In Turkish I said, “Back off and I’ll let him go. Your friends started it. Not me. You saw him hit me first.”
The Turks stayed put. Hands still in fists. Then one sat, and the rest of them followed.
“Gggaaggghh,” the man in my grip said.
I said, “Shhhhhh.” Then I yelled at the girl on the stage, “Start singing, please.”
She stared and then her gaze caught the karaoke prompter. She mumbled and then broke into that last bridge of the Depeche Mode tune with a nervous, bright smile on her face.
“Outside,” I said to Nic and, looking a bit stunned, he got to his feet and obeyed.
I shoved the guy I was holding to the floor. I followed Nic into the cool of the Amsterdam night, the girl crooning about vows spoken to be broken.
Nic waited for me. “Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” I said, and I stopped by him to catch my breath.
And then he put the gun in my ribs.
32
TAKE THE GUN DOWN,” I said. “You’ll get arrested in about five seconds.”
He kept the gun under his jacket, me close to him. I didn’t pull away because I didn’t know if he’d shoot me.
“Walk,” he said. “Just walk normally.” He kept glancing back to see if the Turks were surging out in pursuit—and yes, here they came.
“You might point that at them,” I said.
He lowered the gun and I grabbed the first Turk by the throat. There was a window with a hooker standing in it and I gestured, with a slash of my hand, for her to move out of the way. She got the message and bolted behind the red velvet curtain that was her backdrop. I pushed him through the glass and ran like hell. Because once the hookers are in danger, here come the police, and they closed in fast, talking into shoulder-mounted mikes, hurrying past me and Nic.
“You put that gun back in my ribs, I’ll break you,” I said. “Let’s go talk. Someplace quiet.”
Near Dam Square we found a quiet bar/café. No karaoke, no drunken Turks, no fights brewing.
I had blood on the front of my shirt, and the bartender’s gaze widened slightly as we came inside. She was an older, brittle-smiling woman, and she started to shake her head no. Nic went to her, spoke softly in rapid Dutch that I couldn’t catch, and she nodded after a moment. We sat across from each other at a corner table, out of sight of the street in case the Turks kept roving, my back to the wall so I could see the entire room. But we were blocks away now, and I hoped they’d decided to drink away their anger and embarrassment if they’d dodged the police.
He ordered us two beers from the waitress. She looked at me and I had blood in the corner of my mouth. She brought me a wet napkin and no questions. I cleaned my face. She set beers down in front of us, with a tall shot glass of clear liquid. “Kopstoot,” Nic said, pointing at the chaser. “It means a blow to the head. You’ll like it.”
“At least it’s not a hole in the head,” I said. I wasn’t done with the fighting—I wanted to hit some more. I am not proud of that. But it is what it is. I used to prefer quiet nights at home, reading, watching good movies with Lucy, going to bed early and making love. Now I just wanted to hit fist against flesh, boot against jaw. The brutal dance of the fight shook awake a darkness slumbering inside of me. I tamped it down with a long draw on the tall shot—it tasted a lot like gin—before I even bothered with the beer. A drunken bar brawl; wow, I was really sliding into smooth gear here. I had to clear my head.
“That’s backwards,” Nic said. “You drink the beer first, then the jenever. Do you do everything backwards?”
“Huh?”
“Usually you get to know a man before you risk your life for him in a bar fight.”
“Those guys were assholes. I don’t like assholes. And you’re an asshole for sticking a gun in my ribs when I helped you.”
Nic took a sip of his beer.
“Forgive me. I am a cautious man,” he said. “Who are you?”