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drink to that. Fuck Sid!”
    “He’ll just send someone else after you, you know.”
    “Aye. Suppose he will. Maybe I should just go ahead and have you do me in, just to get it out of the way.”
    Court said, “I don’t take requests.”
    The thick Irishman laughed heartily. “That’s a good one, mate. Maybe my two lads will be out of the hospital by the time the next hitter shows. Hopefully Sid feckin’ Sidorenko will send someone they can handle.”
    Court chuckled. “I doubt that.”
    Dougal Slattery poured another shot of Old Bushmills for himself and then, seemingly as an afterthought, pulled Gentry’s shot glass to his side of the table and began to fill it.
    Court tried to stop him. “No. I’m good.”
    Slattery kept pouring. “It’s the third, me boy. The third wee shot will make a man of ye, I swear it!”
    Court shrugged, shook his head, reached across the table for the drink, hoped the hard liquor would substitute for the pain meds his body craved. He said, “You might want to think about leaving town until—”
    The table rose into the air to meet Court’s face. The shot glass slammed into his mouth before he could grab it, the wooden table’s edge hit him squarely on the chin. Gentry’s head snapped back, and he flew backwards off his chair.
    The big Irishman had flipped the table up on him. Slattery lunged over it, took hold of Court before his back hit the floor, and Dougal’s meaty hands wrapped around the American’s muscled neck.
    Court tried to shout but could not make a sound. He felt two thumbs digging into his throat, pressing his Adam’s apple to the point of crushing. Though dazed by the blow from the table, he had the instincts to turn his head sharply to loosen his opponent’s grip. He swept an arm up to try to knock away the hands entirely, but the big man’s thick arms barely budged.
    “Stop!” Gentry gurgled. He had every intention of leaving Dougal Slattery alive. Either Dougal Slattery did not believe that, or he felt, for some reason, Sidorenko would only convince this killer to return someday, and the Irishman wanted to preclude that event here and now while he saw an opportunity.
    On his back, with the big Irishman on top of him and his hands choking the life from him, Court saw only one option. He scooted around on the cheap linoleum flooring, used the heels of his shoes to rotate himself and his attacker around to where Court’s legs were bent against the door to the little flat. From here, still using his hands to try to push away the iron grip on his throat, he walked his feet up the door. Six inches, two feet, three feet. This raised his lower torso off the ground and caused Dougal’s dead weight to roll forward onto Court’s face and shoulders. Quickly, with all his strength, Gentry pushed off the door with the balls of his feet, executed a sloppy headstand, then a backwards roll. His head popped free of Slattery’s grip when he spun back over the top of him. Court landed on his knees on the overturned table, leapt back to get away from any wild punches from the prostrate former boxer.
    In one second both men were on their feet. Court looked at his attacker; the Irishman’s fat face was beet red and slick with sweat, his eyes wild from fury. He shouted something; it was Gaelic, perhaps, as Court could not understand.
    Gentry wanted to tell the man it was a mistake, that he just wanted to leave, but there was no use. Slattery took a step forward and threw a right jab that half connected with Court’s left cheekbone. It stung and stunned him, and instantly his right eye filled with water and his vision blurred.
    Court had vastly underestimated the flabby man’s brute strength and blinding speed. It was a mistake that he could easily find himself paying for with his life.
    Court backed away into a corner, created just enough space from the big man to reach for his Makarov, but he found his holster empty. He was certain it had fallen loose when he did the