A bar brawl was too risky.
Too many people, and there was the risk of the police being called.
Coulter hadn’t contacted Rachel since her crazy, guntoting, ex-girlfriend had tried to kill him.
Instead he was out for a night stroll through the Tenderloin district, supposedly the sketchiest neighborhood in San Francisco. Coulter had been disappointed. The area seemed nice. He’d walked by crowded ethnic restaurants and colorful dive bars.
Annoyed, he was ready to return to his cheap motel. Apparently the streets were a lot safer than they used to be.
But as the hour grew late, he ventured deep into the darker parts, sidestepping panhandlers, tipping his hat to prostitutes, and stepping on at least a half-dozen syringes. The air grew thick with menace. Just what Coulter was looking for.
He was asking for it.
Literally.
He needed money, and he needed to practice his newfound skill. That’s why he was walking around San Francisco in the middle of the night, trying to look like a hick who didn’t know any better.
Finally he heard the sound of footsteps creeping up on him. Come on, he thought. He walked faster, and the footsteps also sped up.
All of a sudden the collar of his denim jacket was grabbed from behind.
“Your wallet. Now.” The voice was young, male, and tough.
Coulter had to stop himself from smiling.
He turned around. The mugger was wearing a ski mask and a fatigue jacket. And for the second time in days a gun was pointed at him, this time a little higher up at the chest.
“I reckon I’m gonna need my money,” he said, heavy on the drawl. “San Francisco’s an expensive city. That okay with you?”
The mugger’s hand on the gun was steady. “Don’t mess with me, cowboy, hand over the money.”
“I don’t know. This wallet here belonged to my granddaddy.”
“I’ll kill you and take it anyway. You think I won’t?”
“If I thought that I wouldn’t be here.”
This was it. Show time. Coulter concentrated on the mugger.
Nothing happened.
Shit!
The mugger’s hand tightened on the trigger. “All right, Kid Rock, time’s up.”
Coulter could feel a small bead of panic sliding down his back.
What a goddamn bullshit way to die.
He was psychic. Not Superman.
He was working up to full panic mode when it happened.
The pull in his gut, and the mugger went flying back into a pile of trash bags. The plastic burst at the seams, and rank refuse spilled all over.
“Thank you, Jesus!” Coulter kicked the gun into the sewer drain and slowly approached the man on the ground.
The mugger’s eyes behind the mask were wide. Shakily, he held out his wallet. Coulter took it, emptied it of cash, and tossed it back. “I hope you appreciate the irony of this moment, my friend. I’m mugging you.”
He headed back to the motel.
Only this time he was whistling.