Scott Sherman - First You Fall

“Who?”

“I’l save that too,” I said. “See you at one.”

I took a quick shower, shaved everything that needed shaving, and washed down my medication with a protein shake. My client was a businessman staying at a nice hotel, so I got dressed in chinos and a white button-down shirt. I was just ready to leave my apartment when I remembered my client’s special request.

“Shit!” I rummaged through my drawers until I found an old blue Speedo. I took off the chinos, replaced my underwear with the bathing suit, and put the pants back on. I was just about to put on my shoes when I heard my instant messenger chime.

I looked at the computer screen and saw an IM from Marc Wilgus. “U there?”

I ran over to the computer. “Just heading out.”

“Got the results of the data mining program I was tel ing u about,” Marc typed back.

I looked at the clock. “I wanna hear it, but I gotta run. I’l cal you later.”

“K” Marc signed off.

I arrived at 11:00 at The Astor, the same hotel where I’d been working the night of Al en’s death. I tried not to take that as a bad sign.

I checked my iPhone. I was going to room 813. I avoided the front desk. Nosy desk clerks sometimes enjoyed making me as uncomfortable as possible.

Occupational hazard.

I took the elevator to the eighth floor. I knocked on the door of 813, but there was no answer. Strange.

Usual y, my clients wait anxiously by the door.

I knocked again. This time, the door swung open.

I stepped inside. “Hel o,” I cal ed out. “Hel o!”

No answer. Weird. I was just about to look in the bedroom when I was grabbed from behind. “What the…” I started to say, and then a hand gloved in smooth leather was covering my mouth. One finger slid briefly into my mouth before I closed it. It tasted like a new car smel s.

My first reaction was to panic and start screaming. But I’d taken enough self-defense classes to know that was exactly the wrong thing to do.

Focus Kevin, focus.

What do you know?

I could tel the guy was big, at least bigger than me. The chest against which he was holding me felt muscular. His arms were thick, too. He was strong enough to hold both my arms with one of his.

A weird client on an S amp;M kick. He wasn’t the first one I’ve come across, but he was the most aggressive.

Thing was, there was no way to know how this was going to go down. He might just be playing with me, or he might be genuinely dangerous.

Unfortunately, with his hand over my mouth, I wasn’t in a position to inquire.

Sorry, but there was no time to be subtle. If he was just playing, this wasn’t going to earn me much of a tip, but I couldn’t take the chance.

When your opponent is anticipating a right, my Krav Maga teacher used to say, throw a left. With that in mind, I let my body go limp, as if I fainted.

My client, expecting me to struggle, loosened his grip. That was al I needed.

I drove my elbows back with al my might. Hit him right in the solar plexus.

“Ooof,” he exhaled. Thinking that I was trying to push away, he took his hand off my mouth so that he could hold me with both arms.

Big mistake. In Krav Maga, we learn to hit with the hardest parts of our bodies. That’s why I led with my elbows. Now that my head was free, I had another weapon. I screamed, “Ah-yah!” threw my head back, and hit him on the chin.

A skul is very hard.

That sent him stepping backwards, giving me enough room to slip out of his grasp.

I spun around to confront him, ready to use another hard body part, my knee, where it would do the most good. We little guys fight dirty.

But by the time I pivoted, he was ready, too. He threw a punch that connected with my cheek. The pain was blinding. I tasted coppery blood in my mouth.

I stumbled back and got my first look at him. It was al going down so fast, I couldn’t take in much detail, except for the fact that he was wearing al black, including a black leather slave hood that had zippers over the eyes and the mouth.

The zippers over the eyes were open, but the zipper over his mouth was closed.

OK, I thought, this guy is weirder than I thought.

He advanced again, and I stepped back. He was big enough that I didn’t have a chance if he got too close. Unfortunately, he was blocking the door, and if I ran further into the room, he’d have me cornered.

He reached into his pocket and pul ed out a knife, OK, he was now official y the world’s worst client.

“Don fuffin moo,” he said, his voice muffled by the mask.

I cocked my head. “What?” I asked.

“Doan fuffin moof!”

“I don’t understand what you’re…” oh wait, I got it!

“Don’t fucking move?”

“Rie!” he answered.

If I weren’t so creeped out, it’d be laughable.

But this was no laughing matter. That punch he gave me hurt. And now he had a knife.

“Hey,” I said to him, “if this is just a joke, or some freaky SM thing, you better let me know right now.”

This time, the muffled sound that came from his mask was laughter. He started to head towards me.

Time for the oldest trick in the book.

“Fire!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “There’s a fire in here!”

The Masked Marvel turned around to look at the door. I knew he was trying to remember: In his haste to grab me, had he remembered to close it?

He had. But in the moment he turned away, I had time to reach into my pocket, too. When he turned back to face me, I took a step closer and raised my arm.

A stream of Mace squirted from the smal canister I always carried with me and hit him in the face. Told you we little guys fight dirty.

He jumped back quickly. I imagined the mask he was wearing protected him from the worst of it, but enough got into his eyes to get his attention.

“Fuffer,” he said through his mask. Then he turned and ran out of the room. By the time I fol owed him into the hal way, he had disappeared down the stairs.

I went back to the room, and, after deadbolting the door, sank down to the floor, exhausted. Now that the emergency was over, al the adrenaline drained from my body. A wave of nausea passed over me.

I also real y, real y needed to pee.

I used the bathroom and checked myself out in the mirror. Yup, there was a nice dark bruise along my cheekbone. By tomorrow, I might have a black eye. I spit into the sink. Traces of blood, but not too bad.

I looked around the room. Although Mrs. Cherry told me the client was from out of town, you’d never know it from the hotel room. There were no bags, no clothing, no personal belongings at al.

The client wasn’t staying at that hotel.

What to do next? I could cal hotel security and tel them… what? That I was a hustler whose trick had just gone mad? I’d probably be the one who got arrested.

Instead, I cal ed Mrs. Cherry. I told her what happened.

“My poor, poor, darling. He sounded so nice on the phone.”

I asked her for his ful name: Albert Foley. It sounded familiar, but I wasn’t sure from where.

“Are you al right?” Mrs. Cherry asked. “Do you need me to come get you?”

“No, I’m fine. But you’re going to have to cancel my appointments for the next few days. I got a nasty black and blue on my face.”

“Do you want Auntie Cherry to kiss it al better?”

I demurred.

“Darling, I want you to know this is entirely my fault.

I should be checking out your clients better than this.

But when he said you came recommended by Al en Harrington, I thought he was safe.”

Thanks a lot, Al en.

“No problem,” I said.

“Now listen, my dove, I insist on paying you for the next few days. Think of it as sick time. I’l send a messenger over with some cash when you’re feeling better.”