Page 78 of By Any Means

A fist pounded hard at the door. They both jumped.

“Let’s go, you horny idiots!” Brasher.

“Oh, my God.” Chary made himself hastily decent.

Laurie, not bothering for decency, snickering, opened the door. “Your brothers in blue here already?”

“A hundred, plus brass, on the corner” was all Brasher said, and he pulled them both forward.

A hundred? “How many?” Chary gasped.

“Out, fire escape, now, both of you. Run. It’s maybe already too late. I gotta find Sumner.”

“You can’t find H?” Laurie interrogated. “Where is he?”

“Russian plunge. Think he’s been held up somehow. Never met me outside.”

“Hiram?” Laurie said skeptically; his expression changed to alarm. “Shit. Well, that ain’t good.”

“Get the hell outta here,” Brasher said, pulling harder.

Laurie pushed against Brasher’s touch. “Don’t manhandle me. What about H? I owe him.”

“Let’s find him,” Chary said at once.

Laurie looked back fondly. “Is there nothing you shy from?”

Brasher’s nostrils flared. “To hell with you reporters.”

Laurie grinned, slightly crazed.

Into the fire. They ran downstairs, past the main pool, into the back hall, bare feet slapping on tile. There, spittoons had been overturned, and round needle showers had been left turned on to hiss out water in their alcoves. When they reached the Russian baths, there was audible shouting, scuffling at the entrance: three more undercover police stood in the doorway, towel-clad, armed with nightsticks. They kept a handful of men inside captive.

Brasher pushed in front of Chary, shouting, “Boys!”; Chary nearly startled.

The policemen clearly felt similarly; they looked around almost as one.

“Ease up, boys!” Brasher barked. “We’ve got ’em blocked off at the front. They’re not going anywhere.” He swung a stolen nightstick.

He was so authoritative, Chary was taken aback, and for a moment heart-thumpingly, illogically betrayed, but it also worked on the policemen. They stood uneasy, insecure amongst themselves about what to do—until the centermost one yelped and crumpled forward. Before him was Sumner, looking deadly.

Just as swiftly, the other two were dispatched: Brasher applied himself, one massive hand per neck, and yanked, backward and down. They went down stumbling onto their asses, nightsticks clattering, heads thunking the tile. Brasher stomped with his heel somewhere around the kidneys, first one, then the other.

Sumner was the only one without a dropped jaw.

“Thank you, Sidney,” he said, stepping nonchalant over the fetal-position policemen. He was nude again. “They just about had us hands-up against the wall.” Nonchalant, but his pupils were blown wide, and his lips were pale.

“Jesus,” Laurie said.

“Gonna get worse before it’s better,” Brasher said chillingly. “No escape now.”

He was correct. The whistling started distantly, then came closer, louder, the stomp of many booted feet like a train, and then, almost at once, the hall behind them flooded with so many brass-buttoned, blue-twill uniforms that the electric lights seemed to dim.

It happened too quickly to comprehend; there was no preparing. The police came down upon them as an echoing, shouting wave—spitting demands that came so fast and loud, Chary couldn’t properly hear them, much less try and comply. He was ripped away from Laurie’s hand and tossed with harder, white-gloved ones straight onto the floor. His bruise of a forehead met the tile with a crunching smack, and his cheekbone, his lips too; he groaned. His arms were wrenched behind him, elbows twisting. He wasn’t fighting; it didn’t matter. They hurt him anyway.

He hadn’t known it would be like this. Not at all.

“Don’t hurt him—” Laurie said distantly, “—you fuckers, you don’t know who he is—” He was cut off into gasping, grunting whimper by a dull thud. Another thud came, heavier, and a breath-stolen gasp, as though Laurie had been forced onto his knees. Worse.