purposefully through the broken display window like so many mechanical dolls, saw one of the teenage girls step over the rim of the window. He pulled at the tongs but the woman only slid along the sidewalk, red smears following her in two broad lines behind her bloody feet. The girl was out the window.
He dropped the tongs and ran, Bailey ahead. He looked over his shoulder.
The women followed.
They passed a pharmacy, 72nd Street Electronics, a hairstylist's. He heard only his own footfalls and Bailey's and those behind him.
A face peered suddenly through a restaurant window and he almost fell. He grabbed hold of a parking meter. The man's face pressed against the window, bubbling a thick froth of blood and saliva. Stay on your feet, goddammit , he thought.
He ran and did not look back.
He saw that Bailey was hurting. He heard glass break again behind him and thought of the man in the window.
Across the street they were looting HMV Music, oblivious to Tom and Bailey. In front of the OTB he had to jump the body of a cop whose head dripped blood and brain matter into the gutter. Another man lay beside him, half on the sidewalk and half in the street. They turned the corner.
The newsstand by the subway station was on fire, flames painting Broadway a liquid red and gold.
"Got to stop," Bailey said.
Tom glanced over his shoulder. There was nobody behind them. Again he thought about the man in the window.
"Take it at a walk," he said.
The palm of his hand was throbbing. He could only imagine what Bailey was feeling.
They passed the jewelry store. The roller skating shop.
"Oh shit," said Bailey. "Oh Jesus."
The corner of 71st Street was a battle zone.
Men with bottles and broken chair legs and table legs were trying to stand their ground against dozens of women â mostly unarmed but formidable by sheer weight of number. Bodies littered the street.
It looked as though the men had been trying to break out of the bar on the corner. You should have stayed put , thought Tom. The bar had only two small windows and another on the door. It could be defended.
"Great. We got it on all sides now," said Bailey.
He turned. If it was the man at the window who had delayed them they were finished now, coming on fast behind them. Maybe a dozen. "I can't keep running anyhow," said Bailey.
"What do you want to do?"
"Play any football?"
"Sure."
"How are you at breaking defensive lines?"
"How are you at parting the Red Sea?"
"We find the place they're weakest. Then we hit them. And it better be good because right now I got only one hit left in me."
They ran and coming up on them saw their opening, only five or six women near the corner of the building and three men holding them back, trying to work their way toward the basement-level door and back inside. They gave it full momentum, ramming hard from behind so that three of the women went down right away and Bailey whirled and slammed another in the chin.
Suddenly he was inside a tight circle of five and he and Bailey were enough to change the odds, moving toward the door as he kicked a woman in the shin and pushed her down, pushed another, grabbed yet another by her long blonde hair and flung her away into the crowd. Then they were tripping down the stairs into the bar and he was falling to the floor as the door was slamming shut and the bolt was ramming home. The room was filled with lights and they were not where he wanted to be â home at his apartment â but they were not alone anymore.
~ * ~
"Good to see you. You were out for a minute there."
The big man was unsmiling, staring down at them with cool grey eyes.
"Thanks for the assist," he said.
He nodded, still trying to catch his breath.
He looked at over Bailey sitting beside him on the floor.
"Can you do anything for my buddy here? His shoulder's bad.â
âYou got that right," grunted Bailey.
"First aid kit behind the bar. Neil?"
"I got it." A dark, compact young man in a blue t-shirt hopped
He dropped the tongs and ran, Bailey ahead. He looked over his shoulder.
The women followed.
They passed a pharmacy, 72nd Street Electronics, a hairstylist's. He heard only his own footfalls and Bailey's and those behind him.
A face peered suddenly through a restaurant window and he almost fell. He grabbed hold of a parking meter. The man's face pressed against the window, bubbling a thick froth of blood and saliva. Stay on your feet, goddammit , he thought.
He ran and did not look back.
He saw that Bailey was hurting. He heard glass break again behind him and thought of the man in the window.
Across the street they were looting HMV Music, oblivious to Tom and Bailey. In front of the OTB he had to jump the body of a cop whose head dripped blood and brain matter into the gutter. Another man lay beside him, half on the sidewalk and half in the street. They turned the corner.
The newsstand by the subway station was on fire, flames painting Broadway a liquid red and gold.
"Got to stop," Bailey said.
Tom glanced over his shoulder. There was nobody behind them. Again he thought about the man in the window.
"Take it at a walk," he said.
The palm of his hand was throbbing. He could only imagine what Bailey was feeling.
They passed the jewelry store. The roller skating shop.
"Oh shit," said Bailey. "Oh Jesus."
The corner of 71st Street was a battle zone.
Men with bottles and broken chair legs and table legs were trying to stand their ground against dozens of women â mostly unarmed but formidable by sheer weight of number. Bodies littered the street.
It looked as though the men had been trying to break out of the bar on the corner. You should have stayed put , thought Tom. The bar had only two small windows and another on the door. It could be defended.
"Great. We got it on all sides now," said Bailey.
He turned. If it was the man at the window who had delayed them they were finished now, coming on fast behind them. Maybe a dozen. "I can't keep running anyhow," said Bailey.
"What do you want to do?"
"Play any football?"
"Sure."
"How are you at breaking defensive lines?"
"How are you at parting the Red Sea?"
"We find the place they're weakest. Then we hit them. And it better be good because right now I got only one hit left in me."
They ran and coming up on them saw their opening, only five or six women near the corner of the building and three men holding them back, trying to work their way toward the basement-level door and back inside. They gave it full momentum, ramming hard from behind so that three of the women went down right away and Bailey whirled and slammed another in the chin.
Suddenly he was inside a tight circle of five and he and Bailey were enough to change the odds, moving toward the door as he kicked a woman in the shin and pushed her down, pushed another, grabbed yet another by her long blonde hair and flung her away into the crowd. Then they were tripping down the stairs into the bar and he was falling to the floor as the door was slamming shut and the bolt was ramming home. The room was filled with lights and they were not where he wanted to be â home at his apartment â but they were not alone anymore.
~ * ~
"Good to see you. You were out for a minute there."
The big man was unsmiling, staring down at them with cool grey eyes.
"Thanks for the assist," he said.
He nodded, still trying to catch his breath.
He looked at over Bailey sitting beside him on the floor.
"Can you do anything for my buddy here? His shoulder's bad.â
âYou got that right," grunted Bailey.
"First aid kit behind the bar. Neil?"
"I got it." A dark, compact young man in a blue t-shirt hopped
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