The Hard Bounce - [2]

I closed my eyes and sighed.

Away we go…

Buddy laughed with a mocking hilarity, pointing a finger and looking to the rest of the crowd for an approval he wasn’t getting.

A skinny kid, head shaved close and dyed in a leopard skin pattern, turned. “Why? You looking for some ass, sailor?” the kid yelled back, smacking his bony behind for emphasis. He got some approving chuckles from the passersby and hoots of laughter from the other kids.

Buddy looked pissed off that the kid got the laughs from the crowd that he hadn’t.

“What did you say to me, bitch?” said Mullet, quickstepping toward the bar.

The kid flipped the guy off with both hands and ran back into the club.

When Mullet got a couple of feet from the entrance, I stepped halfway across the doorway. He stopped short and we stood there, shoulder to shoulder.

“What’s your problem?” Mullet asked, puffing out his chest.

“No problem,” I said, blowing cigarette smoke out my nose, moving my face closer to his. “It’s just not happening for you here. Not today.”

“I wanna get a beer.” His breath reeked of soft pretzels and a few too many overpriced Fenway Miller Lites.

“Not here you’re not. Get one down the street if you’re thirsty.”

Buddy suddenly found his shoes real fascinating. Mullet and I kept giving each other the hairy eyeball. “It’s a free country, asshole.”

“And a wonderful free country it is. This bar isn’t, though. Not for you. Not today.” I took another long pull from my cigarette and fought the urge to blow the smoke into his face.

“Who’s gonna stop me, you?”

“Yup.” There it was. The frog was dropped. Let’s see if it jumped. I balled my fist around the medium-point Sharpie in my pocket. Bouncer’s best friend. Won’t kill anybody, but hurts like a bitch when jammed between a couple of ribs.

I stood at the long end of his best intimidating stare, which frankly, wasn’t. Mullet decided to give it one last shot.

“What are you? Some kind of tough guy?”

“Well, gee golly Hoss, I haven’t started any fights with twelve-year-olds lately, so I’m not sure.” I moved my face right into his. One more inch and my cigarette was going up his nose. I removed my hand from my pocket and held it low at my side.

Buddy grabbed Mullet’s arm, and Mullet twitched like he’d been shocked.

“C’mon, man. Let’s go.” Buddy’s voice cracked like he’d just been kicked in the nuts. Now I know why he’d minded his own. Hard to talk a tough line when you sound like Minnie Mouse.

“Yeah. Fine. This bar’s full of faggots anyway,” Mullet muttered as he walked off.

“Fuck you very much, gentlemen. Have a good one.” I clipped a sharp one-fingered salute at them as they retreated.

The kids applauded and cheered as the two walked off. I shut them up quick with a glower. I made a hundred bucks a shift, plus a tip-out from the bar. Not enough money to be anybody’s pal.

More noise pollution began thumping from the basement. The group quickly ground out their smokes on the wet cement as they filtered back inside.

A girl with brightly dyed red hair lingered outside longer than the rest. I could feel her stare on the side of my neck like a sun lamp. I glanced over and she gave me a little smile. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, but behind the smile was something older. Something that made me uncomfortable.

As she passed me going into the club, she brushed her tiny body against me, tiptoed up, and kissed me on the cheek. “My hero,” she whispered softly into my ear and went inside.

I shuddered with Nabokovian creeps and shifted my attention back to the crowd. (And yes, fuck you, I know who Nabokov is. I’m a bouncer, not a retard.)

I kept my thousand-yard stare front and center on the passing crowd, keeping my peripheral sharp for any run-up sucker punches. It happens. I was alert to every degree of my environment except what was directly behind me; which is why I nearly had a heart attack when a booming crash sounded from the back of the bar. Instinctively, I ducked, made sure my head was still intact. Inside the bar, every patron jerked his head toward the hallway leading to the parking lot out back. I bull-rushed through the thick crowd, almost knocking down a couple customers. Somebody’s beer spilled down the seat of my pants as I hit the hallway.

Junior was halfway up the back stairs when I hit the huge steel exit door at full clip. The door opened only a couple inches before slamming into something solid, my shoulder making a wet popping sound. The door clanged like a giant cymbal and I ricocheted back, landing on top of Junior. We both toppled hard onto the concrete stairwell. Pretty pink birdies chirped in my head as I lay sprawled on top of him.

“Christ! Get offa me!” Junior yelped.

I rolled onto my wounded arm, and that same something popped back into place inside my shoulder. I roared like a gut-shot bull.

Junior pulled himself up and pressed against the door with all his weight. The door barely budged. Whatever was jammed against the door squealed metallically against the concrete.

I pinwheeled my arm a couple times to make sure there was no permanent damage. Apart from a dull throb and some numbness in my fingers, I’d survive.