Hard Rain

there was nothing. The soap was liquid. If
    there was a mop, they kept it elsewhere.
    You should have done this before it mattered. Stupid. Stupid.
    One thing. There was a brass doorstop screwed into the wall just above
    the floor and behind the door. I knelt and tried to turn it. It was
    too close to the floor for me to get a hand around. And it was coated
    in probably ten layers of paint and looked as old as the building. It
    wouldn't budge.
    "Fuck," I breathed. I could have tried stomping on it with my heel,
    but that might have broken off the point that was screwed into the
    wall.
    Instead I tried pressing one way with my palm, then the other. Up,
    down. Left, right. I jiggled it but felt no new play. Damn it, this
    is taking too long.
    I squeezed it between the thumbs and forefingers of both hands as hard
    as I could and rotated it counterclockwise. For a second I thought my
    fingers had slipped, but then I realized that it had turned.
    I unscrewed it the rest of the way and stood just as the bathroom door
    opened. It was one of the bodyguards.
    He looked at me. "Everything okay?" he asked, holding the door
    open.
    I palmed the doorstop. "Just washing my hands. Be right with you."
    He nodded and left. The door closed behind him and I shoved the
    doorstop into my right front pocket.
    Of course, I didn't know for certain that they were on to me. Murakami
    might have just been there to talk about whatever it was he had in mind
    at Damask Rose. But that didn't matter. The important thing is to
    accept the facts early. Most people don't want to believe the crime or
    the ambush or whatever the violence is going to be is really going to
    happen. At some level they know better, but they keep themselves in
    denial until the proof really comes in. At which point, of course,
    it's too late to do anything about it.
    If I have to err, it's on the side of assuming the worst. This way, if
    I'm wrong, I can always apologize. Or send flowers. You err on the
    other side, the flowers will be coming to you.
    I pulled out the cell phone and pressed the speed dial key as I walked
    out. The first thing I noticed was that the gym was empty. It was
    just Murakami and his two goons, standing between me and the door.
    They'd set my bag down near the front entrance. I didn't see the gun,
    so it seemed that they hadn't thought to open the bag during my brief
    absence.
    "What's going on?" I asked, but casually, as though I was too stupid
    to realize anything was seriously amiss and was counting on Murakami
    for a straight answer.
    "Everything's fine," he said, and they began to move toward me. "We
    just asked the others to wait outside so we could have some privacy."
    "Oh, okay," I said. I held up the cell phone. "Just got to make a
    quick phone call."
    "Later," he said.
    I hoped Tatsu and his men were close by. They'd have to be right
    around the corner if they were going to be of any use to me.
    "You sure?" I asked, looking at him, giving the call time to go
    through. "It'll only take a minute."
    "Later," he said again. The bodyguards had fanned out to his flanks.
    I glanced down and saw that the call had connected. "Okay," I said
    with a shrug. I put my hands in my pockets putting the phone away with
    my left, palming the doorstop with my right. I would wait until they
    were in striking distance.
    But they stopped just outside that range. I watched them with a
    quizzical, sheepish look, as if to say, Hey, guys, what's all this
    about?
    Murakami eyeballed me for a long moment. When he spoke his voice was a
    low growl. We've got a problem," he said.
    "A problem?"
    "Yeah. A problem as in, your name isn't Arai. It's Rain."
    I let my eyes move fearfully from face to face, to the exit, then back
    again. I wanted them to think I might bolt. Which I sure as shit
    would if I could.
    "Hold him," Murakami said.
    The man to my left lunged. I was ready for it. My hands had already
    popped free of my pockets and I extended my left arm as though to block
    him. He took the bait, grabbing my forearm with both hands to
    immobilize it while his partner moved in from the right. I snaked the
    hand he was trying to hold over his left wrist, trapping it, and used
    the grip to yank myself toward him. He was braced for me to try to
    pull in the opposite direction and couldn't react in time to stop me
    from closing the distance. The doorstop was already out, palmed in my
    fist with the screw point jutting out between my middle and forefinger
    like the world's