The Getaway

TWO

The pub was called McCann’s. It was an Irish joint on Ditmars Boulevard, a long stretch of road which ran through the north-west Greek neighbourhood of Astoria, Queens, the last stop on the N train from Manhattan and Brooklyn. For a Monday night, the place was filling up fast. The two guys behind the bar were hard at work, serving customers, pouring draughts and shots and working the till, whilst a handful of waitresses moved out into the seating area ahead of the bar, taking orders from customers and earning their tips.

The crowd inside was a real blend. Half of them were office workers, most of them still in shirt and tie, having come straight from the office to the bar, the other half sports fans who were avidly watching television screens mounted in various positions around the room. There was some kind of big baseball game going on, the Yankees versus the Red Sox, and fans in navy blue Yankees gear were transfixed by the action on the screens. In most cities and towns around the world, different sports teams carried the hopes and dreams of the neighbourhoods they represented, and Astoria was no different. Around these parts, the Yankees were like a religion. They were the most famous and successful baseball team in the world, and their fans liked to let everyone know it.

Amongst the busy throng of people, a man sat alone towards the back of the pub, his forearms resting on the table in front of him, not interested in the baseball but watching the screen anyway. Dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, he was in his mid-twenties, handsome, blond hair and blue eyes, healthy and in the prime of his physical life. He picked up a bottle of Budweiser from the table beside his forearm and took a long pull. The bottle was frosty and cool, and he felt the beer slide down the back of his throat, the liquid ice cold.

The air conditioning in the pub was working flat out despite the slight drop in heat in the air, but it was still hot and humid. He took another pull from the beer, enjoying it, glancing at the bottle in his hand. A droplet of water slid down the bottle and over the logo above his thumb.

The King of Beers, the label told him. With a taste that good, he didn’t doubt it.

Shifting his gaze from the television, he glanced at the interior of the bar around him. It was a welcoming place. Sports memorabilia and signed jerseys were mounted on the walls around Irish flags and three-leaf clovers, typical decorations, designed to bring out patriotism and pride of heritage and make customers nostalgic enough to want to go buy a beer and talk about it. It was a typical local bar, familiar and constant, like an old friend who would always be there for you no matter what kind of day you’d had. He figured pretty much everyone in here was a local, judging by the way different groups greeted and interacted with each other. He was the only outsider.

There was a sudden crack on the TV, and people around the bar started yelling and shouting excitedly at the screen. The blond man glanced up at the action and saw a player running base-to-base. He was a big guy but he hustled forward as fast as he could and the bar was filled with the sound of cheering from the stadium over the sound-system as the commentators called the play over the action. The Red Sox team in the field worked quickly though, as an outfielder scooped up the ball with his glove then threw it hard with impressive speed to a team-mate standing on one of the bases. The batter only made it to second. If he was thirty pounds lighter, he probably could have made third.

Watching the action, the blond man drinking the Budweiser was baffled. Baseball seemed like the most confusing game on the planet. The scoring system, the way the pitcher worked, the batting rules. The only thing he’d ever learned about baseball was three strikes and you’re out, but then again everyone and their grandmother knew that one. It went both ways though. He’d tried explaining cricket to an American once but it had been as if he was speaking a foreign language, judging from the blank stare on the guy’s face as he laid out the rules. Both sports had a bat and a ball, but he guessed understanding how the hell to play each one depended on which side of the Atlantic you were brought up.

Taking another pull from the cold beer, the man glanced around the bar again, but at the people this time, not the furnishings. He was surprised at how busy the place was for a Monday, but then again, he’d been to the city enough times to know the rules were different in the New York summer. The days were longer and the nights seemed even more so, and people made the most of every single one, no matter what day of the week it was.

To his left by the bar, a group of four were sitting on stools, each hitting a shot and wincing from the taste as they proceeded to suck on a lemon slice. Two men, two women, all still in work-clothes but all having a good time. He watched them laughing and enjoying each other’s company, much the same as everyone else around them. He figured the bar would be something for them to look forward to, a treat for getting through the first working day of the week, the carrot at the end of the stick. He watched them enjoying themselves. If he worked in an office, he’d probably be doing the exact same thing.

But there was one group who weren’t interacting with anyone else. They were sitting ahead of the blond man at a table near the door, up against the window with the bar’s name and an Irish flag painted on the glass. They were talking in low voices, keeping to themselves, private and quiet, casting occasional glances at the baseball on the screens.

There were three men and a woman, all four of them dressed in a mixed combination of jeans and tracksuit tops, sportswear and casual. Two of the men had short, buzz-cut hair and thick tattooed forearms. They both looked tough, guys who worked in construction or who did something physical for a job. The third man had slightly longer hair and was skinnier, but he shared the same grim expression and disinterest in the rest of the bar around him. They had a half-filled pitcher of beer going in the middle of the table, alongside a series of empty shot glasses. Plenty of drinks but seemingly not much pleasure.

Shifting his gaze to the right of the table, the man glanced at the fourth member of the group. The woman. Her three companions looked pretty tough, but she was the most menacing of the bunch by far. She was Hispanic, Dominican or Mexican maybe, and was wearing a tight grey t-shirt that revealed brown sinewy arms. She reached forward for a cell phone resting on the table and he saw the muscles and tendons in her forearm work, contracting and flexing as she moved her fingers and picked up the phone. There wasn’t a single ounce of body fat on her entire frame. Her dark hair was braided into tight corn-rows lining her head, her face unusually hard for a woman, unemotional, a solid jaw-line, not feminine or delicate. He also noticed that whilst the three guys were drinking the beer and shots, she was nursing a small bottle of water. Some kind of athlete, he thought, as he watched her. Whatever her sport, he figured it would involve some kind of confrontation. She looked the epitome of a woman that you did not want to mess with.

He took another pull from his beer, and observed the foursome over the bottle, curious. Suddenly, the woman rose from her seat and started walking down the bar, headed straight towards him. He’d shifted his attention, looking up at the television again, but for a split-second he thought she was coming over to confront him. He couldn’t resist flicking his eyes to her face, and they made eye contact as she approached. Her gaze burned into his, no emotion, brown eyes that were cold and hard, accustomed to staring people down. He looked straight back as she passed him, and he heard a door behind him swing open as she entered the restroom.

A waitress from the bar approached him from the left. The polar opposite of the Hispanic woman. She was young, early twenties, and smiled a customary smile, her face and demeanour innocent, her features soft. ‘One more, hun?’ she asked, seeing his beer was almost gone.

The blond man nodded. ‘Thanks.’

She stood for a moment as if she was about to speak again, then changed her mind and left. He watched her go, and drained his first beer. Considering the heat, the final pull tasted just as good as the first. Across the pub, it seemed on the television that the baseball game was reaching a climax. Fans around the bar were sitting forward in their seats as a Yankee batter stepped up to the plate, the noise quietening as people watched. The guy swung and connected first time, but he didn’t catch the ball cleanly and only made it to first.

Suddenly, he felt someone grab his right arm. He also felt something pressed into his back. It was metal and cool, the shape unmistakeable.

The barrel of a pistol.

‘Outside,’ a voice said. Female. He didn’t need to turn to see who it was.

But he didn’t move.

‘Outside, pendejo,’ she said again.

‘I’ve got another beer coming. Give me ten minutes,’ he told her.

She didn’t respond, grunting with indignation instead, and pulled him from the stool with surprising strength. She pushed him forward, keeping herself tight behind him, concealing the gun she’d jammed into his back. Around them, no one was paying any attention. They were too wrapped up in the game or in their own private conversations. As she pushed him through the bar, he glanced at his arm and saw her fingers curled tight around his right bicep, gripping him firmly. Up ahead, the three guys she had been sitting with watched the pair walk by as they headed for the exit, and he saw them rise as they passed, preparing to follow them outside.

Shit.

There was a big white guy by the entrance, the doorman, but he didn’t react when he saw the pair, watching them pass. The blond man saw the bouncer nod to the woman as they moved through the doors, a silent code. Whatever trouble she had, he’d turn a blind eye as long as she took it outside. In other places, a guy in such a position might have intervened or separated them. But in a place like this, there was an unspoken trust that the blond man understood.

The foursome and the doorman were locals.

He wasn’t.

And that meant they called the shots.



Outside on the street the woman turned left and pushed him towards the glass window of the bar, tucking the pistol into the rear waistband of her sweatpants. He turned around after she shoved him, just as her three companions appeared beside them from the exit. He had his back to the glass window, and was trapped, the four of them positioning in a semi-circle to close off any potential escape. One of the two shaved-headed guys, the biggest one of the group, spoke. He was standing directly in front of the blond man, the woman to his right, the two other guys either side of them.

The leader.

‘So who the hell are you?’ the big guy said, a deep New York accent.

‘What?’ the blond man said.

The guy stepped forward.

‘I said who the hell are you? I’ve seen you staring. You seem awful interested in our table, a*shole.’

The woman passed him the blond man’s wallet. She’d lifted it from his pocket as she pushed him outside. He flipped it open and pulled out an I.D.

‘Sam Archer,’ he said, reading the card. ‘You a cop?’

‘No.’

‘You look like a cop.’

‘Check the I.D again. And listen to my voice. I’m English. Guys like me don’t work for the NYPD. We can’t.’

The guy’s eyes narrowed, and he checked the I.D in his hands again.

‘England, huh? So what the hell are you doing here? How come we’ve never seen you before?’

‘I’m visiting.’

‘Who?’

‘No one in particular. The city.’

‘You alone?’

‘Yeah. Didn’t realise that was a crime. Is this how you treat every guy who walks in here to grab a beer?’

The guy looked at him. He was about to speak, but the other man with the shaved head behind him spoke, an edge of concern in his voice.

‘Sean.’

The big guy turned, as his friend beckoned to their right with his head. Archer looked in the same direction.

And saw six men walking straight towards them from up the street.

Every one of them was over six feet tall and thickly built, guys who were naturally strong and who had hit the weights to take that strength even further. They’d appeared out of nowhere. They took up the whole sidewalk as they approached in a line, and came to a halt five yards from the foursome from the bar. The leader of the second group was staring straight at the guy called Sean opposite him, his eyes narrowed, his face tense. They’d walked down the street with purpose, not casually, almost like they’d been waiting for the foursome to leave the bar. One thing was for sure, these weren’t just pedestrians or a gang of American football players out on the town.

These guys oozed aggression and impending violence.

The way the two groups lined up, it was six-on-four. Archer glanced to his right and saw the woman still had the pistol jammed in the back of her waistband. That could be a game-changer if she decided to pull it. If she did, the difference in numbers would mean shit.

But to his surprise, she made no effort to reach for it, her hands staying by her side. She was just staring at the guy across from her, not a glimmer of intimidation in her body language, front-on, staring him down. She looked almost like she was relishing it, swaying side-to-side slowly, savouring the confrontation.

‘Keep walking,’ Sean told the other group. ‘Save yourself some trouble.’

The leader on their side didn’t move. He just smiled.

‘And why should I do that, Farrell?’ the man said, thick Irish accent. ‘This is our pub. My family owns this bar. And to be honest, we’ve had enough of you and your wetback bitch hanging out here. You’re bringing us a shitload of trouble we don’t want.’

As he spoke, Archer suddenly realised he was standing in line with Farrell and the three who had pulled him from the bar.

Which meant one of the six guys opposite was staring straight down at him.

Archer cursed inwardly.

Shit. He thinks I’m part of their group, he thought.

And his recent luck dictated that he was facing the biggest one of them all.

The guy was six three and over two-twenty easily, probably a line-backer in his high-school days or a wrestler, a guy used to getting his hands on someone and slamming them around. He looked down at the smaller man, an arrogant and self-satisfied sneer on his face, looking every inch a bully. He had probably never lost a fight in his life, being the size that he was. And from the look on his face, he figured he was going to stomp this little guy across from him like he was squashing a bug. It was written all over him, that smirk of victory on his lips. He thought he’d already won.

He was wrong.

The leader of the other gang, the Irish guy, threw the first punch.

It was a wild right hook, the shot that had started pretty much every street fight in history. That or the head-butt. The guy pushed his considerable bodyweight and muscle-mass behind it and swung with all his strength, trying to take Farrell’s head off. No technique, just pure and brutal power, a haymaker, swinging for the fences. If it connected, it would have done some considerable damage.

But Farrell saw it coming. It was so telegraphed, he probably could have spotted it from New Jersey. He swayed to the side and threw a cover hand up, blocking the punch. He propelled his bodyweight forward in the next instant, firing back his own overhand right that hammered into the other man’s jaw. The punch mashed the Irish guy’s lips into his teeth, and he staggered back from the blow as Farrell followed it up with a left hook that also connected, sending him back. That lit the dynamite, and beside them everyone else started brawling.

The guy across from Archer suddenly snapped his big hand forward and grabbed the smaller man’s collar with his right hand, gripping it tight. Archer knew what the guy was planning. He would hold him with one hand and beat his face relentlessly with the other, like a club, using his strength to his advantage. Pound on him until he decided to let go, until Archer’s face was a pulpy, bloody mess or when he was unconscious. Probably both. The bigger man knew the strength he possessed and he would use it to smash the smaller man. No need for technique. Sheer power would be enough.

But the guy had made a mistake.

He’d extended his arm.

Check.

Archer reacted fast. He slammed the guy’s arm up hard with his left palm, hard enough to get out of his grip. In the same moment, he threw his body forward, wrapping his right arm around the guy’s neck, tight under his chin. The big guy had the power, but Archer had the speed. He ducked his head under the guy’s shoulder in the same motion and locked the fingers of his right hand on his left bicep. He put his left arm to the guy’s forehead and started to squeeze, his grip as tight as a vice, strangling the guy’s neck like there was a snake wrapped around it going for the kill. A front-on choke, an arm-triangle, applied in less than a second.

Checkmate.

He’d taken the big guy by surprise and he started trying to fight his way out of it. He was as strong as an ox, but it wasn’t happening. He wasn’t getting out. Now his strength advantage meant shit. Archer was strong for his size, and he cinched it tighter, squeezing his arms, his grip locked up and secure. He heard the guy gargling as the choke-hold took away his oxygen, thrashing and scrabbling as he tried to escape. He was going out. Archer tightened the choke.

As he squeezed his arms as hard as he could and kept his head to the guy’s massive shoulder, Archer saw Farrell and the two other guys had knocked their opponents down, continuing to beat on them on the sidewalk. Across the street, he heard people shouting, calling from them to break it up, some of them probably calling the cops.

But he ignored them all and looked over at the woman.

He couldn’t believe it.

Two of the guys had gone for her. Two-on-one, and the one was a woman.

But she hadn’t opted to use the gun in her waistband.

Instead, Archer saw that one of them was out cold, face down in the gutter, motionless. He wasn’t even twitching. He watched her block a punch from the other guy and moved in close, clasping her hands behind his neck in a clinch. She pulled his head down and then started firing hard and vicious knees into his chin, one after the other, the guy’s face taking each one like a sledge-hammer, smashing his nose and cheekbones as he tried to fight his way out of it. She was relentless, a perfect balance of ferocity and technique. He took about nine or ten of her knees then collapsed out of her grip to the pavement, his face a bloody mess, his eyes rolled back in his head.

At that same moment, Archer felt the big guy in his choke give a final thrash and gargle, then he sagged and a shitload of slack bodyweight suddenly weighed down his arms. He wasn’t faking it. The big guy was out. Archer eased him to the concrete, which was no easy task. Dropping him meant the guy could hit his head on the stone and Archer didn’t fancy a murder charge.

And before the others could react, he grabbed his wallet and I.D from where Farrell had dropped them on the sidewalk and took off across the street, sprinting hard. There was a saying with any street fight that the loser went to hospital whilst the winner went to jail, and he didn’t fancy being around for when the cops showed up.

As he crossed the street and headed down a side road, he heard a shout from behind him.

‘Hey!’

He turned, ready to fight, expecting the foursome to have chased him.

But they were walking fast up Ditmars, headed the other way and putting distance between themselves and the bar.

None of them were pursuing them.

At the end of the street, Farrell had stopped. Archer watched him pause, thinking.

Then the big man raised a hand in an acknowledgement.

‘Thanks,’ he called.

Archer looked at him for a moment, and nodded back.

Then he turned on his heel and walked off swiftly down the street, disappearing into the night.