Rick smiled, knowing it would make him crazy. Blake scowled and walked out.
Rick had the rest of the night mapped out. He knew what would happen next, how it would all play, a bit of urban theater, predictable yet somehow satisfying. Last call came and went; he offered to close up. After locking the doors, he set chairs upside down on tables, gave the floor a quick sweeping and the bar a wipe down, turned out all the lights, and went out the back, where Blake was waiting for him.
Blake lunged from the shadows with a right hook, obviously intending to take Rick out in a second and keep him from gaining his bearings.
Rick sidestepped out of the way. Blake stumbled, and Rick pivoted, grabbing Blake’s shirt, yanking him further off balance, then swinging him headfirst into the wall. The man slid to the ground, limbs flailing for purchase, scrabbling at Rick, the wall, anything. The sequence took less than a second—Blake wouldn’t have had a chance to realize his right hook had missed. He must have thought the world turned upside down.
Wrenching Blake’s arm back, Rick dragged him a dozen feet along the pavement in the back alley. The shoulder joint popped; Blake hollered. With a flick of the same injured arm, Rick flipped Blake faceup—bloody scrapes covered his cheek and jaw. Jumping on him, Rick pinned him, holding him with strength rather than weight—Blake was the larger man. He brought his face close to smell the rich, sweet fluid leaking from him. Rick could drain the man dead.
A floodlight filled the alley, blinding even Rick, who shaded his eyes with a raised arm. Squinting, he needed a moment to make out the scene: a police car had pulled into the alley.
“You two! Break it up!” a man shouted from the driver’s-side window.
Climbing to his feet, Rick held up his hands. Next to him, Blake was still scrambling to recover, scratching at the cut on his face, shaking his head like a cave creature emerging into the open.
The cop had a partner, who stormed out of the passenger side and came at them, nightstick in hand. He shoved Rick face first to the brick wall and patted him down. “What’s this? A couple of drunks duking it out?”
Rick didn’t speak and didn’t react. He could have fought free, stunned the officer, and disappeared into the shadows. But he waited, curious.
“What have you got there?” the driver asked.
“A couple of drunks. Should we bring ’em in?”
“Wait a minute—that guy on the ground. Is that Charles Blake?”
The cop grabbed Blake by the collar and dragged him into the light.
“That’s it, bring ’em both in.”
Rick rode in the back of the squad car next to Blake, trying to decide if he should be amused or concerned. Dawn was still a few hours away. He had time to watch this play out. Blake was hunched over, breathing wetly, glancing at Rick every now and then to glare at him.
Within the hour, Rick was sitting in a bare, dank interrogation room, talking to a plainclothes detective, a guy named Simpson. He lit a cigarette and offered one to Rick, who declined.
He said, “You were picked up fighting with Charles Blake behind Murray’s.”
“That’s right,” Rick answered.
“You want to tell me why?”
Rick leaned back and crossed his arms. “I expected to be thrown in the drunk tank when I got here, but you’re interested in Blake. Can I ask why?”
“What do you know about him?”
“He’s been bothering a girl I know.”
“Your girl?” Rick shrugged, and the detective flicked ashes on the floor. “That’s why you were beating on him? I don’t suppose I can blame you for that.”
“Is Blake dangerous?”
“Do you think he is?”
“Yes,” Rick said.
The detective studied him, but Rick didn’t give much away. If he needed to, he could catch the man’s eye and talk him into letting Rick go. It would certainly come to that if he was still here close to dawn.
Finally, the detective said, “You’re right. He’s the primary suspect in a murder case. You have anything else about him you want to share?”
This gave Rick an idea. “I might know someone who can help you.”
“If I let you go—I know how that works.”
“I’m the bartender at Murray’s—I won’t disappear on you.”
“And how good is this information of yours?”
“Worth the wait, I think.”
“You know what? You’re a little too cagey for a bartender. Is that all you do?”
Rick chuckled. “Right now it is.”
“I need evidence to lay on Blake if we’re going to keep him locked up—and keep him away from your girlfriend. Can you help me out?”
“Stop by Murray’s tomorrow night and I’ll have an answer.”
The detective let him go.
Rick knew he’d be followed—for a time, at least. He returned to Arturo’s by a roundabout route and managed to vanish, at least from his tail’s point of view.
Helen was waiting for him in the parlor, sitting with Arturo on a burgundy velvet settee. Rick calmed himself a moment and didn’t instantly leap forward to put himself between them. She was smiling, and Arturo wasn’t doing anything but talking.
“Ricardo! I was hoping you wouldn’t return, and that you’d left Helen here with us.”
Helen giggled—she held an empty tumbler. They’d probably been at this for hours.
“Thanks for entertaining her for me,” Rick said.
“My pleasure. Really.”
“Helen, we need to talk,” Rick said, gesturing to the doorway.
“Your friend’s a charmer, Rick,” she said.
“Yes, he is. Let’s go.”
She pushed herself from the seat. Glancing over her shoulder, she waved fingers at him, and Arturo answered with an indulgent smile. Rick put an arm over her shoulder and guided her into the safe room.
“Don’t be angry,” she said. “I needed to ask him if there was a phone.”
“Who did you need to call?”
“The police,” she said, and ducked her gaze. “I didn’t want you to get hurt, so I called the police and told them there might be trouble at Murray’s.”
And there was trouble, and the police had shown up.
“I’d almost taken care of Blake when the police arrived,” he said. He didn’t say, You should have trusted me.
She paled. “What happened?”
“He’s in jail now, but he’s not going to stay there unless they get some proof that he committed those murders. They know he did it, they just don’t have evidence.”
She paced back and forth along the foot of the bed. Her shoulders tightened, and she hugged herself.
“I think you should go talk to them, Helen. You can testify, Blake will go to prison, and he won’t bother you again. You’ll be safe.”
“I can’t do that, Rick. I can’t say anything. He’ll kill me, he’ll—”
“Not if he’s in prison.”
“But what if he gets out? The first thing he’ll do is come after me.”
“I’ll kill him first,” Rick said.
“Rick, no. I don’t want you to get in trouble over me. I don’t even know why you’re looking out for me, you barely know me—”
“I’m doing it because I can,” he said. “But if you go to the police, they’ll take care of Blake.”
She moved close, pressing herself to him, wrapping her arms around him, and resting her head on his chest. This again. She was so close, he could hear blood pouring through her veins, near the surface. She was flushed and so warm. He rubbed his face along her hair, gathering that warmth to him.
“Helen,” he said with something like despair.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“I’m not . . . right for you. This is dangerous—”
“Why?” She stepped away. “What’s up with you? You’re so nice, but you’re not afraid of Blake, and you keep talking like I ought to be afraid of you. What aren’t you telling me?”