grinning. “Yeah, I’ll have some.”
Harry ordered a couple of bratwurst plates with fried potatoes, another beer for him and a drink for Cordell. The bartender put their refills on the bar and took their empties.
Harry said, “You enlist, drafted or what?”
“Drafted,” Cordell said, “sort of.”
“What number were you?”
“I don’t know,” Cordell said. “But I knew a dude was three.”
“What’d he do?”
“You mean when he found out? Got fucked up. What you think?”
The bartender served their food and started cleaning up. He liked looking at her, liked watching her draw pints and serve drinks. Would probably like watching her do laundry, iron a shirt.
He cut off a piece of bratwurst, put it in his mouth. The brat was authentic, better than the one he’d had yesterday, tasted just like he remembered it, grilled meat with a hint of herbs and spices. He glanced to his left. “What do you think?”
Cordell, a napkin tucked in the neck of his shirt, nodded and fanned his mouth, sipped his drink to put out the heat. Harry glanced over for another eyeful of the bartender. She was wiping the bar top, but stopped, her attention fixed on something in the dining room. She dropped the cloth, walked quickly down to the end of the bar, and disappeared in the kitchen.
Harry looked behind him and saw two skinheads in black outfits with red armbands in the back of the room just standing there. The few remaining diners noticed them too, got up and moved out of the restaurant. What the hell was going on?
He turned to Cordell. “We’ve got company.” Looked over his shoulder again, and now there were six of them, reminding Harry of blackbirds on a power line. Look up, see one, then there are twenty. They were coming toward the bar, carrying lengths of wood that looked like ax handles.
They came at them fast, moving through the tables, gripping the wood like baseball bats. Harry slid off his bar stool, squeezed the handle of his beer mug, moving along the front of the bar. Cordell was on his feet, holding the heavy china dinner plate at his waist with two hands.
The first Blackshirt came at Harry, swinging for the fence. He timed his move, faked right, went left as the ax handle swished past his head and hit the bar top like a gunshot. Harry swung the two-pound beveled glass mug on top of his shaved neo-Nazi head, watched him crash into a barstool and take it with him to the floor.
To his right, he saw Cordell launch the dinner plate like a Frisbee into the face of an advancing Blackshirt, splitting open his forehead. Then another Blackshirt was on him, Cordell ducking, bobbing, weaving, throwing punches and connecting.
Harry, moving, grabbed the top of a barstool and flipped it behind him into a charging Blackshirt, trying to slow him down. He ran into the dining room, pulled a chair out from a table, picked it up and held it in front of him, blocking a blow from an ax handle. Harry gripped the back of the chair and swung into the man’s upper body. The Blackshirt went down on the floor, looking dazed.
Harry saw a flash of movement to his left and felt his ribs explode as an ax handle thudded into his side. He went down on his knees, wind knocked out, trying to draw a breath. Saw the Blackshirt raise his weapon again, ducked under a table and came out on the other side. Cordell finished the Blackshirt off with a straight right–left hook combination and helped Harry to his feet. They ran out of the ratskeller, down the street lined with cars to the BMW, sidewalk congested with people out for the night. Harry looked back, saw the Blackshirts running toward them, fumbled with the keys.
Cordell, on the other side of the car, said, “Yo, Harry, you see ’em? The fuck you doing?”
Harry got in and unlocked the passenger door. Cordell jumped in next to him. He started the BMW and the Blackshirts were on them, circling the car, waving their ax handles.
“Put the motherfucker in gear,” Cordell
Harry ordered a couple of bratwurst plates with fried potatoes, another beer for him and a drink for Cordell. The bartender put their refills on the bar and took their empties.
Harry said, “You enlist, drafted or what?”
“Drafted,” Cordell said, “sort of.”
“What number were you?”
“I don’t know,” Cordell said. “But I knew a dude was three.”
“What’d he do?”
“You mean when he found out? Got fucked up. What you think?”
The bartender served their food and started cleaning up. He liked looking at her, liked watching her draw pints and serve drinks. Would probably like watching her do laundry, iron a shirt.
He cut off a piece of bratwurst, put it in his mouth. The brat was authentic, better than the one he’d had yesterday, tasted just like he remembered it, grilled meat with a hint of herbs and spices. He glanced to his left. “What do you think?”
Cordell, a napkin tucked in the neck of his shirt, nodded and fanned his mouth, sipped his drink to put out the heat. Harry glanced over for another eyeful of the bartender. She was wiping the bar top, but stopped, her attention fixed on something in the dining room. She dropped the cloth, walked quickly down to the end of the bar, and disappeared in the kitchen.
Harry looked behind him and saw two skinheads in black outfits with red armbands in the back of the room just standing there. The few remaining diners noticed them too, got up and moved out of the restaurant. What the hell was going on?
He turned to Cordell. “We’ve got company.” Looked over his shoulder again, and now there were six of them, reminding Harry of blackbirds on a power line. Look up, see one, then there are twenty. They were coming toward the bar, carrying lengths of wood that looked like ax handles.
They came at them fast, moving through the tables, gripping the wood like baseball bats. Harry slid off his bar stool, squeezed the handle of his beer mug, moving along the front of the bar. Cordell was on his feet, holding the heavy china dinner plate at his waist with two hands.
The first Blackshirt came at Harry, swinging for the fence. He timed his move, faked right, went left as the ax handle swished past his head and hit the bar top like a gunshot. Harry swung the two-pound beveled glass mug on top of his shaved neo-Nazi head, watched him crash into a barstool and take it with him to the floor.
To his right, he saw Cordell launch the dinner plate like a Frisbee into the face of an advancing Blackshirt, splitting open his forehead. Then another Blackshirt was on him, Cordell ducking, bobbing, weaving, throwing punches and connecting.
Harry, moving, grabbed the top of a barstool and flipped it behind him into a charging Blackshirt, trying to slow him down. He ran into the dining room, pulled a chair out from a table, picked it up and held it in front of him, blocking a blow from an ax handle. Harry gripped the back of the chair and swung into the man’s upper body. The Blackshirt went down on the floor, looking dazed.
Harry saw a flash of movement to his left and felt his ribs explode as an ax handle thudded into his side. He went down on his knees, wind knocked out, trying to draw a breath. Saw the Blackshirt raise his weapon again, ducked under a table and came out on the other side. Cordell finished the Blackshirt off with a straight right–left hook combination and helped Harry to his feet. They ran out of the ratskeller, down the street lined with cars to the BMW, sidewalk congested with people out for the night. Harry looked back, saw the Blackshirts running toward them, fumbled with the keys.
Cordell, on the other side of the car, said, “Yo, Harry, you see ’em? The fuck you doing?”
Harry got in and unlocked the passenger door. Cordell jumped in next to him. He started the BMW and the Blackshirts were on them, circling the car, waving their ax handles.
“Put the motherfucker in gear,” Cordell
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