1635_ Cannon Law - Eric Flint [99]
"No," Frank said, as Giovanna went off to serve another customer. "They're just saying that. I don't think they mean it."
Giacometti sneered. "Frank, you're too good a guy to see it. Not everyone's a nice fellow like you. Spaniards, hah! You watch, they wouldn't say a thing like that unless they meant it. No balls, Frank. They got no balls." He made a gesture of grabbing and squeezing a pair. "They ain't gonna just mess around when they can stab the Holy Father in the back, now." Giacometti sat back on his barstool with the air of a man who'd completed a logical proof.
"I, uh, guess that stands to reason," Frank said, although he wasn't sure exactly what Giacometti was saying. He'd only had one drink himself tonight, so he wasn't able to follow the beer logic.
"'S right, Frank it does," Giacometti said, waving his glass for another drink.
He was just pouring Giacometti's drink and wondering where the man put it all—a bar could stay open just with him as a customer, and he'd never been in a condition where he'd plainly had enough—when there was an almighty crash from somewhere out in the main room. Frank winced.
The room went quiet, as usually happened, but the ironic cheers Frank was expecting as the usual response to someone going ass-over-teakettle didn't happen. Instead, there was a hiss of indrawn breath.
Oh, hell. He'd heard that before. It was the noise people made when a fight was kicking off, but it wasn't the sound you got when it was a kind-of-fun brawl. This was the sort where people got badly hurt. Frank put a foot on the shelf under the bar and boosted himself up to take a better look.
It was pretty clear what the problem was. The two characters involved hadn't even bothered with the glare-and-insult stage, just gotten straight at it. One of them with a knife. "Oh, shit," Frank murmured. They had seconds before it spread, crowded as they were, and—he looked—Dino wasn't going to make it from his bouncer's station over by the door. The place was way too crowded.
Frank watched with a feeling of helplessness as the two combatants grappled and staggered out of the ring they were in. There was shoving and jostling and two more guys, their blood up from watching the first brawl, started yelling and shoving at each other. Someone shoved one of those guys from behind, and he turned and threw a punch, and—
It was like watching a slow reaction spread through a reaction vessel. Roiling a little at the interface where the reagent was titrated in, but it quickly diffused. Frank heard glass break, and then the first scream of pain, shrill over the roaring. "Get down!" he shouted at Giovanna. For a wonder, she did. Probably seen more bar fights than I have, he thought, and then there was a bright flash in his eyes and a shock ran through him and everything seemed to be red a moment and then black and then he was looking at the ceiling and couldn't get his breath.
And then he whooped air in to his lungs and started hauling himself to his feet, taking a couple of tries at it because he suddenly had to think about moving his arms and legs instead of just doing it. He could sort of remember a bottle flying at his head. He must've fallen off the bar. Fallen right on his ass—nothing seemed to be broken, although his back, somewhere around his right shoulder blade, felt like one massive bruise. And the whole bar, it looked like, was throwing punches and swinging furniture. His vision blurred, steadied. Someone was pulling at him to get down, but he had to see, damn it.
"Fuck!" he shouted, if only to hear himself over the din. Everyone was shouting something, the sound of splintering furniture was punctuating it and glass was shattering everywhere. The doors had to be open, both to the street and to the yard; the place was emptying fast leaving only the hard core behind to duel on. The place was emptying in front of Frank's eyes as people streamed out away from the mayhem.
Which was all they needed. A crowd of angry, frightened, half-drunk people in the street outside his place. Nothing