Page 40 of Antihero

“A code. A code?” Osman brayed laughter, jerked this thumb at his friend, who maintained steadfast scientific interest in his cocktail. “There is no fucking higher code. Not for me, not for you, and certainly not for some split tail who got what she—”

Evan’s muscles moved so fast he nearly forgot that he’d commanded them to do so. By the time he caught up to them, he’d already kicked the chair out from under Osman and palmed the back of his head to hasten the slamming of his face into the table. Stripping the ridiculous belt from the loops of Osman’s jeans, Evan nosed it through the buckle, fastened the noose over his neck, swept the free length of leather over a brass rail, and ratcheted him against the balustrade.

Osman spun in a kind of squat, heels poking at the floor, fingers scrabbling at the strip of leather throttling his windpipe. Gripping the end of the belt to maintain tension, Evan sat back down, the movement wrenching Osman up another few inches.

Evan turned coolly to face Osman’s mute sidekick, who sat with his drink suspended halfway to his mouth, lips still ajar in anticipation of receiving the stir straws.

Evan said, “Go on.”

The friend dropped his drink, shoved back from the table, and bolted. The rest of the place had stilled to take notice, but there was no dramatic record skip or adrenalized rubbernecking. These walls had seen a lot.

Blood clogged Osman’s shattered nose, his eyes streaming, future bruising already stirring beneath the skin of his neck.

Evan leaned close. “You want me to act like I’ve got a code?” he said, in a low, calm voice. “Or act like I don’t have one? Because I can do either.”

“Code,” Osman sputtered. “Code.”

Evan let the man’s weight pulley the belt an inch or two around the brass rail, allowing more weight to his legs. “Name,” he said.

“… Don’t have … name. I … swear…”

Evan took back the slack he’d allowed. “How’s he pay you?”

“… tell you … anything … Just…” Osman’s bulging eyes flicked over Evan’s shoulder and he smiled, blood leaking into his mouth, outlining his incisors.

But Evan had already noted the heavy footsteps. The flight of the associate had alerted the bouncer. Red Pony conveyed his massive frame along the lit runway of the aisle, seemingly unrushed.

Bubbles used the interlude to sit on the stage and scroll through her phone. No sign of the manager; he was likely still unclogging the wet vac.

Comfortably sitting on his chair and racking Osman against the balustrade, Evan waited for the bouncer to arrive. No sneak attack, no sucker punch, just an overly confident sidling up with those Popeye arms crossed.

“Okay, chief. We talked about this, ’member?”

“I remember.”

“There are two ways we can approach this.”

“Hey,” Evan said, “that’s my line.”

Osman sputtered and spun, spine corkscrewed, head crimped between the rails, soles shoved into the floor.

“Do you want to be happy?” the bouncer said. “Or you want to be right?”

“Right,” Evan said. “I want to be right.”

The bouncer leaned forward, cinched a lobster-claw hand around Evan’s shoulder.

Maintaining his grip on the end of the belt, Evan drove the sole of his boot back, hammering the bouncer’s shin, knocking his legs out from under him. The bouncer’s shoes slipped on the slick laminate, his top-heavy form penduluming down, chest and chin cracking the floor simultaneously. Evan lifted his chair, spun it around, and set it down with the front rail across the back of the bouncer’s neck, pinning his head to the floor. He’d miscalculated the height of the chair’s crossbar by an eighth of an inch, so it dimpled the sausage roll of fat at the base of the guy’s skull more aggressively than he’d intended.

Against the bar rails, Osman twisted, his neck grooved with fingernail scrapes.

Evan gave him back a few inches again. “How’s he pay you?”

“… through … VenSend … Show you … Just let me…” His hand fumbled at his trousers.

Evan reached instead and ripped the iPhone out, tearing the pocket. Beneath his chair, the bouncer drew wheezy breath. Resettling his weight on the chair, Evan nudged the phone to life, turned it to capture face ID, and shoved the screen in Osman’s face. “Where?”

Panting, chest quivering, Osman punched at the screen, bringing up VenSend, a Solventry app complete with the omnipresent logo, that inane smiley-face daisy atop a stem. His thumb tapped at the screen until it showed a recent payment of $199 from YngTl69.