7. Attila
7
ATTILA
T he night is proving more entertaining than I thought it would be. From toasting us to going back to ignoring us, the bartender is now in the midst of a furious showdown with a handsy patron who won’t leave her friend alone.
I see the precise moment that the friend’s eyes scan the room and land on the face of a man with an arrogant smirk who’s been making advances towards women all night, ignoring their polite rejections and invading their personal space. No sooner has she turned her gaze away than the man swaggers towards her, his eyes filled with malicious intentions. Frustration and discomfort etch across her face as he sidles up and takes the stool beside her.
Our friend the bartender watches on as the man leans in closer to her friend, his unwanted advances becoming more aggressive. The friend’s distress grows until the bartender steps in and tries to talk some sense into him. She’s obviously seen enough of his type to know how to handle his behavior.
She’s calm yet commanding as she approaches him, an impenetrable barrier between the man and her friend. But he just snickers and sets his eyes on the bartender, fixing bedroom eyes on her. She lifts her eyebrows in a mix of disbelief and disgust, no trace of fear in her.
When he scoffs at something she says, a mischievous smile crosses her face. The other bartenders have crowded around her, rallying their support. She holds her hand up until they fall back and watch as she moves a hand under the counter, releasing the bar top to let her out to the other side. She stands facing him now, her hands on her hips as she nods towards the door, telling him wordlessly to leave.
The man makes no move to rise, instead turning back to the friend and putting a hand around her shoulder. The friend shrugs him off and shrieks before shrinking back in horror. She scrambles off her stool to get as far away from him as she possibly can.
My eyes fly back to the bartender as I sense movement from her angle. There’s a look of fury on her face, and if I thought her incapable before, I don’t now, because her look is murderous.
With lightning speed, the bartender’s hand moves like a blur, delivering a series of expertly timed punches. The man is caught off guard, but he recovers quickly, shooting his hand out in an attempt to strike back.
But he’s no match for her superior martial arts skills. I don’t know where she picked them up, but she’s an absolute machine. She strikes a blow to his shoulder blades with the base of her hands, and he almost stumbles. She uppercuts him, her wrath sending his face lurching backward. Before he even has the chance to bring his face back, she’s dealt him a back hander across the other cheek, sending his head flying at an odd angle.
The bartender’s gaze is unwavering as the man stumbles backwards, his face swelling under the threat of a bruise. The bar falls into a cohesive silence, its patrons whispering in hushed tones as they look from the bartender to the man as he shuffles towards the door.
And just as soon as it started, it’s over. The man is gone and the bartender is back behind the bar, talking animatedly with the patrons, setting a drink down in front of her friend. She reaches up a hand and places it on her arm, giving her a comforting squeeze.
“You must be drunker than I thought.”
The Jekyll’s voice cuts into my thoughts. I glance his way; he’s looking at me with some amusement.
“Did I just dream that whole thing up?”
He gives a hearty chuckle and shakes his head, tells me my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me.
“I think we’re going to have a hard time bagging this one,” The Jekyll says.
“No shit, Einstein.”
We knew this wasn’t going to be easy from the get go. But even then, we had no idea. It was going to be near impossible to take her; she would definitely put up a fight.
“How do you feel about drugs?” He asks, confusing me further. “I mean, what if we drugged her? She’s going to put up a fight, otherwise.”
“You scared of a little girl, Jek?”
He shakes his head.
“Not scared of her. Scared what will happen to her if we have to fight back.”
* * *
“It’s not an option,” I say, as we walk across the parking lot.
It’s way past midnight and the creature of comfort is still holed up in the bar. My guess — she wasn’t willing to leave before us. So she stayed on, continuing to serve drinks and holler orders well into the night. It looked like she was needed, at any rate; for some reason, the crowd was only getting thicker, not thinning as the hours wore on. It seemed like the altercation earlier had only served to heighten everyone’s adrenaline.
We sit in the car, our eyes planted firmly on the door, waiting. Patrons fall from the doors at random intervals, making their way to their parked cars and leaving.
“Find out everything you can about the friend,” I tell him, as she stumbles out of the bar and makes her way to a red Mustang. I don’t know how much she’s had to drink, but the sheer number of people leaving the bar and heading to their cars beggars belief.
The cars have dwindled to a dozen or so when something catches our eye. The man from the bar — the one who’d gotten his ass kicked by a woman half his size — slinks from the shadows, flicking a cigarette to the ground. The light flickers against the damage to his face, the broken skin begging to heal itself. He looks towards the door of the bar, then steps back into the shadows as more patrons exit and walk to their cars.
The Jekyll moves to open his door, readying himself to go out and flatten the coward on the kerbside. I stop him with a hand to his arm.
“Let it be. We step in only if the asset is compromised.”