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little eyes glared into his. The pouty mouth twisted down at the corner.
    “Why don’t you leave the kid alone?”
    The racing blood hammered in Kyle’s ears. Except for the intramural boxing, which was more clowning around than real combat, he had not been in a serious confrontation since the sixth grade.
    “Get out of my face, dickhead.”
    He drew a deep breath. Evidently there was no avoiding it now. Kyle took his hand off the punk’s shoulder and braced, but not quickly enough. The biker swung a roundhouse right sucker punch and caught him on the cheekbone. The blow sent him stumbling sideways into the brick wall of Dave’s. He had forgotten Rule One: Land the first blow. The watching crowd made way for him, but remained eerily silent.
    The biker, grinning and confident now, came at him to finish the job.
    Kyle shook his head to clear it. The pimply biker was strong but clumsy. Everything outside the capsule of space that enclosed the two of them disappeared.
    He concentrated on the biker’s eyes. He saw them widen and knew where the next punch was coming from. He ducked easily under the swinging right fist and pumped both hands hard to the belly. The biker had powerful arm and shoulder muscles, but he had neglected the gut. Kyle’s fists dug into the soft flesh, bringing a surprised grunt of pain.
    The biker stepped back, not looking so sure of himself now. Kyle gave him no time to reassess the situation. He hit him in the nose with a straight left, followed with a right that caught him on the temple and staggered him. As the biker raised his hands to protect his face Kyle set himself. He put the power of his thigh, hip, shoulder, and arm into a left hook to the liver. It was a punch a young Mexican professional had demonstrated for him, and when properly delivered it could paralyze a man.
    This one was properly delivered. The biker sagged to the sidewalk, gasping for breath, his right leg twitching.
    There was no more fight in him. Kyle lowered his hands. He looked around in time to see the frail Gypsy kid pumping off up Main Street on his bicycle. So much for thanks.
    The biker got painfully to his feet and walked, bent over, to the Kawasaki. He clambered aboard, kicked it to life and gave Kyle one last glare.
    “Fuck you, motherfucker.” With that he revved the engine and took off.
    Kyle looked down and saw his hands were shaking. He hooked them in the waistband of his jeans to keep them still.
    The farmhand in bib overalls sauntered over to him. “Nice punch, fella.” He gave Kyle a nod and strolled back into Dave’s.
    As the rest of the watchers melted away, a few of them looked in Kyle’s direction. He could not swear to it, but the Wisconsin Stare seemed to have softened a little.
    Someone touched his arm from the rear and he flinched.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spook you.”
    Marianne Avery stood there wearing an apple green blouse and straight navy skirt. She smelled like spring flowers and looked good enough to eat. Marianne reached up and lightly touched his cheekbone. Her fingers were cool and gentle as butterfly wings.
    “Does that hurt?”
    He felt like Rambo striding away from a couple hundred dead bad guys. “Nah. A scratch.”
    Marianne smiled. “You said that just like Sylvester Stallone. Do you do that on purpose?”
    Kyle relaxed with a laugh. “It just slipped out.”
    “You’re kind of a showoff, aren’t you.”
    “Hey — ”
    “Oh, I don’t mean the fight. I mean the way you talk to people. To me.”
    “You think so? That I’m a showoff?”
    “Maybe it’s just California. I think you’re a little uncomfortable being real around people.”
    “Well, thanks, Doctor. How much do I owe you?”
    “Now quit it. I just wanted to tell you I thought you did a really brave thing.”
    “You’re about the only one.”
    “Oh, it was appreciated. People here just aren’t quick to accept strangers.”
    “They don’t take much to Gypsies either, I guess.”
    “Small