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corridor. He glanced both ways. From the other end of the apartment, we could hear music and conversation. Uncle Harvey nodded to me and walked quickly and quietly toward the big wooden door of the apartment. I hurried after him.
    A floorboard creaked. We stopped and listened. Seconds passed. There were no more creaks. Uncle Harvey nodded and we kept walking.
    Everything went fine till we got to the main door. There, sitting on a chair, reading a newspaper, was one of Otto’s men. I suppose he was making sure we didn’t do exactly what we were doing. When he saw us he stood up, dropped his newspaper on the chair, and positioned himself solidly in front of the door. He must have noticed that we were carrying our bags, but he didn’t say anything, just waited for us to make the first move.
    I looked at my uncle, wondering how he was going to talk his way out of this situation. I’m sure I must have looked terrified, but my uncle appeared as cool as always. He stepped forward with a cheerful grin on his face and said, “Hello, Miguel. It is Miguel, isn’t it?” He paused for a moment, giving the man a chance to answer, then realized the guy wasn’t going to and hurried onward: “We’re just heading out for a moment. Could we get past, please?”
    Miguel replied in Spanish.
    Uncle Harvey stuck to English: “Don’t be difficult, Miguel. Señor Gonzalez has asked me to fetch something and I’m sure he doesn’t want to be kept waiting. Excuse me, please.” He tried to step past, but Miguel wouldn’t budge. He was a big man with broad shoulders and there was no way around him.
    If I had been in Uncle Harvey’s position, I don’t know what I would have done. Apologized, probably. Then gone back to my room and tried to think of a good lie to tell Otto.
    Uncle Harvey had his own way of doing things. He dropped his bag on the floor, swung his arm, and threw a punch.
    I was impressed. If you met him, you wouldn’t immediately think that Uncle Harvey was the type of guy who could take care of himself in a fight, but he had a neat right hook. His arm whipped through the air and his fist rammed into Miguel’s chin with a very satisfying crunch.
    A punch like that—it would have been enough to knock me across the room. Most men would have fallen to the ground, clutching their broken chins and seeing stars. Not Miguel. He barely flinched.
    The momentum of the punch put my uncle off-balance. Before he could right himself, he had been grabbed by Miguel, who whirled him around in one crisp movement and bent him over with his right arm twisted up behind his back.
    â€œArrrggghh!”
yelled my uncle.
    Miguel shouted loudly in Spanish. I didn’t know what he was saying, but he must have been calling for help.
    No one answered.
    He shouted again, louder.
    My uncle tried to free himself and then cried out once more as Miguel jerked his arm upward. A little further and the bone would have snapped. Uncle Harvey must have known that, but he didn’t stop struggling, and he kicked backwards with one heel, then the other, trying to connect with Miguel’s ankles.
    And me? What was I doing?
    Standing there like an idiot. Just watching. As if these two guys were a couple of wrestlers on TV, not my uncle and some thug.
    I knew I had to do something.
    But what?
    On a sideboard there was a tall vase decorated with blue and white flowers. I picked it up with both hands, swung it through the air and brought it crashing down on Miguel’s head.
    The vase smashed into a thousand pieces.
    Miguel gave a funny little groan and fell facefirst on the carpet.
    Uncle Harvey was at the door immediately, pulling back the bolt. I picked up his bag as well as mine. His was heavy, but I didn’t seem to feel its weight. We ran into the corridor. The elevator was right ahead of us. Uncle Harvey pressed the button. We were lucky; it was there. The doors slid open. We