They moved into the mouth of the alley close together, walking quickly, not seeing me, thinking that I had made it to the street at the far end. I lunged at them, and inadvertently knocked over a metal trashcan that stood blanketed by the darkness. One of them shouted something, and they both turned to me. I'd intended to take the big guy out first with a kick to his kneecap. Instead, my foot glanced off his shin. He yelped in pain but did not go down. He swung the club at me. I lurched back, but its tip swiped my sternum. A burst of pain spread through my torso. My breath caught in my throat and I almost dropped the knife.
He started toward me again, the club raised over his head. He was as tall as I was, and looked bigger across the shoulders and chest. A downward blow on the head from that club would knock me to the ground, if not kill me outright. He was closer now, and I could hear him breathing heavily. The club reached its zenith and started its descent toward my skull.
Charlie Buzaglo saved me. Hurling curses at me, he stepped forward into the path of his accomplice, who had to check his swing. Charlie was now between us, and I took full advantage. I dodged the wild fist he swung at me and punched him in the stomach with my right hand, the folded knife in my fist adding force to the blow. Breath whooshed out of him with a grunt, and Buzaglo folded toward me. I used my shoulder to push him into his accomplice, who, in the rage of battle, simply flung his boss aside to the dirty ground. Buzaglo crashed on top of something wooden and let out a girlish cry of pain.
The big man came at me fast and hard. I stepped back, catching my breath, and caught the side movement of the club aiming at my jaw. I ducked and felt the rush of air on my scalp. I clicked the knife open and stepped closer to my opponent.
If he'd heard the mechanism springing into action, he made no move to escape it. Perhaps he was in that drunken state of battle that turned cowards into brave men and smart men into stupid automatons. Or maybe he just didn't recognize the sound, though most criminals of his kind would.
Or maybe he was smarter than I thought, because he almost knocked me down with the left fist he had waiting for me.
It came hard and straight, like he sensed where I was going and was welcoming my approach. I shifted to the side at the last instant, and the blow got me on the left shoulder instead of my head. It was a good thing I'm right-handed, or the knife would have clattered to the floor. A spasm of pain rushed all the way down to my fingertips, and I let out a low moan. I swiped wildly at his arm with the knife. Warm blood sprayed on my hand, and he shrieked.
He was raging now, out of control with pain and fury. I stepped quickly to the side and back, remembering the club, and when it came, I easily dodged it. My hand was sticky with his blood. I knew I should finish him soon before Buzaglo rejoined the fight, but I didn't want to kill him. I wasn't sure he deserved it.
My eyes had adjusted to the murk, and I could see him well enough to aim. I set myself right and swung from my hips. This time my kick connected. It took his knee right out from under him. He fell in a big heap, and I heard the club stutter away on the dark-engulfed pavement. He was moaning continuously now, bleeding from one arm, with one knee out of commission. For a second I wondered how much he'd been paid by Buzaglo to come after me. I suppressed the thought for now. I wasn't done with either of them yet.
I turned toward where Buzaglo had fallen. He was on his hands and knees now, trying to get to his feet. I planted my foot hard in his stomach and he crumpled like a house in an aerial bombardment. I kicked him in the ribs and heard something crunch, and he whimpered in pain.
"Move and I'll break another one," I said. He stayed still.
I went back to the big guy. His breath quickened as I neared him. He was panting, sure I was there to inflict more pain. The scent of his fear and the coppery odor of blood brought back unwelcome memories of other times I had encountered those smells. I gritted my teeth, shoving the encroaching memories down to the depths of my mind. I had no use for them. Now, or ever.
"I'm going to drag you into the light," I told the big man. "See how bad the cut is. If you try anything, I'll slice you open."
He didn't answer. I grabbed him under the arms and dragged him. He groaned a little, whether due to his knee or his arm, I couldn't say.
When he was in the light, I crouched beside him, my dripping red knife clearly visible.
"What's your name?"
"Rafi," he said. His face was red from exertion and pain and fear.
"What were you going to do to me, Rafi?" I asked him, and when he looked at me uncomprehendingly, I clarified, "Kill me, break some bones, take off some fingers, what?"
He had a big, circular face, with flat, wide, unrefined features. He hadn't shaved for a week or so, and the low stubble on his cheeks was damp with the sweat of the fight and his injuries.
"Just break some bones," he said in a low, frightful voice.
"Sure about that?" I asked.
"Yes. I swear."
I was looking at his eyes as we spoke, searching for the lie. I didn't see it. His eyes stayed on mine the whole time. Wide and brimming with fear, but unwavering.
"All right," I said. "Don't move."
I went through his pockets. If I'd found a knife on him, I didn't know what I would have done to him. But other than some money, cigarettes, a lighter, and a folded picture of a semi-naked brunette, there was nothing.
"Show me your arm," I said.
He held it up with a grimace. It was bleeding fast. He wasn't going to die in the next few minutes, but it was not good, nonetheless. I took hold of his shirt with my left hand, and he flinched when he saw the knife in my right coming closer.
"Relax," I said. "Don't move."
I cut his bloody sleeve away and tossed it aside. I did the same with the clean sleeve and turned it into a makeshift bandage. I wrapped it around his wound and knotted it tight. I looked at it for a moment. Blood was coming out, but very slowly.
"You're going to need to get that stitched," I said, "but you'll live."
He blinked at me questioningly, hope dawning in his eyes.
I said, "If you ever come after me again, I will gut you and let you bleed out. Do you understand me, Rafi?"
He swallowed and nodded, licking his fat bottom lip.
"Can you walk?"
"I think so," he muttered.
I helped him to his feet, and he steadied himself on the side of a building.
"What about Charlie?" he asked.
"Don't worry about him. Worry about me changing my mind."
Fear flashed in his eyes. I think he was about to thank me. Fortunately, he resisted the urge. He turned around and hobbled away.
I walked back into the alleyway. Charlie Buzaglo had turned on his back, and his breath was rasping in and out of his chest like steam in a clogged pipe.
I dragged him out into the light and got down on one knee beside him, showing him the knife. Up close, the stink of his cologne was almost thick enough to gag on. I lifted the hem of his shirt and wiped as much blood as I could off my hand on it.
"I let your friend go," I said. "Now what am I supposed to do with you?"
His eyes bulged so far they looked ready to pop out of their sockets. His mouth fell open. His rat brain was searching for words, but none came. Finally, he said, gasping, "My wallet. Left pocket."
I took his wallet out. It was chock-full of bills. I fanned them in my hand.
I frowned at him. "You have all this on you and you wouldn't pay me?"
He tried shrugging, but the movement shifted his rib cage and he moaned. I had probably broken one or two ribs when I kicked him.
"Go ahead," he said. "Take it all."
I looked at him and shook my head slowly. His eyes turned to saucers with dread.