Free Bad Traffic by Simon Lewis Page A

their inability to walk straight hilarious. They were the men who had followed him earlier, he was sure of it. Yes, there was the leather coat flapping. A third man strutted intothe road and put his palm out with drunken self-importance and a car slowed to let them cross.
    Black Fort walked quickly with his arms thrust into his pockets. He was the leader, certainly – his air of assurance was striking. He did not appear as drunk as his hatchetmen.
    It was good that they were drunk, and even better that the owner had stayed inside. But as they made a diagonal across the road Jian noted with disquiet that they were coming straight towards him. This position offered as little cover as comfort. If they saw him there would be trouble: even drunk he couldn’t out-fight them and he was trapped in a dead end. He pressed himself back against the door.
    As they neared he heard the thump of their footsteps. He held his breath and narrowed his eyes and stood completely still, and he could feel his heart beat. In his pocket, he slipped his house keys between his fingers and balled his hand into a fist.
    The trick was to think yourself away and not look anyone in the eye. The first pair came into view and lurched towards him. The man in the overcoat was dressed all in black, exhibiting a taste for the dramatic. His skinny companion wore jeans and a T-shirt with a ponytail projecting from under a baseball cap. Their cheeks were red, their mouths hung open and their eyes were bleary.
    Another step and they would blunder straight into the porch. The overcoat squeaked as its owner put his hand against the wall to steady himself. Jian saw four gold rings on chubby fingers and on his wrist the head of a dragon tattoo . The dragon’s body curled up the sleeve and out of sight. Its lips were curled back in a snarl and its boggling eyes seemed to be staring straight at him.
    Jian stiffened and the nails of clenched fingers dug into his palm. But the man pushed himself away and pitched backonto the pavement, dragging his friend with him. The baseball cap fell off and the hoodlum caught it and put it back. His friends laughed. In happy self-absorption the hoodlums passed.
    Jian let his breath slip between gritted teeth and came away from the wall. Minutes later the waitress came out, with a bulky jacket over her uniform. She was talking to two men Jian hadn’t seen before, presumably the kitchen staff. They walked away and the ticking of the girl’s high heels faded. Jian lowered his head, hurried across the road and slipped into the restaurant.
    The lights were off, but an orange glow filtered in from the street. Chairs were stacked on tables and their jutting upright legs cast jagged shadows. The manager stood counting money. He looked up and slammed the till shut.
    Jian crossed the room quickly, saying, ‘I don’t want your money, I just wondered if you had a cigarette,’ and watched fear, then dismay, cross the man’s features.
    As soon as he was close enough, Jian lunged. He hit him just under the jawline on the side, but without getting much weight behind it. He felt the keys pierce the skin and scrape along the line of the jaw, and the impact sent a shudder up his arm. The old man’s head snapped to the side. Jian leaned over the counter, grabbed his collar and yanked him forward . Glasses toppled and shattered. This time he was balanced and could have got his weight behind it but he pulled a punch to the nose. It was just a tap really, to make his eyes water. The shirt tore and buttons popped. The manager’s flailing hand knocked down a bottle of spirits.
    Jian let go, thinking that he’d done enough. It occurred to him that he was too old for this kind of nonsense. He hadn’t personally roughed anyone up for years, he always got the keen young guys to do it for him. Obviously he was rusty,because the old man clambered to his feet, fumbled a door open and ran into the kitchen.
    Jian followed. The only illumination came through the