Nic’s man got the better of him, pinning him to the floor.
The three threw themselves at me since I was open and available to dance.
I leveled one with a kick to the throat, took two hard punches from his friends. I stumbled and then I parried the next punch, drove a knee into the groin (you see how I prefer the throat and groin? They offer a substantial return on investment) of the next guy. He withdrew to the floor.
Young Turk number three swung a broken beer glass at my face. I blocked it with my forearm, and with my other hand yanked a rag from the bar, whipped it over the mug. If you can’t take a weapon away you neutralize it. This isn’t rocket science. The move surprised him, and I powered the covered glass back into his own face. The glass didn’t cut him but it scared him, knowing the edge was jagged. Uncertainty is your friend in a fight. The guy stumbled back and left himself open; four hard, fast punches, to the eyes and the stomach, and he was done. Four to keep him down, and to make a statement to anyone in the bar eager to enter the fight.
Nic was still grappling with his original opponent like it was first day of fight school. I seized the man, yanked him off Nic, and positioned my arm just so, his head caught in the crook of my arm.
“I’ll break his neck,” I yelled in Turkish, and the slowly regathering Turks stopped. Seriously, there is no point in fighting if you do not have to. The man in my grip went very still and I could feel the panicked panting of his breath. The bar could see I meant what I said and I stood like a man with a knowledge of leverage. It got quiet. Even the flirt stopped singing and the Depeche Mode melody thrummed ahead in its lonely beat.
“Let him go,” the bartender called in Dutch.
I said, “You call the police?”
The bartender’s gaze slid to Nic, and I saw Nic shake his head, ever so slightly.
“No,” the bartender said.
In Turkish I said, “Back off and I’ll let him go. Your friends started it. Not me. You saw him hit me first.”
The Turks stayed put. Hands still in fists. Then one sat, and the rest of them followed.
“Gggaaggghh,” the man in my grip said.
I said, “Shhhhhh.” Then I yelled at the girl on the stage, “Start singing, please.”
She stared and then her gaze caught the karaoke prompter. She mumbled and then broke into that last bridge of the Depeche Mode tune with a nervous, bright smile on her face.
“Outside,” I said to Nic and, looking a bit stunned, he got to his feet and obeyed.
I shoved the guy I was holding to the floor. I followed Nic into the cool of the Amsterdam night, the girl crooning about vows spoken to be broken.
Nic waited for me. “Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” I said, and I stopped by him to catch my breath.
And then he put the gun in my ribs.
32
Take the gun down,” I said. “You’ll get arrested in about five seconds.”
He kept the gun under his jacket, me close to him. I didn’t pull away because I didn’t know if he’d shoot me.
“Walk,” he said. “Just walk normally.” He kept glancing back to see if the Turks were surging out in pursuit- and yes, here they came.
“You might point that at them,” I said.
He lowered the gun and I grabbed the first Turk by the throat. There was a window with a hooker standing in it and I gestured, with a slash of my hand, for her to move out of the way. She got the message and bolted behind the red velvet curtain that was her backdrop. I pushed him through the glass and ran like hell. Because once the hookers are in danger, here come the police, and they closed in fast, talking into shoulder-mounted mikes, hurrying past me and Nic.
“You put that gun back in my ribs, I’ll break you,” I said. “Let’s go talk. Someplace quiet.”
Near Dam Square we found a quiet bar/cafe. No karaoke, no drunken Turks, no fights brewing.
I had blood on the front of my shirt, and the bartender’s gaze widened slightly as we came inside. She was an older, brittle-smiling woman, and she started to shake her head no. Nic went to her, spoke softly in rapid Dutch that I couldn’t catch, and she nodded after a moment. We sat across from each other at a corner table, out of sight of the street in case the Turks kept roving, my back to the wall so I could see the entire room. But we were blocks away now, and I hoped they’d decided to drink away their anger and embarrassment if they’d dodged the police.
He ordered us two beers from the waitress. She looked at me and I had blood in the corner of my mouth. She brought me a wet napkin and no questions. I cleaned my face. She set beers down in front of us, with a tall shot glass of clear liquid. “ Kopstoot,” Nic said, pointing at the chaser. “It means a blow to the head. You’ll like it.”
“At least it’s not a hole in the head,” I said. I wasn’t done with the fighting-I wanted to hit some more. I am not proud of that. But it is what it is. I used to prefer quiet nights at home, reading, watching good movies with Lucy, going to bed early and making love. Now I just wanted to hit fist against flesh, boot against jaw. The brutal dance of the fight shook awake a darkness slumbering inside of me. I tamped it down with a long draw on the tall shot-it tasted a lot like gin-before I even bothered with the beer. A drunken bar brawl; wow, I was really sliding into smooth gear here. I had to clear my head.
“That’s backwards,” Nic said. “You drink the beer first, then the jenever. Do you do everything backwards?”
“Huh?”
“Usually you get to know a man before you risk your life for him in a bar fight.”
“Those guys were assholes. I don’t like assholes. And you’re an asshole for sticking a gun in my ribs when I helped you.”
Nic took a sip of his beer.
“Forgive me. I am a cautious man,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Peter Samson. My friends call me Sam for short.”
“You fought like you are a soldier.”
“I was, once. Now I’m not.”
“Does Piet really owe you money?”
“I don’t know who Piet is,” I said.
He stared. “What, you just decide to-” he fumbled for the right English word “-insert yourself into a fight?”
“I was bored. I don’t have a job to go to tomorrow.”
He took a long hard sip of his beer and rubbed his jaw. He followed it by a sip of jenever. I saw his glance wander over to a family sitting a few tables over: father, mother, little girl about eight. He watched the girl laugh and take a bite of her mother’s dessert. Then, reluctantly almost, it seemed, he pulled his gaze back to me, as if he’d decided on his questions. “Where were you a soldier?”
“Canadian Special Forces.”
“You left them?”
“They asked me to.”
“For fighting in bars?”
“No. I stole some stuff and sold it on eBay. Dishonorable discharge but no jail time once I paid them back. My commander wanted to avoid the embarrassment of me implicating him.” I shrugged. “I did it. I can’t blame them for giving me the boot.”
“Well, a fighter and a thief. Aren’t I lucky?” He gave me an odd, crooked smile.
“I prefer to think of myself as an entrepreneur.”
“You said you don’t have a job. Maybe you want a job?”
“What, fighting your fights for you?”
He took the slap of the insult well. “I haven’t thanked you. Fine. Thank you, Sam. I could have handled them, but thank you.”
