lunged forward like a clock spring suddenly released, putting all his weight behind a major-league, go-for-the-fence swing with the walking stick. It landed where it had been aimed, at the bottom of the man's nose, bending the nasal cartilage back against and into the point it became bone. Tissue snapped with an audible pop.
The blow was neither fatal nor particularly damaging but it was one of the most disablingly agonizing Lang knew. Its recipient would be blinded by tears of pain for several seconds at the least.
Baldy's hands flew to his face as he yelped and collapsed to his knees, bringing his head into range of another home-run cut to the side of the jaw.
Baldy fell sideways, lying on the sidewalk as he emitted blood and moans in equal parts.
Looking up to make sure his victim's companion had not heard anything, Lang knelt and awkwardly rummaged through the man's clothes. His fingers closed around a switchblade, which Lang shoved into his own pocket. He had expected no identification and he found none. He was about to give up when his fingers touched paper. He pulled it out and stared.
He was looking at himself in formal garb.
The British Museum.
But how ... ?
He had scant time to think.
Baldy's friend rounded the corner, grunting in surprise as he saw his pal stretched out on the pavement. If anything, he was bigger than Baldy, big enough to make Lang wonder if steroids were the Czech breakfast of champions.
One thing was certain: they liked knives. Or at least, this pair did.
Another switchblade snicked open, the last of the afternoon sun dancing on a six-inch blade. Lang used his cane to push himself to his feet as the man advanced, knife extended.
He mistook Lang's steps backward for an attempted retreat. Lang didn't understand the words but the tone was clear enough: "Come here, little fish. All I want to do is gut you."
Lang was about to get his twenty-five dollars' worth along with a handsome dividend. Holding the cane in his left hand as he backpedaled as best he could on gimpy legs, he used the right to tug at the cane's knob.
His eyes never left his assailant's; they didn't have to. Instead, he watched his opponent's widened stare as Lang withdrew a good three-and-a-half-foot blade from his gentlemen's walking stick. He had recognized it as a sword cane the second he had touched the brass knob in Monk's shop.
The blade hummed evilly as Lang slashed at the air. "Not exactly what you'd expect from a cripple?"
Evidently so.
It was a lot more steel than the man facing him wanted any part of. He took a couple of steps backward before turning and fleeing.
Bastard probably parked in handicapped spaces, too.
Lang had started to trudge back to the hotel when his BlackBerry buzzed. His office number showed on the screen.
"Sara?"
"It's me, Lang."
"What's up?"
"It's Home Depot. I called like you asked me to and asked that they come get the stove, deliver the wall oven."
Jesus! She could have text messaged him; that was the point of having a BlackBerry. But then, that was Sara, resistant to new technology as a flu vaccine to the virus. When typewriters had become the next buggy whips, it had required a series of threats, promises and finally a raise to convince her to learn basic computer skills rather than retire. E-mail was suspect, subject to electronic whim just as computer files were not to be trusted nor CD's worthy of confidence; they would not cannibalize their information unlike their paper counterparts.
She picked up on the pause. Or perhaps his sigh. "Am I interrupting something?"
"No, no. I was just, er, meeting with some people. Home Depot was delivering a wall oven and ... ?" "The man from your condo management company called, complaining about the hall outside your unit being blocked"
"See if you can get the guy who was supposed to install the oven to move it inside."
"Not that simple. They left the stove and delivered a hood to go with it. I called the store. They said that was
The blow was neither fatal nor particularly damaging but it was one of the most disablingly agonizing Lang knew. Its recipient would be blinded by tears of pain for several seconds at the least.
Baldy's hands flew to his face as he yelped and collapsed to his knees, bringing his head into range of another home-run cut to the side of the jaw.
Baldy fell sideways, lying on the sidewalk as he emitted blood and moans in equal parts.
Looking up to make sure his victim's companion had not heard anything, Lang knelt and awkwardly rummaged through the man's clothes. His fingers closed around a switchblade, which Lang shoved into his own pocket. He had expected no identification and he found none. He was about to give up when his fingers touched paper. He pulled it out and stared.
He was looking at himself in formal garb.
The British Museum.
But how ... ?
He had scant time to think.
Baldy's friend rounded the corner, grunting in surprise as he saw his pal stretched out on the pavement. If anything, he was bigger than Baldy, big enough to make Lang wonder if steroids were the Czech breakfast of champions.
One thing was certain: they liked knives. Or at least, this pair did.
Another switchblade snicked open, the last of the afternoon sun dancing on a six-inch blade. Lang used his cane to push himself to his feet as the man advanced, knife extended.
He mistook Lang's steps backward for an attempted retreat. Lang didn't understand the words but the tone was clear enough: "Come here, little fish. All I want to do is gut you."
Lang was about to get his twenty-five dollars' worth along with a handsome dividend. Holding the cane in his left hand as he backpedaled as best he could on gimpy legs, he used the right to tug at the cane's knob.
His eyes never left his assailant's; they didn't have to. Instead, he watched his opponent's widened stare as Lang withdrew a good three-and-a-half-foot blade from his gentlemen's walking stick. He had recognized it as a sword cane the second he had touched the brass knob in Monk's shop.
The blade hummed evilly as Lang slashed at the air. "Not exactly what you'd expect from a cripple?"
Evidently so.
It was a lot more steel than the man facing him wanted any part of. He took a couple of steps backward before turning and fleeing.
Bastard probably parked in handicapped spaces, too.
Lang had started to trudge back to the hotel when his BlackBerry buzzed. His office number showed on the screen.
"Sara?"
"It's me, Lang."
"What's up?"
"It's Home Depot. I called like you asked me to and asked that they come get the stove, deliver the wall oven."
Jesus! She could have text messaged him; that was the point of having a BlackBerry. But then, that was Sara, resistant to new technology as a flu vaccine to the virus. When typewriters had become the next buggy whips, it had required a series of threats, promises and finally a raise to convince her to learn basic computer skills rather than retire. E-mail was suspect, subject to electronic whim just as computer files were not to be trusted nor CD's worthy of confidence; they would not cannibalize their information unlike their paper counterparts.
She picked up on the pause. Or perhaps his sigh. "Am I interrupting something?"
"No, no. I was just, er, meeting with some people. Home Depot was delivering a wall oven and ... ?" "The man from your condo management company called, complaining about the hall outside your unit being blocked"
"See if you can get the guy who was supposed to install the oven to move it inside."
"Not that simple. They left the stove and delivered a hood to go with it. I called the store. They said that was
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