Sea Of Sorrows. Charley Brindley
reached the end of it, then turned back to walk on the opposite side of the street.
The magnetism of the beautiful Thai faces drew me like a kitten’s dream of a room full of toy mice. The girls who offered themselves—almost pleading for my attention, or rather my money—repelled me. But the ones who stood back, crossed their arms and dismissed me with a haughty, slow turn of their heads; they were the fire I craved. I loved the arrogant attitude, but none had the right features: Her full lips; impish nose; and the small, almost childlike shape of her face. And her eyes were dark, glowing embers, ready to flare up and burn anyone who came too close. Long black hair thrown back with a flick of her fingers, as if brushing me away. That was how I saw her when we first met.
None could ever match that sweet image, but I wandered on, in search of someone who might.
Maybe, someday, just maybe—
“Leave me alone!”
It was a woman’s voice, behind me. I turned.
The girl!
A young man gripped her biceps. He said something I couldn’t hear.
“No!”
His buddy took her other arm. “Come on. Just for an hour,” he said in Thai. “We’ll pay you.”
It was the same four tormentors from earlier.
She struggled against them.
The other two of their group stood before her, laughing and pointing at her panic-stricken expression.
Many men walked by, glanced at the confrontation, then went on.
“I don’t want to!” she yelled.
The two men pulled her toward a doorway. The other two looked around, then followed.
She cried out for help.
“She said she doesn’t want to,” I said.
The man gripping her right arm glared at me. “Beat it, old man,” he said in English, “before you get hurt.”
“Let her go.”
He shoved me backward, and his pal put out his foot, tripping me. I fell on my butt, hard. The four men laughed while the girl looked around for help.
I stood, grabbing the man’s wrist. “I said, let her go.”
He swung at me with his right fist, but I caught it and twisted his arm over his head and behind his back. When he let go of her arm and lifted his elbow to deliver a blow to my solar plexus, I tightened my stomach. He was apparently surprised to hit hard muscle, and he tried to squirm away, but I hooked my toe in front of his ankle and tripped him. He went down hard.
Two of the others came at me. I sidestepped and slugged the first one’s temple, stunning him. His pal pushed him out of the way and came at me, swinging wildly. I ducked under his arms, spun, and gave him a sharp kidney punch.
The first guy then came off the cement, with a knife in his hand. He grinned at me, flourishing the long blade.
All right, I can handle that knife.
I crouched low, my arms spread apart. “Come on, asshole, let’s dance.”
A crowd had formed around us, and now they backed away, giving us room. The girl stood at the edge of the crowd. She glanced over her shoulder.
I hope she leaves. This may not be pretty.
The knife-guy circled, looking for an opening. I turned, keeping my eyes on his. He made a move to his left, and I went the other way. He lunged for me. I spun on my left foot, bringing my right foot up in a kick to his ribs. The blow staggered him, but for only a step or two.
The second guy pulled something from his waistband, in the back. “That’s enough of this bullshit,” he said.
The chrome-plated automatic caught the light.
“A gun!” someone said.
“Get back!” another shouted.
The circle of spectators drew away, still mesmerized by the drama taking a deadly turn.
Okay, a knife and a gun. I’ve got to take out the gun first.
I made a move on the knife-guy. When he stepped sideways, waving the knife at me, I went the opposite way, surprising the man with the gun. He tried to bring the weapon around to get a shot at me, but I already had a grip on his hand. I bent his wrist backward, and the gun went off, firing toward the sky. I then used both hands, pushing hard and twisting the gun sideways.
His finger caught in the trigger guard.
I heard the bones crack, and he cried out as I wrenched the gun from him. He shrank back, holding his broken finger.
I pointed the gun at the knife-guy. He stood, open-mouthed, glancing around for a way out.
I ejected the magazine, then worked the slide, flipping a cartridge from the firing chamber.
The knife-guy stared at the empty gun. I tossed it away and went for him, then he came at me, the knife pointed at my throat.
Before I could make a move for his hand, his other two pals grabbed me from behind, one on each arm. I used them for support and kicked hard, hitting the knife-guy in the side of his chin, breaking his jaw. He cried out, dropping the knife.
I fell forward, taking the two men down with me. They threw their hands out to break their fall.
On my knees, I grabbed one by the hair, smashing his face into the cement. The other one rolled away, but I jumped on him, landing my knee in his stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs. As he struggled to breathe, I slugged him twice in the face. He went out, unconscious.
I glanced at the other one on the cement. He sat, wiping blood from his broken nose. He was finished.
The knife-guy was done for, with a broken jaw. I looked around for the gun-guy and saw him standing on the edge of the crowd, crying over his broken finger.
The gunshot had caused someone to call the cops. At the first sound of the wailing siren, the onlookers melted away into the crowded street. The four thugs, probably not wanting to explain how they got injured, helped each other clear out. Meanwhile, someone from the crowd ran in to snatch the knife and gun.
I grabbed the girl’s hand, leading her away. A block down the street, I turned her back toward the approaching police cars.
“Just walk slow and casual,” I whispered.
She nodded, but I felt her hand trembling in mine.
The people in the street were slow to clear a path for the policemen. When the cops reached the place where the fight had taken place, they found only a small smear of blood from the guy’s broken nose. Even the gun’s magazine and the cartridge I’d ejected were gone, as was the empty shell casing from the bullet that was fired.
The four policemen asked questions, but the bystanders just shook their heads and said they hadn’t heard or seen anything.
We walked past the policemen, pretending to be curious onlookers. At a sidewalk café, I pulled out a chair for her. She slumped into it, shaking from the ordeal.
I touched her arm, below the purple bruise. “Is it okay?”
She nodded. “Thank you. That mans would have kill you.” She rubbed her arm.
I smiled. “They don’t know street fighting.”
A waitress came to our table.
“Cha yen?” I asked the girl.
She nodded.
I ordered two of the sweet iced teas with milk. The waitress hurried away.
“Are you hungry?”
“No. How are you called?”
“Saxon. And