Author's Note: Namaste everyone! I hope the weather is lovely whatever hemisphere you happen to live in. I apologize for the terrible wait between updates! My computer decided to hate me for months. I also have a grudge against word-processor SUBSCRIPTIONS! They are pure evil and whoever came up with that idea for cheating people out of their hard-earned money should really be ashamed! Don't worry though, updates and new stories should be more regular now. Thank you for your patience!
Also it is VITAL that I acknowledge the lovely Mrs. Ambrosia Rush who wrote ALL of the punches, and physical stuff in this chapter! I didn't know how to do it, so she helped me. I wrote all the snarky commentary, but the action is HERS! So if you send her a nice PM that would be great!
As I wipe down the bar and empty ashtrays, my ears are filled with dirty jokes and the grunts of angry young men. I admit age has made me soft. Five years ago, I would have told Marty to toss these punks out after their first drinks. With the recession, people spend more money on booze and other things that are bad for them. The owner makes a very good profit, and he asked me to use more 'diplomatic' methods to deal with the troublesome customers. I owe Chad, so I comply as best I can. My patience runs out when the leader (whom I've taken to calling 'The Ugly Hulk' in my head) decides to stop using his filthy mouth to abuse the girl and to start using his hands. He twists the poor girl's wrist as if he's wringing out a wet rag. She screams in pain, and I can see the bones breaking in my mind. She needs a doctor to set the bones, maybe even surgery.
"Last call, boys," I say through clenched teeth. My control has gotten better over the years, but instinct is a powerful enemy. I'm not about to push my limits; my goal is to get the girl away from these animals and to the hospital.
"We'll leave when we're ready, old man!" the Ugly Hulk snarls.
I roll my eyes. Not only is Mr. T.U.H a dirt bag, but he's stupid as well. How the two usually go together never ceases to amaze me. All I would have to do is ram the heel of my palm hard under this guy's nose. The force cracks the bone piercing the skull and the fragments do the rest. It's a quick, if not exactly a painless, death. Still, I'll give diplomacy one last chance; Chad is also my landlord. "You've crushed the lady's wrist. She needs a doctor," I growl.
Mr. T.U.H leans over the bar right in my face. "I'll break her neck and a lot more if you don't shut up, pour the drinks, and mind your own business."
I turn my back to him when I feel my hand twitch. Enough is enough. It's time to give Marty the signal. The kid started whistling "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Da" after Brandel went to prison. It drove me crazy, but somehow it stuck and became our 'there's trouble' signal. Now, he'll save the day. As the last note leaves my lips, I can't help but think, 'I'm getting too old for this crap.'
Marty stands up and stretches as if he's been sitting too long. It's an act. The kid's always been good at psyching people out. The Mystery Man starts moving to the side exit; it's dark and he can double back behind the targets. I'm impressed. This guy uses his brains, melting seamlessly into the shadows. Marty walks up to the bar with his Wiley Coyote grin.
"Hank," he drags out my name with a long drawl. "You're closing early! Is there anything you need me to do before heading out?"
I glare at T.U.H. "Kid, the young lady needs a lift to the ER, and these guys don't want to leave. See what you can do about it."
"Sure," he smiles at the girl and then turns to T.U.H. "Listen, you're new to the neighborhood, so I'll explain the house rules. I'm Marty Deeks, LAPD. Hank has the right to close this bar whenever he sees fit. Now, I know that busting you for assault won't do any good. The girl won't press charges, and it's a considerable waste of time for us all. Here's what I suggest: you boys head home, I'll drop her off at the hospital, get everything taken care of, and we'll call it a day."
T.U.H. starts laughing and the sidekicks come to crowd around Marty. "You're a cop?" he snorts.
Marty shrugs. "We all have to eat somehow."
"Where's your badge?" sidekick number one asks.
"In my car," he replies.
"So," T.U.H. grunts, "we only have your word that you're a cop."
Marty sighs and points to the door. "It will only take a minute for me to get it."
"Don't bother!"
"I thought you'd say that," he laughs. "I guess you'll just have to trust me."
T.U.H. lifts the bottle of tequila he's been working through and gulps down the rest. The sneer on his face amplifies its ugliness. "I don't think so!" he roars.
"Come on man," Marty puts his hands up, a little smile on his face. "I don't feel like dancing tonight."
T.U.H. raises his eyebrows. I'm not sure if it's the alcohol or his own lack of brains that have him confused, but eventually, he smirks, and his Tweedledee and Tweedledum pals laugh. I can see why. To them, I'm an old man, and Marty is a scrawny guy (compared to them) who says he's a cop. When angry people get drunk, they don't care much about thinking. I speak from experience here, but at least I stuck to my own business. Stupidity has never been one of my faults.
While 'The Three Stooges' amuse themselves, I watch my Marty size them up, paying special attention to the empty tequila bottle. He's quick and thorough. Most of it's his instinct, but I've taught him to assess the damage of potential weapons and to read a man's stance. Once I sobered up, I've tried to do right by the kid. Two seconds later, the bottle swings at his head, but Marty's already two steps back.
Marty laughs and runs his hands through his messy hair. I've told him over and over that he looks like a bum, but the stubborn boy only says, 'this is all part of my cover, Hank.' "Guys, really I'm flattered," he says. I hold my breath, knowing whatever comes out of his mouth next will be needlessly antagonistic. I wish I hadn't taught him sarcasm. He got into less trouble as a quiet boy. "If I wanted to dance, I would've taken my girl to Bardot. No offense, but she's hotter than all of you."
T.U.H. swings the bottle again, but Marty grabs the guy by the wrist and gives it a quick twist. The bottle thuds on the floor, cracking, but surprisingly, it doesn't break. T.U.H throws another quick right-handed punch, and Marty ducks. So far, this is just the opening, two peacocks strutting and showing off. I never cared for the pleasantries. I liked my fights over quickly, and I didn't much care how I did it. Marty always did have more common sense than me. He's waiting for Mystery Man, and seeing how this guy backs up Marty will make me sleep better.
They circle around each other, throwing and dodging a few half-hearted punches. Then, Marty clips T.U.H. on his bottom lip harder than he intended. T.U.H. snarls and wipes at the blood pooling on his lip. Tweedledee and Tweedledum aren't too keen about this development, and the pleasantries are over. Three against one are rarely good odds, and I cringe watching these dopes rush my boy. He avoids the one who tries to get him in a hold. He ends up moving right into the guy who delivers a quick shot to the kidneys. It's quick, but Tweedledee and Tweedledum have Marty's arms bent behind his back and T.U.H is attempting to imitate The Cheshire Cat, although I doubt he's even seen the Disney version of Alice in Wonderland, let alone read the book. Then, the fourth guy decides to take an interest. I christen him Shemp in my head, the illusive Fourth Stooge. He's got one of those salacious smiles on his face. This guy's a classic sadist that makes my blood run cold. I reach under the bar for my old service pistol. It isn't loaded, but sometimes a bluff can be very effective.
Mystery Man is better than I'd first expected. He blends into the shadows so well that even I'm not sure what direction he'll come out from. When T.U.H pulls back his fist, the Mystery Man grabs the guy by the arm and delivers a swift kick to the back of the knees. I couldn't have done it better myself, and my own knee twinges in response. T.U.H drops to one knee, and Shemp, who'd been standing around, looks to the Mystery Man, ready to jump in.
Tweedledee and Tweedledum are, of course, stunned by Mystery Man charging into the fray. Marty, the quick-witted kid that he is, doesn't waste a second. He knocks his weight into the guy on his left and manages to get his right arm free. He gets in three quick gut shots to the guy who'd been on his left, and then he's free and moving back three steps so his six is clear. What I find intriguing is now that Mystery Man has joined in, Marty adapts and moves to keep him in his lines of sight, something Elite Units depend on. He's been training with this guy and others. Normally, I try to stay out of his professional business, but my boy is not cut out for that life. This time the kid will tell me what he's up to, as soon as the fight's over. I remind myself that the gun isn't loaded and settle in for a long wait.
The Mystery Man holds his own. T.U.H and Shemp are on him, but he's got agility on his side. His hand-to-hand is quick, harsh, and efficient. He doesn't like to waste time, either. He manages to knock T.U.H back, grabs Shemp by the arm, shifts all his body weight back, and tosses him into the bar. Before he can make his move, the Mystery Man grabs the guy's longish hair and uses it to pull him up a little before slamming the guy's face into the bar. The man drops to the ground, out like a light. I have to admit, I like his style.
Three on two evens it out a bit, but now that it looks like T.U.H. and friends might lose; Blondie starts getting antsy. Her wrist is a mess, but I've learned that you can overcome just about any amount of pain if you're angry or scared enough. Marty throws a right hook that knocks another man back, which would have slammed him right into Blondie if I didn't grab her around the waist to pull her out of the way. She tosses a dirty look at me over her shoulder and tries to wiggle out of my hold. I wrap my arm around the front of her shoulders to keep her still.
She stubbornly refuses to give up, so I lean over the bar to whisper in her ear. "Now listen, missy, you can run around with as many dirt bags as you like tomorrow, but right now you'll stay still, let these boys help you out of this mess, and then bring you to the hospital."
"You can go to h—" I cut her off before she can complete the uncharitable thought.
"Now, now, that is neither grateful nor lady-like. Besides, I've spent many years there, and between you and me, it's no fun," I chide. I feel her tense up in surprise, and I realize that she expects me to hurt her. I keep my hold on her, but try to make my voice friendlier. It's been a while, so I can't tell if I'm successful. "Frankly, I think such talk is beneath you, but everyone has to choose their own path."
T.U.H has both height and weight on his side, but Mystery Man knows exactly how to handle it. Marty draws my attention when he lets out a pained groan. He's holding his hand is over his ribs, but he's still on his feet. I'm not the only one who got distracted. The Mystery Man pays for his momentary lapse with a punch to the face that knocks him back a few steps and into a table. He grabs the metal napkin holder and swings it left handed; it makes a loud 'ting' sound when it collides with T.U.H's head, but apparently there isn't much in there anyway, because it doesn't slow him down.
I turn my head to check on Marty, who ends up on the receiving end of a vicious right hook that knocks him back into a table, sending a couple of glasses and a empty pitcher to the floor. The glass shatters and explodes, littering the floor in a minefield of dangerous shards. I can't take my eyes off of my boy. God-willing, his ribs are only bruised. I can see a familiar expression on his face, and my heart starts pounding harder. Marty is slow to lose his temper. Years of living with a human powder-keg will train someone to master their control. I'm one of the few people who know what happens when he blows. Even at age eleven, he packed a punch. He's been wound up since he stepped through the door, and this, on top of whatever's eating at him, has set off the volcano of rage he pushes down. He's through with control. Now, these men are in real trouble.
The Mystery Man goes flying into the middle of the bar room floor, and his back is now open to the men Marty is fighting. Seeing this, Marty ducks under the next swing, and a few seconds later Marty and the Mystery Man are back to back. The Mystery Man doesn't even look behind; he's known Marty's every move the entire time. This time, when T.U.H throws a punch, the Mystery Man doesn't duck, knowing the punch would then hit Marty in the back. Instead, he crosses his arms in an 'x', and ducks his head to the side. He pushes both arms up, locking T.U.H's arm in the upper V by his wrists, and swings the pinned arm to the side.
Tweedledee lifts up a bar stool, and that's where I draw the line. Blondie has relaxed and given up the idea of joining this oh-so-pleasant scuffle, so I grab the stool and rip it from his hands. I plan for the boys to get out of this with as few injuries as possible. When the guy looks back at me, he stupidly leaves his back open to Marty who puts him in a choke hold, just like I taught him. "Good boy, Marty!" I yell. It's not often I compliment him in a fight, but this is (I hope) a fleeting moment of pride that I can only call paternal. God I need a drink!
Tweedledum goes after him, but ends up tackled to the ground by the Mystery Man. He ends up face-first in the broken glass and starts howling, but I can't say I feel bad. Before the Mystery Man can finish him, T.U.H grabs the back of his jacket, yanks him to his feet, and staggers back three steps till his regains his equilibrium. Tweedledum somehow gets to his feet and limps to a booth. With his palms and face full of glass, he's out of the fight.
Marty turns to find Mystery Man and T.U.H. The Mystery Man gets in a few quick punches to T.U.H's torso, giving the man quite the work over, but Mystery Man is tired, and T.U.H. does not want to go down. They keep slugging. The Mystery Man deflects, or avoids, the kill shots, but he takes a good hook, and gets knocked off balance. T.U.H puts him in a head lock, but because he's stupid, he leaves his own back open to Marty.
Marty grabs the cracked but unbroken tequila bottle from the floor and smashes it over T.U.H's head. The man crumples to the floor, finally out cold, and Marty wraps his arm around Mystery Man to steady him. "Well, that's the most fun I've had since Romania!" he says, pushing that mop of hair out of his face.
Blondie has planted herself on the only standing barstool left, and keeps her wrist in the pitcher of ice I'd set up. "I've seen three of them kill bigger and stronger men with their bare hands," she murmurs, her voice filled with weariness and pain.
"You and those idiots need to get to the hospital, missy," I say gently. Then I turn my attention to Marty and his pal. "Any broken bones, boys?"
Marty flinches and cradles his ribs. Mystery Man's face is a mess, and his knuckles will turn to golf balls soon, but he doesn't betray any pain. "My ribs are bruised," Marty groans. "I don't think the damage is too bad," he turns to face friend. "Tell me you look worse than you are!" he begs.
"What do I look like?" Mystery Man smirks.
I reach for one of the aluminum trays Tammy uses for large orders. I bring it to the guy, and hold it in front of his face. "In my not inexperienced opinion, your face is doing a fine imitation of chopped liver. Come on then, kids, I'll drive. Marty, call the cops, and get this trash out of here. I'll call Chad in the morning, but thanks for not completely wrecking the place."
"Not that there's much to trash," Marty scoffs.
"Shut it, boy," I rebuke. Chad, and then I, kept him and his mother fed for years due to the money from this place. The kid doesn't know it, but this place mostly paid for his books and housing during his time in law school. We didn't want him doing the boy-toy stripper thing as a full time law student. "Now, it's time you remembered the manners your mom taught you. Introduce me to your friend, and then we're all going to the ER."
"Callen," Mystery Man interjects, reaching for my hand.
I grasp it gently, knowing that he's broken a few fingers. Not only is this man dangerous, he's certifiably crazy as well. "A fellow Irishman I see," I say pleasantly. "I'm pleased to meet you."
"Roma, actually," he sighs. "My grandfather might have been Irish, I'm not sure."
"Hey, look, you guys can go on Ancestry-dot-com later!" Blondie snaps. "You promised to bring me to the hospital."
"TAMMY!" I yell. She comes out of the storage room looking like I woke her from a nap. I probably did just that.
"Oh, Marty!" she cries out, seeing the mess. "Did you have to make such a mess? Guess who has to clean it you jerk, ME!"
"Tammy, shut up, and give the young lady your scarf so I can wrap her wrist. After that get two bags of ice for these boys and then lock up and go home," I order, wincing at the 'officer's tone' I thought I'd put far behind me.
"Aye, Colonel," she groans. I feel a spark of rage ignite in my gut, fueled by memories that return hearing my former rank.
"Steady, Hank," Marty says, patting me on the shoulder. "She's just pissed at the mess." He turns to his buddy with that obnoxious grin that makes me crazy. "She's also pissed because this guy over here isn't one for a strings-free night of fun."
"There's always strings, kid, whether you feel them or not," I sigh.
Tammy returns with her scarf and I take it. She's staring at the bits and shards of glass on the floor. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
The sadness in her voice quiets my demons. I crook my finger under her chin lifting her eyes to mine. "You're a pest, you know that right?" I say, feeling my lips quirk into a grin.
"So you tell me every single day," she replies with a sniffle.