Harry looked at what he had created through the lens of the microscope, the gaggle of cells that could kill Manhattan dead. Less virulent forms of it had killed off entire civilizations, turning men into malarial, puss-filled zombies. What had possessed him to make such a thing, to tinker with its genetic code until it had lit all of the inheritable sequences that indicated peak deadliness? He had known about scientists doing similar things, creating super-flus or some other calamity in a test tube. But when interviewed for scholarly journals, those people always spoke in legitimate sounding tones of building things in order to create defenses against them.
He had begun in his kitchen sink, though, starting by manipulating yeasts and bacteria with the LOKI genome editing kit he had bought online. Now that he had reached beyond making glow-in-the-dark pizza or flora that sang in the wind, to make something that could actually exert real, permanent change in the world, he knew the real reason those scientists had created all those awful toys.
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Simon motioned with the skillet as if he were ready to take another swing at the voyou he had downed. I felt the weight of my own man buck underneath the chair as I pressed its stretchers into his chest and abdomen.
I returned to the Corsican on the floor, leaning the chair a bit onto his throat to remind him where everyone stood. “You were saying?” I goaded him.
“You beat our friend last night.” He didn’t sound tough now, but more like the man-child he was, complaining about a playground grudge. It stood out in contrast to the semi-professional shakedown tactics they had used entering the cafe.
“Really?” I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise, as if I had beaten any number of people last night. “Which one was he?” I asked, hoping to get a name.
Surprisingly, Balaclava didn’t fall for that. Instead he tried to spit, but with the chair’s weight on his windpipe he just covered his lips in more saliva.
“OK.” I nodded, trying to appear understanding. To confuse the mercy on my face with my actions, I pushed down on the chair’s rear stretcher again, putting much of my weight onto his gut. He groaned ardently, trying to suck in as much air as he could even as his guts squeezed up towards his diaphragm. “So your friend got his feelings hurt and sent you after me? You don’t think I should talk to him about that?”
More spittle now. I couldn’t tell if it was defiance or him just trying to talk around what the chair was doing to his insides. “He wouldn’t be such a bitch about it.”
In reward for having finally said something interesting, I let my weight off him. “Then how did you know where to find me?”
Balaclava stared at me, the uncertainty apparent in his eyes, trying to decide if giving up this information would be a betrayal of whatever imaginary code he claimed to abide by. I made to lean on the chair again, which helped him make up his mind. “Some flambeur was in a car behind. Said he’d seen who did our friend and gave us where to find you American.”
I was so intrigued by this I nearly sat on the dumb ass. The only person who had seen me beat on the Corsican was Gaspard. Although, anyone who had been watching the security feed before we switched it off could have deduced what was going to happen without much trouble. To be sure it was one and not the other I asked, “What did he look like?”
Balaclava took another moment to do an internal evaluation on where he stood on the map of his murky ethics. The weight of the chair helped move him along to, “He never got out of the car, but I could see the suit he was wearing, so I thought he had come from the casino.” I leaned a bit more, so he continued, “He had a beard and dark hair with gray. Older, lots of wrinkles like crags on his face. Big white teeth.”
Not much to go on, but it might be enough. I stood up and lifted the chair off him. “Whoever he was, he lied to you. Your friend was bothering people at the casino and it was my job to take care of him.” I considered asking about the girl the Corsican from the casino had mentioned, but if Balaclava wasn’t willing to give me a name, he wouldn’t give me anything else, even if he had it. Instead, I leaned forward so me and he were looking each other in the eye. “You understand? I’ll let this go, but if you bother this man,” I pointed to Simon, “the casino owners will take an interest.” Like many casinos, the one in town had a lot of shadowy rumors around it, so I invoked those for Simon’s protection. I didn’t see a reason to go into specifics.
Either it worked or the interrogation was intimidating enough on its own. Balaclava nodded with only a hint of resentment, which was to be expected of any young man who had just gotten throttled. I stood up and swung the chair off Balaclava. I gestured towards the door in the same polite manner I would have used for a too-drunk patron at the casino. Balaclava rubbed his throat, his eyes still smoldering with anger while Simon menaced the standing Algerian and Fatty with his deadly pan. I waited, internally cagey, wondering if one of them was stupid enough to try anything again. Externally, I tried to project a facade of infinite patience even as I wanted to hit each of them again for having made me waste my breakfast. But I didn’t have an appetite anymore, anyway.
Simon walked over to stand behind me as the voyous limped out. The lack of backward glances gave me some assurances they weren’t going to have an inadvisable attack of courage.
After they had disappeared somewhere into the world beyond the cafe’s tall windows Simon bent down to pick up his cigarillo, relighting it. When enough time had passed that I was as certain as I could be the morning wasn’t going to have any more strange occurrences, I said to Simon, “Sorry about that.”
Simon puffed gently, then shrugged, all fatalism. “How were you to know?”
I thought about the Corsican and the gambler who had followed him out. Simon was right. There was definitely too much going on that I didn’t know about.
Grandfather had told him the story of how, deep in debt, the family farm mortgaged right down to the granular brown dirt that stubbornly refused to produced anything, he had met the county sheriff in the front yard cradling a shotgun in his arms. His father had disappeared onto the highways of a depressed America, hopping trains when possible, searching for something that was so impossible to find he had disappeared into it.
So it had been left to grandfather to ward off any representatives of law or bank that would try to drive him and his three sisters from the one place they could call their own, even if in loving it, it had not loved them back. Seeing the young man carrying the smoothbore gun that was longer than he was tall, the sheriff had drove on, signaling his temporary acquiescence with a comradely two-fingered salute from the tip of his Stetson.
I can feel the spring in the magazine push the bullet into the chamber as I pull back the pistol’s slide. The supremely engineered hardware makes it feel like one seamless motion. The matte of the gun is its own hole in reality, somehow darker than the dark of the room.
Next to me Bryan rolls the cylinder of his revolver, bringing it to a stop with the action of the hammer. The revolved isn’t loaded – Bryan knows better than that. He also doesn’t know that my pistol is loaded. Bryan talks about special ops commandos and military operations, precision and tactics and hopes of joining the army. I think about terrorists or an active shooter killing their way through our school, fantasies of heroism battling with some part of my brain that tries to think realistically.
Every generation has its own unique fear it carries. Before us it was nuclear annihilation, before that the march of fascism, before that it was yellow fever or polio or Indian attack or something. I lose the thread, but I know it was there, something hanging over the heads of the students in the little red schoolhouse, children waiting for the siren announcing a tornado or some impending disaster. It’s been this way for so long I can’t imagine anyone living any other way.
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“Get up.”
Sitting behind Simon I could still feel his disapproval at having such rudeness displayed in his place of business. I smiled a bit, maybe not even enough to make it to my face. Along with the fat one blocking the door, Balaclava’s words were designed to intimidate, which made their intent clear. Crossing the cafe floor with this finger still pointed at me, he added, “Get up.” The third voyou, a skinny Algerian with something almost like a mustache, flanked him.
I made to push myself up from the table, a good little sheep before the wolves. It was a sin against God and good cooking, but halfway between sitting and standing I threw the plate at Balaclava like a frisbee. It took him in the chin (I was aiming for the throat), the remainder of the eggs and potatoes spinning off as it traveled, causing just enough confusion to give me a moment.
I used that to leapfrog around Simon and put a boot into the Algerian’s groin. I hit him hard enough that his feet came out from under him and he hit the floor with his head. A solid jab to Balaclava’s face kept him distracted for a few more moments, hands flying to his nose. I was mildly impressed that the fat one didn’t panic or run. Instead he made a collapsible truncheon appear from his jacket, whipping it out to its full length as he crossed the distance to me.
Only a fool fights an armed opponent bare-handed, but I couldn’t see a way past him. And if I got away I’d be leaving Simon alone with three angry, thwarted young men. So I grabbed a chair and used it like a ringmaster training an unruly circus bear.
With three quick swings Fatty turned the chair into kindling, leaving me holding nothing but a broken stick. But it got me close enough that I could grab his wrist with the baton and use my other hand to stab his forearm with the splintered end of the chair leg. He grunted and tried to push away, giving me an opening to pull him in close for a headbutt that crushed his nose.
I gave him a swift kick to keep him down. Shaking his head, Balaclava had just enough time to realize he was alone now. I could feel the blood on my forehead and knew by the expression in his eyes Balaclava could see it. Displaying an intelligence that I wouldn’t have given him credit for, he ran for the door.
I tripped him and picked up a chair by its back in one motion, swinging it around to pin him to the floor by his neck. I made to sit on it, causing Balaclava’s eyes to bulge before I had put any weight on it, but I only squatted over him holding it in place with my crossed forearms. “I’m up,” I said to him, trying to sound casual through the blood pumping in my ears. I leaned forward a bit on the chair, pressing the stretcher into his throat. “What can I do for you?”
A small amount of spittle erupted from his lips before I let the chair’s pressure off of his throat, causing the back stretcher to push into his belly. He glared at me even as his eyes bulged. He made to say something, but it came out as half-a-laugh as his eyes dodged behind me. I made to glance in that direction when a hollow clang grabbed my attention. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Simon standing over the Algerian holding a skillet that he had just used to brain the younger man, keeping him on the floor. I smiled my thanks. Simon panted, fear resolving into excitement that bloomed into a grin that made him look like the wolf he might have been decades ago.
