She looked herself over, retrieving her clothes, fastening buttons, and running fingers through her hair. Wryly, she said, “You never even took your trousers off, did you?”
He answered her smile. “Never mind. As long as you’re all right.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. More than fine. You’re something else, Rick, you know that?”
“There’s a washroom across the hall.”
“What time is it?”
“Nightfall,” he said. “I’m about to head to Murray’s to see if Blake shows up. You should stay here.”
She closed up at the mention of Blake, slouching and hugging herself. He smoothed her hair back and left a gentle kiss on her forehead.
“I’ll be safe here?” she asked.
“Yes. I promise.”
“What happens if Blake does show up? What can you possibly do? Rick, if he hurts you because of me—”
“It’ll be fine, Helen.”
He washed up, found a clean shirt, ran a comb through his hair, and left the lair.
Blake did, in fact, show up at the bar that night. Rick kept his place behind the taps and watched him scan the room before choosing a seat near the bar.
“Bourbon,” he muttered. Rick poured and pushed the tumbler over.
Scowling, Blake drained the liquor in one go. After some time, when it was clear Helen wasn’t going to appear, he set his stare on Rick, who didn’t have any trouble pretending not to notice. Leaning on his elbow, Blake pushed back his jacket to show off his gun in its shoulder holster.
“So. Did she ever show up?” the man said.
“Who? The girl?”
“You know who I’m talking about.”
“Can I ask why you’re looking for her?”
“I just want to talk to her. We can work something out. You know where she’s hiding, don’t you?”
“Sir, I really can’t help you.”
Blake narrowed his gaze, looking him up and down—sizing him up, and Rick knew what he was thinking. He was thinking he was looking at a wimp, a coward, a young guy who’d sat out the war, who’d be easy to take down in a fight. Blake was thinking all he’d have to do was wave the gun around, break his nose, and he’d take him right to Helen because no broad was worth sticking up for like that.
Rick smiled, knowing it would make him crazy. Blake scowled and walked out.
Rick had the rest of the night mapped out. He knew what would happen next, how it would all play, a bit of urban theater, predictable yet somehow satisfying. Last call came and went; he offered to close up. After locking the doors, he set chairs upside down on tables, gave the floor a quick sweeping and the bar a wipe-down, turned off all the lights, and went out the back, where Blake was waiting for him.
Blake lunged from the shadows with a right hook, obviously intending to take Rick out in a second and keep him from gaining his bearings.
Rick sidestepped out of the way. Blake stumbled, and Rick pivoted, grabbing Blake’s shirt, yanking him further off balance, then swinging him headfirst into the wall. The man slid to the ground, limbs flailing for purchase, scrabbling at Rick, the wall, anything. The sequence took less than a second—Blake wouldn’t have had a chance to realize his right hook had missed. He must have thought the world turned upside down.
Wrenching Blake’s arm back, Rick dragged him a dozen feet along the pavement in the back alley. The shoulder joint popped; Blake hollered. With a flick of the same injured arm, Rick flipped Blake faceup—bloody scrapes covered his cheek and jaw. Jumping on him, Rick pinned him, holding him with strength rather than weight—Blake was the larger man. He brought his face close to smell the rich, sweet fluid leaking from him. Rick could drain the man dead.
A floodlight filled the alley, blinding even Rick, who shaded his eyes with a raised arm. Squinting, he needed a moment to make out the scene: a police car had pulled into the alley.
“You two! Break it up!” a man shouted from the driver’s-side window.
Climbing to his feet, Rick held up his hands. Next to him, Blake was still scrambling to recover, scratching at the cut on his face, shaking his head like a cave creature emerging into the open.