Hawke: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

stare at him and the ones remaining had finally left him bloody well alone.
    He was aware, of course, that he stood out.
    He was, after all, wearing white tie and tails, and his feet were shod with black patent leather pumps. His long black opera cloak, sealskin topper, and gold-headed cane lay atop the bar. He knew he must cut quite an amusing figure at The Grapes, but he was long past caring. He signaled the barman for a check and ordered what would definitely be his last pint before heading home. Sticking twenty quid under the ashtray, he returned to his stormy thoughts.
    Part of it was sheer boredom, of course, what the cursed French called ennui . He was rotting away so rapidly that it would hardly surprise him if he awoke one morning to find mildew growing on his—
    “Got a match, guv?” someone suddenly said at his side. He turned to regard the newcomer and saw that there were three of them. Leather jackets, shaved heads, black jeans shoved into heavy black boots. All staring at him, sneers on their pallid faces. They looked, what was the word, itchy.
    He hadn’t even seen them come in.
    “Matter of fact I do,” he said, and fished his old gold Dunhill out of his waistcoat pocket. He flicked it open and lit the cigarette dangling from the lips of the grinning skinhead who was staring at him with glittering eyes.
    Whatever drugs he was taking had definitely kicked in.
    “Ta,” the youth said. He’d had blond hair once, but the stubby new growth was some sort of acid green.
    “Pleasure,” he replied and, pocketing his lighter, returned to his pint.
    “Me mates and I,” the lout continued, “we was wonderin’ about you.”
    “Really? I’m not at all interesting, I assure you.”
    “Yeah? Well, what we was wonderin’, me mates and me, was whether or not you were a, you know, a poofter.”
    “A poofter?” he asked, putting down his pint and turning his cold blue eyes toward the sallow face and wide grin full of bad teeth.
    “Yeah. A fooking flamer,” the man said, though something in the older man’s eyes made him take a step backwards.
    Two well-manicured hands shot out and pinched the skinhead’s ringed earlobes cruelly.
    “Poofter?” the elegant man said, smiling, twisting his fingers. “You don’t mean the sort of chap who wears earrings and dyes his hair, do you?”
    This drew a laugh from the two sullen mates and brought an angry flush of color into the cheeks of the green-haired fellow.
    “Nice meeting you lads,” the Englishman said, releasing the chap’s bright red ears. He stood, picked up his cloak, and shouldered into it. Then he donned his top hat, picked up the ebony cane, and turned to go.
    “Wot’s at?” the green-haired boy said, blocking his way.
    “Wot’s wot?” the gentleman replied in a perfect mimicry of the fellow’s accent.
    “Wot you said. Wot you called me—”
    “Get out of my way,” he said. “Now.”
    “Make me, guv. C’mon. Give ’er a go.”
    “Pleasure,” he said, and he brought the flat hard edge of his hand down on the fellow’s right shoulder with such blinding speed that the youth felt the sharp stab of pain before he even saw the hand coming.
    “Christ!” he screamed in pain, staggering backwards, his shoulder blade sagging at an odd angle. “You broke me bloody—me bloody—”
    “Clavicle,” the Englishman said as the fellow stumbled backwards over a barstool and collapsed to the floor.
    He then stepped over the chap on his way out the door. “Good evening,” he said, tipping his hat as he strolled out the open door and onto the empty street. No one about. It was a good deal later than he’d imagined.
    He walked to the next corner and paused beside a lamppost to draw out his gunmetal cigar case. He lit his cigar, listening carefully for their approach. It didn’t take long. He let them get within six feet, then whirled about to face the three thugs. The green-haired one was holding his broken collarbone, his face contorted with