wall where her head had been.
In the milliseconds that it took for him to realize that the sharp pain stinging his face was caused by wall fragments dislodged by the bullets, he felt a hand grab onto his. He was pulled into a darkened corner of the room and, barely maintaining his balance, through a narrow doorway. There was a heavy footfall somewhere behind him.
“ Follow me,” Tereza whispered, “not a sound.”
She kept his hand in hers. Just as well, it was pitch black and he couldn’t see a thing. He was pulled to the ground, jarring his knees, a draught of cool air on his face. She let go of his hand and vanished.
There was nowhere to go. The footsteps behind him had slowed, moving towards him.
“ Follow me, I said,” her voice a distant echo.
He threw his arm out in the direction of the draft of cool air and pressed down with his hand. Emptiness. Where the floor should have been. Footsteps alongside him. He swung his legs over the gap in the floor, nothing beneath them. He grimaced; let his arms drag along the cool stone until the weight of his body dragged him over the edge.
Chapter 33
Well here he was, drinking in the company of life’s bums and degenerates. Mark couldn’t even turn up on time. He had a corner table, as far from the bar as possible. The smell of puke and bleach hung in the air, residue from the lunchtime rush. It was eight. If he was lucky he’d be able to get out before he needed to take a leak. The old man at the next table hunched over a beer. A shot glass kept it company. Welfare check day. He stank. The old man. Not just his clothes. The grime on his face and neck looked well lived in.
He froze as something slammed into his shoulder. He flinched, head jerking round, heart thumping.
“You fuckin’ faggot, I can’t believe you just did that.” He was tempted to shove his fist into his friend’s beaming grin.
“ Losing your touch. That’s what happens when you’ve been out of the game for a while.”
Painful, but true. Cut out ever since the courier took a dive. Stupid bitch.
“So what’ll you be havin’?” Gregor stood up.
“Large bourbon, straight up,” Mark said.
“ You’d better watch it or you’ll end up like my friend, old Mr. Boozehound over there.”
The old man h adn’t made it to the bottom of the glass. Lay sprawled across the bench.
Gregor returned with the drinks. Glanced towards the door.
“So what the fuck has he got us meeting a customer in a dump like this for?”
“ Bronx big shot. Runs the neighborhood. Wants to go up-market and start supplying quality to the clubs downtown.”
He was back in the game. I t was good to be here. Even in this dive. He’d missed the life, the wheeling and dealing, Mark, his friend.
A glass shattered on the other side of the room. The whole place went silent. A big man, bald head, Hell’s Angel denims, dived across the table. He grabbed another around the neck and began to throttle him. The other man, equally big, younger, hammered on the Angel’s back, hands locked together. A crashing noise. The table collapsed into firewood. Bystanders dove out the way. The younger man was underneath. Face crimson. The Angel’s hands squeezing his neck.
The noise rocked the whole place. The baseball bat had come down hard. Swiped half an inch past the Angel’s ear. J ust about lifted the younger man from the floor.
The guy in the apron lifted the bat over his shoulder, ready to strike again.
“Hector! You an’ your boyfriend there p ick yourselves up off my floor and get the fuck out of here. You consentin’ adults can do what you like, but not in my bar. Get the hell out.”
The Angel and the other man stood up, dusted themselves off. One clung to the other as they staggered for the door.
“ Jesus,” said Gregor, “what this place lacks in ambience it sure makes up for in entertainment value.”
In the milliseconds that it took for him to realize that the sharp pain stinging his face was caused by wall fragments dislodged by the bullets, he felt a hand grab onto his. He was pulled into a darkened corner of the room and, barely maintaining his balance, through a narrow doorway. There was a heavy footfall somewhere behind him.
“ Follow me,” Tereza whispered, “not a sound.”
She kept his hand in hers. Just as well, it was pitch black and he couldn’t see a thing. He was pulled to the ground, jarring his knees, a draught of cool air on his face. She let go of his hand and vanished.
There was nowhere to go. The footsteps behind him had slowed, moving towards him.
“ Follow me, I said,” her voice a distant echo.
He threw his arm out in the direction of the draft of cool air and pressed down with his hand. Emptiness. Where the floor should have been. Footsteps alongside him. He swung his legs over the gap in the floor, nothing beneath them. He grimaced; let his arms drag along the cool stone until the weight of his body dragged him over the edge.
Chapter 33
Well here he was, drinking in the company of life’s bums and degenerates. Mark couldn’t even turn up on time. He had a corner table, as far from the bar as possible. The smell of puke and bleach hung in the air, residue from the lunchtime rush. It was eight. If he was lucky he’d be able to get out before he needed to take a leak. The old man at the next table hunched over a beer. A shot glass kept it company. Welfare check day. He stank. The old man. Not just his clothes. The grime on his face and neck looked well lived in.
He froze as something slammed into his shoulder. He flinched, head jerking round, heart thumping.
“You fuckin’ faggot, I can’t believe you just did that.” He was tempted to shove his fist into his friend’s beaming grin.
“ Losing your touch. That’s what happens when you’ve been out of the game for a while.”
Painful, but true. Cut out ever since the courier took a dive. Stupid bitch.
“So what’ll you be havin’?” Gregor stood up.
“Large bourbon, straight up,” Mark said.
“ You’d better watch it or you’ll end up like my friend, old Mr. Boozehound over there.”
The old man h adn’t made it to the bottom of the glass. Lay sprawled across the bench.
Gregor returned with the drinks. Glanced towards the door.
“So what the fuck has he got us meeting a customer in a dump like this for?”
“ Bronx big shot. Runs the neighborhood. Wants to go up-market and start supplying quality to the clubs downtown.”
He was back in the game. I t was good to be here. Even in this dive. He’d missed the life, the wheeling and dealing, Mark, his friend.
A glass shattered on the other side of the room. The whole place went silent. A big man, bald head, Hell’s Angel denims, dived across the table. He grabbed another around the neck and began to throttle him. The other man, equally big, younger, hammered on the Angel’s back, hands locked together. A crashing noise. The table collapsed into firewood. Bystanders dove out the way. The younger man was underneath. Face crimson. The Angel’s hands squeezing his neck.
The noise rocked the whole place. The baseball bat had come down hard. Swiped half an inch past the Angel’s ear. J ust about lifted the younger man from the floor.
The guy in the apron lifted the bat over his shoulder, ready to strike again.
“Hector! You an’ your boyfriend there p ick yourselves up off my floor and get the fuck out of here. You consentin’ adults can do what you like, but not in my bar. Get the hell out.”
The Angel and the other man stood up, dusted themselves off. One clung to the other as they staggered for the door.
“ Jesus,” said Gregor, “what this place lacks in ambience it sure makes up for in entertainment value.”
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