John Locke - Lethal People

“I don’t want him sneaking up behind me while I’m attacking the others.”

“You’re planning to attack the others? Trained killers? No way,” she said. “I’m calling the cops!”

I put my taped hand on her arm, shook my head. “Don’t make such a fuss. This is what I do.”

She looked … everything at once. Angry. Frightened. Exasperated. The businessman at the table across from us got to his feet. He put a little menace into his voice for my benefit while speaking to Kathleen. “Are you okay? Do you need any help?” She looked at him and back at me, and we locked eyes. She smiled at the man and shook her head no. Then she settled back in her seat, took in a deep breath, let it out slowly. When she spoke, her voice was small but steady. “Okay.”

“Ma’am?” the businessman said.

“I’m fine. Really,” Kathleen said, and the guy eased back into his seat, much to the relief of his wife. He did the right thing, too: stood up for a woman in distress, impressed his wife. If all went well, we’d probably both get laid tonight.

“You okay now?” I asked.

“I trust you.”

I nodded and looked back at my plate. It was harder to finish my greasy fries with my hands taped up, but I managed it. Then I asked, “You going to eat that sandwich?”

CHAPTER 14

“ Care for any desert today?” Our waiter looked nervous.

“What’s your name, son?” I asked.

“Jared, sir.”

I passed Jared a Franklin and asked if he’d seen the big guy in the kitchen, the one in the dark suit with the black shirt who kept peeking through the glass every thirty seconds. Jared’s face clouded over. He tried to give me back the hundred. “I really don’t want to get involved in this,” he said.

“Don’t look toward the kitchen,” I said. “Just answer me. Where is he standing in relation to the door?”

“When you go through the door, he’s on your right.”

“The door pushes open to the right,” I said. “So when I ���rst walk through, he’ll be hidden from view, yes?”

“Yes, sir. What are you going to do?”

“Has he caused any trouble yet?”

Jared lowered his voice to a whisper. “He’s got everyone scared. He’s got a gun.”

“Anyone call the cops?”

“They don’t dare. And I don’t blame them.”

“Good,” I said. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”

“We, sir?”

“That’s right, son. You’re going to be a hero today.”

I told Jared and Kathleen my plan. She asked, “What’s a Glasgow Kiss?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Assuming it works,” she said.

“It’ll work. These aren’t DeMeo’s best people.”

“How do you know?”

“First, I know his best people, and they’re in LA, guarding him. Second, there are three guys here.”

“So?”

“If they were really good, he’d only need two. The one in the kitchen is the least experienced. He’s related to one of the goons in the parking lot, probably his kid brother. I can tell by the resemblance. That bit of knowledge will work in our favor.” I removed my belt and measured a space about twelve inches from the buckle. I pushed the tip of my knife there and worked it enough to create a small hole. Then I draped it loosely around my neck. To Jared I said, “Ready son?”

He looked at my hands. Swallowed. Looked at Kathleen. She shrugged. He looked back at me. I nodded. He said, “Yes, sir.”

I waited until the goon checked the window again. When he ducked back behind the door, I jumped to my feet. Jared began walking straight to the kitchen door, deliberate pace, me right behind him. As he pushed the door open, I spun around and backed into it. Everything else happened in real time, in sequence, and though I didn’t see it all happen, I heard or felt it playing out around me. Jared lowered his head and ran full speed through the kitchen, screaming at the top of his lungs. A waitress shrieked and fell to the floor in a dead faint. The cooks waved their hands and ran in all directions. I ducked under the roundhouse right my grandmother would have seen coming.

Jared’s job was to run into the parking lot screaming, “Oh my God, he’s dead!” That would create a diversion and force the parking lot goons out of their plan. This was important because the fundamental lesson every successful street fighter learns is you do not want to fight your opponents the way they are trying to attack you.

I trusted Jared to do his part and began focusing on mine. While the kitchen goon was off -balance, trying to recover from the haymaker he’d launched in my direction, I straightened to my full height and slammed the top of my forehead down into the bridge of his nose full force, instantly shattering it.

The Glasgow Kiss.

I’d done this in the gym a thousand times, though maybe only twenty in real life. The Glasgow Kiss always works, even against experienced fighters, provided they’re not expecting it. I would never attempt to lead with my head against a real pro, but this guy was easier to hit than the heavy bag in my gym.

The momentum I’d created carried my forehead downward into his cheekbones, which meant his nose fragments had to follow the same path. He crumpled to the floor. I noticed a gun bulge in the small of his back, under his suit jacket. I stuck his gun in my belt and rolled him over with my foot, glanced at his face. I didn’t recognize the guy, but even his wife or girlfriend would have a hard time recognizing him now. His nose and the blood from it had spread outward from the center of his face like pancake batter poured into a hot skillet.

Breaking the bridge of a man’s nose in this manner creates a surprising amount of pain, dazes him, and blurs his eyes, which gives me time to explore other options. Like removing the belt from my shoulders, wrapping it around his neck, threading it through the belt buckle, and pulling it tight while pushing his head in the opposite direction with my foot. I forced his huge neck to fit into the tiny space created by the hole I’d cut into my belt moments earlier.

The goon was choking. His face sprayed blood like the blow hole of a whale, and I guessed he’d be dead in two minutes. I jerked him to his feet, but he was too heavy to hold with one hand, twitching and kicking as he was. I pulled the door open, got it between us, draped the belt over the top of it, and held him in place by pulling on the belt with my left hand. This way, the door was doing most of the work and the goon was hanging on the front of it, with me behind. I backed us up into the wall, which was a good place to be because the two parking lot goons had just burst through the back door of the kitchen with their guns drawn.

The first thing they saw was their partner hanging from a belt over the door, choking, spewing blood everywhere, grabbing at his neck, kicking and gasping for breath. The second thing they saw was part of my head poking out from behind the guy.

The one who looked like the dying goon’s brother screamed, “Ray!” The other one called me a bad name and threatened to shoot me if I didn’t let Ray go. Everyone else in the kitchen had long since hit the floor and found cover—everyone except the waitress who had fainted. She was starting to regain consciousness. The customers in the front part of the diner were just beginning to realize something very wrong was happening in the kitchen. I heard the sounds a group of strangers make when they’re trying to decide what to do. If they were smart, they’d follow Kathleen’s lead and jump under their tables.

“Here’s how it’s going to happen,” I said to the gunmen. “You’re going to drop your guns and kick them across the floor to me. Or else Ray chokes to death.”