Killer Move - Michael Marshall [123]
“Bill, I . . . I don’t know.”
The man from the nearby table was staring at me. He was bulky, wearing a cap, big gray mustache. He reminded me forcibly of the guys who’d got in my way when I’d seen the actor playing David Warner on the street opposite Kranks, and I wondered—had they been real? They’d certainly been very quick to intervene on behalf of a stranger. Did people do that kind of thing anymore? Had Emily told me everything? Had there been enough time to fill me in on all the levels, or were there lies out there I didn’t even know about? Was the big guy in front of me running backup for Nick? Would there be other people in this room doing the same?
The guy stood. He was tall, paunchy. “The kid’s right,” he said. “This lady doesn’t look good. You shouldn’t be taking her anywhere.”
He put his hand on my arm.
I shook it off. “Get out of my face, asshole.”
Nick looked concerned. He looked insanely reasonable. He looked like the good guy, without a doubt. For a second I even questioned myself—wondered if I’d got this wrong, if I’d somehow got turned 180 degrees from reality and was doing nothing but swimming further and harder in the wrong direction.
“Mr. Moore,” Nick said, taking a step that, probably not accidentally, put his body between me and the main doors. “Why don’t we just—”
“I don’t know who the hell you really are,” I said. “But get out of my way. Now.”
Nick glanced at the other man, making a mute appeal in the face of a tide of unreason. The guy saw his chance to be a hero, to aid this nice young fellow in front of the two women he’d been sitting with.
He put his meaty hand up, gave me a shove in the chest. “Listen, buddy . . .”
I’d gripped the back of a chair before I even had a plan for it, then whipped my hand up and across like a vicious crosscourt half volley.
The chair caught the guy a glancing upward blow before making to where I’d intended—smack into the side of Nick’s head. It was a light chair, but I’d swung it very hard and very fast, and Nick went straight down.
Suddenly there was a lot of noise—people gasping, standing, chairs being knocked back and over, somebody shouting for security, immediately, as if they’d been waiting all their life for the chance.
“Bill, for god’s sake,” Stephanie said, aghast, staring at Nick on the floor. “What are you doing?”
I was done with trying to talk anyone into anything, done trying to explain myself, done trying to deal with anyone at all except in the most basic terms. I slung my arm around Stephanie’s back and started trying to get her out of her chair. The guy with the baseball cap threw a punch at me. It caught me on the side of the head, but I turned away, head ringing.
“Come at me again and I’ll kill you,” I said, in a voice I barely recognized.
The guy wasn’t to know I was a Realtor, that I was just some asshole, the guy everyone over on Longboat had thought it would be fun to mess with. Bill Moore, everybody’s punch, this season’s recreational bitch. My voice said I meant serious harm, and he was closest to the firing line. He hesitated just long enough for me to get Steph’s feet into stuttery movement.
I half dragged and half carried her toward the exit. People stared. People muttered. My heart was pounding, but I knew there were still cops in the building and we had to get out of here before they started taking an interest—or this whole thing was over.
When we made it to the door I glanced back and saw Nick pulling himself up off the floor, helped by the guy in the baseball cap, who was talking earnestly to him, doubtless telling him to call a lawyer or the army or to just get over there and kick my wacko terrorist ass. Nick was bleeding hard from a long cut across his cheek. He looked shaken, in pain, very disconcerted.
Acting? Could it be?
I pulled Steph out into the corridor and steered her toward the main cross hallway. She kept weakly protesting. “Bill . . .”
“I’ll explain in the car.”
“I don’t feel good.”
“I know. But we have to go, Steph. Please just trust me on this,