He stared. “What, you just decide to—” he fumbled for the right English word “—insert yourself into a fight?”
“I was bored. I don’t have a job to go to tomorrow.”
He took a long hard sip of his beer and rubbed his jaw. He followed it by a sip of jenever. I saw his glance wander over to a family sitting a few tables over: father, mother, little girl about eight. He watched the girl laugh and take a bite of her mother’s dessert. Then, reluctantly almost, it seemed, he pulled his gaze back to me, as if he’d decided on his questions. “Where were you a soldier?”
“Canadian Special Forces.”
“You left them?”
“They asked me to.”
“For fighting in bars?”
“No. I stole some stuff and sold it on eBay. Dishonorable discharge but no jail time once I paid them back. My commander wanted to avoid the embarrassment of me implicating him.” I shrugged. “I did it. I can’t blame them for giving me the boot.”
“Well, a fighter and a thief. Aren’t I lucky?” He gave me an odd, crooked smile.
“I prefer to think of myself as an entrepreneur.”
“You said you don’t have a job. Maybe you want a job?”
“What, fighting your fights for you?”
He took the slap of the insult well. “I haven’t thanked you. Fine. Thank you, Sam. I could have handled them, but thank you.”
“You didn’t pull the gun.” I’d missed wherever he was carrying. It must have been strapped on his lower leg. Nowhere had I seen a broken drape in his shirt or his jacket.
“No, you seemed to eliminate the need to do so.”
I didn’t say anything and I drank, slowly, the rest of my beer. He wasn’t very smart, to be a poor fighter and not produce the gun when threatened by an angry group. There was only one reason he might have hesitated: he did not want the attention. He wanted to stay below notice, and pulling a gun even in a rough bar would result in unwanted interest.
Silence is my most powerful weapon. Most people literally cannot sit in silence with another human being around, especially in a café over drinks. We consider it odd.
The quiet bothered Nic. “So. If you might be interested in bodyguard work, I might be able to get you a job.”
“I don’t have a Dutch work permit,” I said. “I lost the paperwork.”
“You wouldn’t need a permit. My clients are, um, very discreet.”
“Um, like pimps? I don’t beat up on hookers.”
“Oh, no. Much more high-class.” He lowered his voice. “But one of the perks is, you know, girls.”
I kept my face still. “I think I ought to get a beer for each guy I downed.” I hoisted the glass. “You owe me two more.”
A smile inched across his face, slowed, faded back to the solemn frown. “All right.” He was a busy man, he gave off an air of impatience, but he liked what he’d seen in the bar fight—he had to know I’d acquitted myself far better than he had—and he’d decided not to walk away from me. Not yet. He gestured at the waitress for another round, sans the jenever.
“Where in Canada are you from?” I knew all this would be checked tomorrow.
“Toronto.”
“I know it well.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Did you ever eat at the Rosedale Diner on Parker Street?”
“It’s on Yonge Street. Best hamburger in town.” I could smell a test.
“Your parents?”
“Dead.” I shrugged. “They left me a little money to see the world.”
“Which high school did you go to?”
“St. Michael’s College School. Then to McGill. Studied history, barely passed. But enough to get into Canadian Forces Officer Candidate School.” My legend as Peter Samson, Canadian scofflaw, had been built by the Company. Nic wasn’t going to be able to dent it. I was Peter Samson, from birth until now, and there were school records and credit histories and a Canadian military record to support me.
Unless the Company had wiped out that identity. In which case, no records on Peter Samson would exist.
“You know Amsterdam?” Nic asked me.
I took another long drag of beer and stifled a belch. “Pardon. Not well. I know Prague and Warsaw and Budapest better.”
“You’ve spent a lot of time in eastern Europe.”
“That’s where the more interesting work opportunities are.”
“Such as?”
“Such as stuff I really shouldn’t tell a stranger,” I said, with a kidder’s laugh, and he laughed, too.
“No, really,” he said after an awkward silence. “You put a man through a window for me, Sam. We’re friends now.”