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Authors: John F. Nardizzi
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moving
deliberately, not hurrying. He looked up each street as he passed but saw no
one. As he turned the corner at Jones Street, four hooded shapes jumped him. He
crashed to the pavement. Pain erupted from his head—his ear was being ripped
off. Heavy weight on his chest, someone held his arms. He felt a blizzard of
kicks and punches pounding everywhere. A boot veered toward his face and he
offered his shoulder instead. A bolt of pain shivered his arm. “Fuck him up!” a
voice muttered.
He stopped struggling for a second. Then with all
the power he could summon, he spun quickly on the ground. He leg was free and
he whipped his foot into a meaty leg; a cry of pain rang out. The simple
maneuver caught them by surprise, and he saw momentary light, men above him. A
weakness in group attacks — someone let up, thinking the fight was over. He
kicked out again wildly, and the kick glanced off someone’s shin. A momentary
break, two of the men now moving uncertainly.
An engine roared, and he knew they were going to
run him down. Then a voice: “Don’t hit him, just—” but then another voice broke
in, clipped and guttural. Ray missed the words but the commanding tone was
clear. The sound of boots thudding on the concrete. He felt water running in
his eyes, but knew it was something else. A door closed and an engine died away
in the distance.
Ray sat up. The whole thing had been ten seconds,
maybe twenty. He hunched against the building and wondered about the last
voice.
An old Chinese woman walked by and shot him a
curious look. She kept plodding uphill. He must have looked like a bum, rolling
in his filth. A five second transformation. He laughed in spite of himself, a
half-mad cackle.
Two women, middle-aged, neatly dressed in
identical jackets, were coming at him now.
“Oh my god, are you OK? What happened sir?”
He stood still as his head tried to find
equilibrium. Blood ran from a cut above his left ear.
“Not sure. Welcome to California.”
“You need us to call an ambulance?”
He struggled up. “I’d settle for dinner right
now.”
One woman smiled.
“You’re OK. You’re joking.”
“Sure. No ambulance needed.”
“You sure? You sure look like you can use some
help.”
“People die in ambulances. I’ll be fine.” He stood
up, stretched his back. “Did you get a look at the guys who did this to me?”
“Big guys. Chinese. God, I hope you don’t need me
to ID them. They all look the same to me.”
Ray sighed, looking at the two ladies in their
matching coats.
“Get a license plate number?”
“No, sorry.” One of the ladies gave him a corner
of a smile. “I don’t see so good anymore. Do you need help getting home?”
“I can get back now, I’m staying one block away.”
His jacket was ripped and blood leaked out of the hole on his right pant leg.
Ray limped back down the hill to Sutter. It could have been a lot worse. He had
been completely surprised, badly outnumbered—he had a sense of four or five men
dancing on his bones back there. Asians. He did not recognize what language
they had spoken. He had his wits about him, no concussion, and relatively pain
free—except for his shoulder. That would change with morning. His face had some
abrasions, a cut above his ear, but nothing major. He knew Dominique would dote
on him, so no need to cover those up too much.
Back in his hotel room, he took a long hot bath.
When he was done, he took a seat near the window. He kept the lights off. He
stared down into the street, which was still alive with neon signs and
nighttime traffic. Steam drifted from a manhole cover, the exhalation of a
dying city night. He wondered why steam still drifted from manholes in the 21st
century. A scene he had witnessed in countless old movies. Sewer technology
should have improved, but there it was. He liked the steam.
No one looked up from the street to his window.
After a half hour, he crawled into bed, sleep rolling down slowly from above.
Chapter
deliberately, not hurrying. He looked up each street as he passed but saw no
one. As he turned the corner at Jones Street, four hooded shapes jumped him. He
crashed to the pavement. Pain erupted from his head—his ear was being ripped
off. Heavy weight on his chest, someone held his arms. He felt a blizzard of
kicks and punches pounding everywhere. A boot veered toward his face and he
offered his shoulder instead. A bolt of pain shivered his arm. “Fuck him up!” a
voice muttered.
He stopped struggling for a second. Then with all
the power he could summon, he spun quickly on the ground. He leg was free and
he whipped his foot into a meaty leg; a cry of pain rang out. The simple
maneuver caught them by surprise, and he saw momentary light, men above him. A
weakness in group attacks — someone let up, thinking the fight was over. He
kicked out again wildly, and the kick glanced off someone’s shin. A momentary
break, two of the men now moving uncertainly.
An engine roared, and he knew they were going to
run him down. Then a voice: “Don’t hit him, just—” but then another voice broke
in, clipped and guttural. Ray missed the words but the commanding tone was
clear. The sound of boots thudding on the concrete. He felt water running in
his eyes, but knew it was something else. A door closed and an engine died away
in the distance.
Ray sat up. The whole thing had been ten seconds,
maybe twenty. He hunched against the building and wondered about the last
voice.
An old Chinese woman walked by and shot him a
curious look. She kept plodding uphill. He must have looked like a bum, rolling
in his filth. A five second transformation. He laughed in spite of himself, a
half-mad cackle.
Two women, middle-aged, neatly dressed in
identical jackets, were coming at him now.
“Oh my god, are you OK? What happened sir?”
He stood still as his head tried to find
equilibrium. Blood ran from a cut above his left ear.
“Not sure. Welcome to California.”
“You need us to call an ambulance?”
He struggled up. “I’d settle for dinner right
now.”
One woman smiled.
“You’re OK. You’re joking.”
“Sure. No ambulance needed.”
“You sure? You sure look like you can use some
help.”
“People die in ambulances. I’ll be fine.” He stood
up, stretched his back. “Did you get a look at the guys who did this to me?”
“Big guys. Chinese. God, I hope you don’t need me
to ID them. They all look the same to me.”
Ray sighed, looking at the two ladies in their
matching coats.
“Get a license plate number?”
“No, sorry.” One of the ladies gave him a corner
of a smile. “I don’t see so good anymore. Do you need help getting home?”
“I can get back now, I’m staying one block away.”
His jacket was ripped and blood leaked out of the hole on his right pant leg.
Ray limped back down the hill to Sutter. It could have been a lot worse. He had
been completely surprised, badly outnumbered—he had a sense of four or five men
dancing on his bones back there. Asians. He did not recognize what language
they had spoken. He had his wits about him, no concussion, and relatively pain
free—except for his shoulder. That would change with morning. His face had some
abrasions, a cut above his ear, but nothing major. He knew Dominique would dote
on him, so no need to cover those up too much.
Back in his hotel room, he took a long hot bath.
When he was done, he took a seat near the window. He kept the lights off. He
stared down into the street, which was still alive with neon signs and
nighttime traffic. Steam drifted from a manhole cover, the exhalation of a
dying city night. He wondered why steam still drifted from manholes in the 21st
century. A scene he had witnessed in countless old movies. Sewer technology
should have improved, but there it was. He liked the steam.
No one looked up from the street to his window.
After a half hour, he crawled into bed, sleep rolling down slowly from above.
Chapter
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