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never to show your face here again. You made me look bad."
"It wasn't difficult," observed Alex from behind the bar. He was watching interestedly and making
absolutely no move to intervene.
The yuppie pretended he hadn't heard that. Mad as he was, he wasn't stupid enough to upset Alex. He
turned the full force of his glare on me, his slightly bulging eyes all but protruding from their sockets, while
his two friends did their best to lurk dangerously in the background, being supportive.
"I said I'd do for you, Taylor, if I ever saw you again. Interfering little turd, meddling in the affairs of your
betters!"
"Ah," I said, the light finally dawning. "Sorry, but it has been five years. I remember you now. The limited
vocabulary and repetitive threats finally rang a bell. Ffinch-Thomas, isn't it? You were in here one night
slapping your girl about, because you were in a bad mood. And because you could. I wasn't going to
interfere. Really, I wasn't. If she was stupid enough to go about with a hyphenated thug like you, just
because you always had the money for the very best booze and blow and clubs, that was her affair. But
then you knocked her down, and kicked her in the side till her ribs broke. Giggling while you did it. So I
beat the crap out of you, stole all your credit cards, and finished up by throwing you through a window
that happened to be closed at the time. As I recall, you made these famous threats of yours while
hobbling away at speed, trying to pull bits of glass out of
your arse. Anyone else would have derived a useful moral lesson from these events. Alex, I'm surprised
you let this little swine back in here."
Alex shrugged, leaning his elbows on the bar. "What can I tell you? His father's something big in the city.
Both of them."
The music in the bar broke off suddenly, and the general babble of voices quickly died away as people
realised what was happening. There was interest from all sides now, and not a little money changing
hands. Everyone wanted to see if John Taylor still had it. I was kind of curious myself.
"You can't talk to me like that," said Ffinch-Thomas, his voice so strained it was practically breaking.
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"Of course I can. I just did. Weren't you paying attention?"
He drew a slender golden scythe from inside his jacket, a nasty little instrument expertly crafted to fit his
hand. The blade gleamed brightly, and I just knew the edges would be razor-sharp. The other two
yuppies drew similar weapons. Must be the latest thing. Druid chic.
"We're going to do it to you," said Ffinch-Thomas, grinning widely. His voice was light and breathy, and
his eyes were bright with excitement. "We're going to do it and do it and do it. Make you scream, Taylor.
Spread your blood and skin all over the bar, until you beg to be allowed to die. I never be-
lieved those stories about you. You just caught me by surprise last time. And after we've made you cry
and squeal, we'll stop for a while, so you can watch us do it to your woman. And we'll. . . we'll. .."
His voice trailed away to nothing as I locked on to his eyes with mine. I'd heard enough. More than
enough. Some insects just beg to be stepped on. He stood very still, trying to look away, but he couldn't.
I had him. Beads of sweat popped out all over his suddenly grey face, as he tried to turn and run and
found he couldn't. He whimpered, and wet himself, a large dark stain spreading across the front of his
very expensive trousers. His hand opened, against his will, and the golden scythe tumbled from his
nerveless fingers, clattering loudly on the floor in the hushed quiet. He was scared now, really scared. I
smiled at him, and blood ran down his cheeks from his staring eyes. He was whining, a thin, trapped,
animal sound, and then his eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed unconscious on the floor. His two
yuppie friends stood gaping down at him, and then they looked at me. They held up their golden scythes
with shaking hands, nerving themselves to attack, and Alex raised his voice.
"Lucy! Betty! Trouble!"
Lucy and Betty Coltrane were suddenly right there, behind the yuppies. The Coltranes have been Alex's
bouncers for years. Tall and formidable bodybuilders, the girls never wore anything more than T-
shirt and shorts, the better to show off their impressive muscles. One is blonde and one is brunette, but
otherwise there's not much to choose between them. They have a somewhat threatening glamour, and
crack nuts by coughing loudly. They fell on the two yuppies, slapped the scythes out of their hands,
slammed them back against the bar, kneed them briskly in the privates, and then frog-marched them out.
The watching crowd cheered and applauded. A few wolf-whistled. I looked reproachfully at Alex.
"I could have handled them."
He sniffed loudly. "I've seen what happens when you handle things, and it takes ages to mop up the
blood afterwards. Here; have one on the house, and for God's sake leave the rest of my customers
alone."
I accepted the offered brandy with good grace. It was the nearest Alex could come to an apology. The
Coltranes came back and carried off the still-twitching Ffinch-Thomas.
"He'll tell his daddy on you," observed Alex. "And Daddy will not be pleased. He might even be just a
bit peeved with you."
'Tell him to take a number," I said, because you have to say things like that in public. God knows I've [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]