Chapter 62
AS THE THREE men approached us, Alain said to them, “We are sorry to intrude.”
Now the men spread out. The biggest was a guy in his early forties, around six feet tall, with a shabby mohawk. He wore a loose, red flannel shirt over a T-shirt. He said, “Tourists. Great. Just what the city needs.”
I debated identifying myself or reaching for my pistol under my jacket. Somehow I didn’t see either one de-escalating the conflict. Besides, I preferred to maintain my anonymity when in the Tenderloin.
Then the man in the flannel shirt said, “All tourists have to pay a tax.”
Alain looked at me for a moment, just to confirm this was a shakedown. Then he shuffled slightly to the side, away from the men. I shadowed his retreat. He stopped when a building’s wall and a stack of old, empty crates blocked any further progress.
All three men closed in on us at once. I didn’t like how this was unfolding at all. My right hand dropped to my side. I started to reach for my pistol.
The man in the red flannel shirt reached for Alain’s arm. Just before he’d extended his hand completely, Alain grasped the man’s hand and twisted it backward quickly. The man squawked in pain and turned awkwardly. Alain released him, and the man tumbled onto the grimy asphalt of the alley.
A second man rushed Alain. The Frenchman simply pushed the stack of crates a few inches with his foot. The ruffian tumbled over it and also fell on the alley’s rough surface.
Alain calmly looked up at the third man, who shook his head, then simply turned around and left the alley.
I was hoping the entire confrontation was over. Clearly Alain had been in a scrape or two during his long career and knew how to handle himself.
But of course these remaining two nitwits didn’t know when to quit.
The jackass in the flannel shirt stood up and glared at us. A trickle of blood ran down his wide forehead. He balled his hand into a fist. “You’re going to regret that, you frog piece of shit.”
Alain held up his hand at the man like he needed a break. He turned to me and said, “I’m not sure what that insult meant. Is he calling me excrement or a small amphibian?”
I realized Alain had been toying with these guys all along. If he had time to make a joke, he wasn’t too worried about these morons. I was still a little concerned, though. The second man was off the ground now and standing shoulder to shoulder with his friend.
From the end of the alley I heard a booming voice. “Cal, Marty, leave those people alone. They’re friends of mine.”
I turned and saw that it was Barry Seifert: the Duke of the Tenderloin.