A Canadian Werewolf in New York

Chapter Twenty-Four

As I watched Howard step out of the room, I carefully moved my hands and arms into what felt like I was getting ready to do push-ups.  My legs were spread, one off to the side.  In about one second I intended on pushing hard and launching myself in Monty's direction, throwing him off balance and to the floor where I could over-power and disarm him.

But half a second later Howard looked my way, his mouth dropped and he said in a loud voice.  "What the hell is he doing here?"  The word "he" stuck in the air the way a piece of wet dog-shit sticks to the sidewalk on a hot summer day.  Howard glared at me with a fierce hatred.  Having never met him before, I was a little confused about his reaction to seeing me.  Is it possible that Gail had some sort of mementos or pictures of me and that Howard recognized me as her ex-boyfriend?

In any case, it figures Howard would do something to immediately turn Monty's attention back my way.  Idiot.  I slowly moved into a half sitting, half-crouch position, still trying to get myself set up to launch an attack.

"Oh yes," Monty said.  "Your biographer thought he would try to be a hero and rescue you.  Stupid man."

As Monty said these words, I widened my eyes at Howard, raising my eyebrows, hoping he would get the hint that he should stick with the story, not give away the real truth.

But, as expected, Howard did no such thing.

He ratted me out.

"What are you talking about, Monty?"  Howard said, his face perplexed.  "My biographer?"

"Yes," I said, still trying to keep the fictitious story going.

"He's no biographer," Howard said, incredulous.  "He's Michael Andrews; the mystery author.  You know, the guy who writes the Maxwell Bronte novels."

Monty shook his head, not understanding.  Clearly, literary references were way over his head.

"He's that writer Gail dated before she met me.  The guy Gail dated but hasn't quite let go of.  She still has his pictures all over her apartment; books he signed for her."  He then glared at me, stepping forward to address me.  "What the hell kind of hold do you still have on her, Andrews?  And what are you doing following me?"

Howard lashed out with a foot that connected with the side of my head.  I saw it coming, could tell he was going to strike me from the elevation and change in his heart rate. I could have easily dodged his blow or grabbed his foot and sent him sprawling onto his back.

But instead, I let him hit me.

He didn't hit me that hard.  But from the angle Monty was at, and the way I played into it, reacting as if the kick was harder than it was, it looked pretty nasty; particularly in the manner which I threw myself backwards onto my back and feigned unconsciousness.

Howard stood in place, his heartbeat still elevated.  He apparently wanted to strike me again and was debating on whether or not he should kick a man while he's down.  It didn't take long for him to decide.  He stepped forward and kicked me in the back of the ribs.  I maintained my role of the unconscious guy on the floor and let the kick roll me onto my front.

Monty stepped forward.

"You mean this is your old lady's ex?  You think they're still tight?"

"What?  No.  No contact.  She hasn't had contact with him at all.  They're not tight."

"People screw around," Monty chortled.  "Look at you and Missy.  Maybe your old lady is getting some on the side from this guy."

Howard kicked me again.  "No!" he yelled, kicking me once for each word.  "She's. Not. Getting. It. From. Him."