by Amos Gunner
CHAPTER 31: DALE
I’m not sure what I expected to catch sight of unfurling from my coign of vantage. In comparable past situations, I’ve found it best to expect anything or, rather, nothing--to suspend myself with Zen-like open mindedness. The aim is not to achieve mere tolerance, but true open mindedness, a state which allows one to absorb or deflect the onslaughts of life--whichever maneuver is most prudent--without increasing one’s heart palpitations per minute by even one.
Well, I was out of practice. A busybody wrapped on my window and I hit the roof, nearly mussing my hair. He had espied me loitering in my vehicle and inquired with charmless mock authority, “Is there a problem? Do I need to call the cops?” Ah. The neighborhood watch--wild-bearded, cockeyed, formerly brawny before the terrors of time had taken their toll. In the light of stark reality, an unemployable filling his days with a duty I very much doubt anyone ever asked him to perform. I flashed my badge and ordered him to step away. He said, “Sir,” and saluted, holding his ludicrous pose for a long, uncomfortable moment, compelling me to clarify. “Now.” He marched off, proud to be useful to an officer of the law.
But why so startled by a tap on my window? Had I elevated so high because my bottom had been stimulated by a guilty conscious?
Perhaps. But without question--except from you--Ravella was dirty, yet the bete noir hadn’t been snared. Why not? Because of his good luck or our bad luck--it’s the same. Not because he was smart. No. It’s never smart to be dirty. Dirt sticks to us like Satan’s superglue, and the dirt proceeds to spread over our hide until a stink develops to a stench so odious, God’s soap can’t wash it off. One may cover the telltale fetor with perfume and a disguise, and this ruse may bewilder the dogs for a brief spell, but the stink irrevocably bleeds through the shroud, and the hunt shall commence with a more dogged resolve on the part of the Orions. Wouldn’t you agree much time could be saved if, upon catching the first whiff, the prey is put down?
I know, I know. Evidence. Tracks in the mud. You know darn well, I have every respect for the law, but I have even more respect for my nose. How many times has it drawn me in the wrong direction? Forget the record. Wrap your peepers around the bigger picture. The answer: never. My nose has never detected crud when it should’ve been smelled a rose and vice versa. Never. Besides, let’s not forget what our lawyer friends tell us: lack of evidence is not evidence of lack.
On this standpoint, two truths fought. One: I oughtn’t hunt off my designated turf and risk a reprimand for trespassing. Fine. But two: the prey wasn’t going to wander into my game bag, much less willfully leap inside.
My resolution: I had no better place to be. The caveat: although I wasn’t in the wrong, I certainly didn’t want to get caught doing it.
My God, is anyone else getting tired? No?
I beckoned Ravella to crawl from his cave in that way we have of summoning those who can’t hear us. “C’mon,” is usually how it goes. And darn it if it sometimes works. Out he came and climbed into his beat-up jeep.
By the way, battered vehicle, shabby apartment building, worst wardrobe on the force? If this guy was on the take, he should’ve been taking more.
I memorized his license plate, fired up my car and waited with a watering mouth till he made a fifty foot distance between us. I won’t lie. Beating the street was invigorating me more than I’d been in a while, bringing back fond memories from my younger career. And to think I almost stayed in to watch television. Why watch when one can participate? Compelling story too: the good guy hot on the heels of the villain.