“Get themselves killed? Is that like getting yourself pregnant all alone with a turkey baster in the basement? They stand in front of someone like you who’s holding a gun and say, ‘Shoot me’?”
Anton thought that was funny. “These girls are behaving like that. ‘Shoot me. Blow me up,’ maybe they should all wear signs, put that message on them. Now, you will tell me where you are hiding the papers.”
The figure had disappeared from the L stairs. Through the Mercedes’ whisper-proof windows, I could just hear another train roaring in, and then a loud report, right below us. A second shot sounded. The driver floored the accelerator, but halfway down the block, the sedan spun to the right and slammed into an L girder. An oncoming car honked furiously and swerved out of the way.
Konstantin, or maybe Ludwig, opened his door. I put everything I had into my right shoulder, shoved against him hard enough to knock him out of the car. I rolled over on the seat and followed him.
Three people were pounding toward us up the middle of Lake Street. I got to my feet and swung my arms wildly. Behind me, I could hear the front door of the Mercedes open.
“Vic! Vic! Is that you?”
My cousin’s voice, high-pitched, terrified, more welcome than an angel just then.
I shouted to her to get out of the road, to get out of the way. “Anton has a gun. They all have guns. Get down!”
I was ducking behind a parked car as I shouted. A door opened in a building behind me. A couple of men in waiter’s aprons came outside to smoke. I yelled at my cousin that I was going into the building. A moment later, Petra arrived, with Tim Radke and another man, one I didn’t recognize. All three were out of breath.
Inside, a jazz combo was playing an old Coltrane piece, or sawing at it. In the dim reddish light of the room, I saw that only half the tables were occupied and that no one was paying much attention to the music. A young man came up to us and asked if we wanted a table.
“There’s a ten-dollar cover whether you sit down or not,” he said when we shook our heads.
I stuck a hand into my pocket, fishing for my wallet. My gun was there. The thugs hadn’t patted me down, that was how ineffectual I’d looked to them. I found the wallet and took out two twenties, then cracked open the door.
The Mercedes was listing toward its right side, both tires completely flat. As I watched, Anton’s driver flagged down a passing cab. He held the door open for Anton and climbed in next to him. Konstantin and Ludwig started to get into the front seat, but apparently Kystarnik didn’t want them along—they shut the door and darted looks at the club we’d entered.
“Uh, you guys want to sit, or what?” the manager asked us.
I flashed a smile, or at least tried to. “We’re looking for Club Gouge. We wanted to see this Body Artist everybody talks about.”
“Oh. They burned down last night. But we have a good act coming on in half an hour, a stand-up comic. Take a seat, you’ll see.” His heart wasn’t in the spiel.
I watched Konstantin and Ludwig kneel behind parked cars as I opened the door all the way.
“Konstantin! Ludwig! We’re in here. Come on, the act’s going to start in half an hour!” When they didn’t stand up, I shouted, “Come on guys, no games tonight—it’s too darned cold!”
The two smokers outside the door looked from me to the two thugs. The manager hovered nervously behind me. “If you’re drunk, maybe you should come back another night. You’re kind of making too much noise.”
“You’re so right,” I said. “Petra, just hold the door here while Tim and your friend and I go tell those two bozos to head for home. If anything happens, well, dial 911.”
The three of us ran across the street. Anton’s men got to their feet, guns drawn, but Tim hurled himself at one man’s knees, knocking him into the path of an oncoming car. The driver slammed on his brakes, stopping inches from the thug’s head.
I pressed my own gun against the base of the other man’s skull. “Drop your gun. Now!”
The driver of the car had rolled down his window and was yelling at Tim. My thug thought about turning around to slug me, but I had my left leg outside his and slammed him behind the ear with my left hand. It wasn’t hard enough to knock him out, but it dazed him, and he dropped his weapon. My anonymous teammate scooped up the gun and put our guy in a choke hold.
I hurried to the car and bent down to talk to the driver. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Our friend is drunk. We were trying to get him to come with us to the L, and he tried to fight us off. You okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. If I’d hit him, it would have been your fault.”
“You’re absolutely right. We’ll get him out of here right now.”
The thug in the street was groaning but getting to his feet. “They attacked me,” he said blearily to the driver.