Three guys came out for a smoke break and lingered long after they finished their cigarettes. The whole trio were red-faced and thin-haired, but they were trying to look professional. They wore leather jackets and jeans despite the heat, and they cursed loudly and affectionately to one another, audible across the street. Their accents were thick but their tones were unsure, like they were pretending to be something they weren’t. Slater sensed them personifying the “fake it ’til you make it” axiom, acting like tough henchmen when they were really nothing more than hangers-on.
But Mickey was smarter than your average player, so they’d need to be dealt with.
Slater said, ‘We can’t jump him if his boys are there to form a guard of honour.’
King said, ‘What makes you think they’re with Mickey?’
Thirty seconds later, the guy on the left spoke a little too loud. ‘Nah, mate. We’re better out here. Bloke got the cold shoulder from that bird. Let him drink on his own.’
The words floated in through Slater’s driver’s window, which he’d buzzed halfway down as soon as they’d arrived.
Slater said, ‘Plan’s working.’
King said, ‘They’ll need taking care of, then.’
‘Surely a group of tough guys is minimum-wage work for you. You can handle it.’
King looked over. ‘Nice try.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘So am I. Go do what you need to do. I’ll be here.’
Slater knew he wouldn’t make any progress with King, and the opening was there. It was dark now, and there was plenty of room in the shadows for a beatdown. He grumbled as he unbuckled his seatbelt, but King saw right through it.
King said, ‘You’ll survive.’
Slater said, ‘Maybe.’
He got out, crossed the street, and made to go inside. The trio parted, making way for him, but he pulled up short and stared daggers at the guy on the left. He’d been the loudest, and Slater targeted his ego. ‘You got a boss?’
The Australian cocked his head. ‘You drunk, mate?’
‘Not yet,’ Slater said. ‘That’ll come later. Business first.’
‘What’s your business?’
‘Go inside and tell your boss he needs to do better than hiring three limp-dick morons to protect him. That’s not going to cut it out here.’
Before the guy could stop him, Slater reached out and patted him on the cheek with a firm hand.
Then he turned and walked round the side of the building, out of sight of King and everyone else in Holt’s Tavern.
It was a gamble, but he was confident in the outcome.
They had two options.
Go inside and deliver the message like obedient dogs — the smart move. Or massage their bruised egos and follow the mystery man into the shadows. There were three of them. They could teach him a lesson he’d never forget.
They followed him like he had them on a leash.
Either way they were puppies, but this made them think they had a choice.
Slater squared up as soon as they rounded the corner, keeping the beach to his back.
Ready for a fight.
They read the atmosphere, and the guy he’d patted on the cheek sprinted at him with sinister intentions.
5
Slater saw the punch coming from a mile away.
The guy’s right cheek was redder than his left, the flush of alcohol accentuated by Slater patting his cheek seconds earlier. He was brimming with anger, seeing nothing but red, which helps you put all your adrenaline into the first punch but ruins your chances of fighting smart.
These guys had never fought smart in their lives.
The three of them were built, and that gave them confidence. Slater had seen it a thousand times before. The most dangerous person in a street fight is the one that understands they’re outmatched and adapts accordingly. It’s the skinny guy who’s trained in a multitude of effective martial arts to make up for the fact that he risks getting dropped by the first punch.
These guys here usually won with the first punch against untrained brawlers, so the first Aussie swung like he was looking to knock Slater unconscious with one right hook. It probably would have worked if it landed, but Slater employed an iota of head movement and the fist lashed past like a whip.
He felt the displaced air on his cheek but then he was inches from the guy, fighting in a phone booth, and before the man could recalibrate Slater used his forehead like a battering ram to crunch into the bridge of the guy’s nose. He delivered the headbutt with just enough force to shatter the septum. Considering the momentum of each party, it didn’t take much.
The guy was tough.
He didn’t go down.
He didn’t even take a step back.
His head recoiled from the sharp shock of the pain, but apart from that he was still very much in the fight. He started swinging wildly, both fists clenched, refusing to aim and instead trying to hit anything he could get his hands on.
Which was the right strategy.
Sometimes stupidity benefits you by helping you accidentally make the correct decision.
Slater took three punches — one to the gut, one to the side of his arm, and one to the shoulder. The last two were meaningless, but the first left a sting. Nothing to be overly concerned about, but still impressive given the skill gap. It’d take a clean full-power strike to Slater’s liver to shut him down — in the past he’d fought with broken bones, severe concussions, torn muscles. This was nothing in comparison, but it might have worked on someone less experienced.
Shame, Slater thought. You did better than you’ll end up thinking you did.
The three punches bounced off him and he returned with a precise right hook to the guy’s jaw, putting a little extra pop into it to pay the guy back for his successful hit. It broke the guy’s jaw and the stunning reverberation of the crack in his head made him recoil harder. Now physics required him to take a step back to stop himself toppling over, so he did.
As soon as he was separated from the phone-booth style fight, understanding washed over him.
