Free Strange Flesh by Michael Olson Page B

slaps me lightly on the cheek, saying, “Maybe I see you tomorrow.”
    This woman’s every departure must be closely observed by frustrated men. My lizard brain is certainly screaming furiously as she recedes down the block. She turns right at the corner, and I notice that a fellow admirer, smoking on the opposite side of the street, is taking in her progress as well. As he steps off the curb in her direction, I think, moths to the flame, and wish that the cloak of anonymity permitted me a few more minutes witnessing the glorious pendulum of her hips.
    But what sets me in motion isn’t the natural jealousy of a rival. It’s when our casual peeper affects tossing away a half-smoked butt and glances up the street. The hours of surveillance I’ve clocked at Red Rook have imparted a keen appreciation of body language, and this subtle action was clearly taken to check if anyone is watching . Suddenly the guy flashes from just another devotee of the female form to a potentially dangerous creep. And now I’ve found a reason to follow Olya after all.
    I hustle after them down Delancey and check myself as I turn left onto Allen. The street is crowded with late-night revelers. Olya crosses an intersection about a block ahead of me. She ignores some appreciative whoops from a pack of men coming the other way. I start thinking that maybe my mind’s reptile regions are making me overreact. Then I see the guy speed up to make the light and slide in behind a group heading in the same direction. He’s definitely following her, and trying not to be seen.
    A lucky gap in traffic allows me to keep her in sight. She turns right at Grand, and the guy stops to light another cigarette before pacing her down the block. I merge into a line formed at the ropes in front of an unmarked bar. From here I can see that he’s a short but thick man, with stringy hair and a mean, acne-scarred face. He’s wearing a bulky black jacket and baggy jeans. Thick glasses disrupt his otherwise thuggish look.
    He waits a beat and then proceeds after her, and I hurry to the corner. I start to cross the street, thinking I’ll watch from the opposite side, but Olya extracts her keys at the door of an old tenement building, no doubt converted into resplendent lofts. The guy has picked up speed. He’s turning into the doorway. I go into a dead run.
    Fifty yards ahead of me, Olya startles as she notices someone behind her. Too late. He’s already on her. He grabs her shoulder with one hand, his other reaching toward her chest. His face is close to her ear, and heseems to be giving her some kind of order. Her gaze drops down to his hand for a split second.
    Then Olya fights. She twists in his grasp and aims her keys at his eyes. He takes the blow on the side of his head, but it knocks off his glasses. When he grabs her hair, something small and shiny drops to the ground.
    That’s when I hit him full tilt. My shoulder nails him at the base of his neck, rocketing his face into the glass door and leaving an impressive splatter of blood from a long gash that opens over his eye. He slumps, dragging Olya down. I take his wrist, twisting it backward to break his grip. Olya jerks upright, strands of her hair tearing free. I grab the guy under his jaw and hurl him out of the entryway. He collapses on the sidewalk stunned, blood running down his face.
    I start dialing 911, but Olya puts her hand over my cell.
    “No! . . . James. I—I’m sorry. Thank you, but—”
    “Are you out of your mind? This guy just attacked you. We need to call the police.”
    Olya takes a long trembling breath. “No, please. Do not call police.” She looks away, and I see a sad expression steal across her face. She lowers her voice. “James, I don’t want to say this . . . But my papers. My, ah, immigration status. Maybe it is not quite current. I’m fixing, but you see . . .”
    So that’s it. She’s overstaying a student visa. And GAME is probably quite lax about its payroll. I let the