw stars and staggered two steps forward. Joining in the fun were Marina and Elena. Marina leapt onto my back, wrapped an arm around my neck, and raked my cheek with her lacquered nails. Elena had removed her shoes and pounded a stiletto heel into my chest, which only a few minutes ago, she was lovingly stroking. Then she reached inside my suit coat, no doubt trying to pick my pocket. Fortunately, that’s not where I keep my wallet. But maybe that was a diversion, because I immediately noticed that my watch was gone. One of the women was now the proud owner of a knockoff Piguet.
Nearing the top of the staircase, I shook off both the women, turned, and ducked as Gorev threw a sloppy roundhouse right at my chin. His punch sailed high, and I did the manly thing. I kneed him in the groin because I hate hitting people in the face. I have missed the face so many times, slugging the skull instead and breaking knuckles.
Gorev squealed something in a Russian falsetto and doubled over. The bartender moved toward me and threw a big paw toward my face. I stepped backward . . .
Right off the top stair.
Arms windmilling, I caught the bartender’s wrist and pulled him toward me. I shifted my hips like a sneaky little wide receiver and pulled him around me like a dance partner.
We both tumbled down the stairs, but he was a three-hundred-pound pillow of lard that helped cushion the roll. The only downside, his breath smelled of beer and garlic as we bounced to the bottom.
I stumbled to my feet. The bartender stayed down.
I staggered outside, hearing rapid footsteps on the stairs behind me.
Alex and the bouncer. Followed by Marina and Elena.
I didn’t have my sea legs, and as I wobbled away, the gimpy bouncer easily caught up, then used both hands to smash me into the side of a nearby Dumpster. A garbage can sat alongside. If this were the 1950s, the can would be metal, and I could have grabbed the lid and brained the bouncer, just the way Sonny Corleone beat up his lousy brother-in-law in The Godfather . But this was 2014 and the can was blue rubber—recyclables on Thursday—and there was nothing to grab but maybe some Styrofoam peanuts inside.
The bouncer came at me with his fists, in a stand-up prizefighter stance. I covered up, bringing my elbows in to protect my gut and my fists up to shield my pretty face. He took a few swings, hitting me with short punches, my forearms taking the abuse. I would be black-and-blue tomorrow. When he paused to take a breath, I snapped a short left jab that hit him squarely on the nose, which spouted a Trevi Fountain of blood.
He brought up his hands to his face, so I pivoted and put all my weight into a right hook that dug deep into his solar plexus. That dropped his hands, giving me
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