Downward Dog in Miami

by Larry David Allman

  DOWNWARD DOG IN MIAMI

  Copyright Larry David Allman 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales, businesses, etc., is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design: David Prendergast /

  ebookscoversdesign.com. Copyright Larry David Allman 2021 (work for hire).

  ISBN (Print): 978-1-09838-187-5

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-09838-188-2

  TO:

  Marie-Laurence, loving wife

  who continues to make everything right

  Brian and Vicki, brother and sister

  whose support is unwavering

  Swami Vishnudevananda

  who gave us the best path to follow

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  1

  The yoga class I was teaching in Miami had gone pretty well so far, but something was weird with the two men in the rear right of the room. They were giving off a strange vibe, and they were too-obviously eyeballing three women on the other side of the room. It was clear they had no yoga experience. They were here for something other than their health.

  I was giving a series of yoga classes at the World Yoga Organization Yoga Center at South Beach. I generally give five nightly classes when I do these week-long series. I try to coordinate them with my day job as a cyber security consultant, where I deal with criminals and terrorists who use computers to attack companies. The two pursuits don’t seem like they would mesh, but I make them mesh. I get to soothe my soul and get healthy on the yoga side, and I make great money on the cyber side. I help people on both sides. It’s a lifestyle that makes me feel good.

  The class was nearing its end after almost two hours. Thirty-six students working on their health and wellness. But something was not right. Those two yokels in the back were troubling.

  Most of the students in the class had good to advanced yoga skills, so I put them up into a headstand, better known in the yoga world as Sirshasana. “Be careful, people,” I instructed. “Clasp your hands together, separate your elbows, walk your feet in slowly, and lift up slowly, carefully, and always with control.”

  In unison, most of the students went right up like experts. One woman in a pink yoga outfit in the front signaled that she needed my assistance to get up, so I helped her lift her legs up and stayed for a moment to make sure she was steady and balanced. While I finished with her, making sure she had it, I noticed that the two misfits in the back were bent over, faking the foundation for the pose, still glancing over at the women on the other side of the room.

  I approached the two men. “You want some help?” I asked the larger of the two in a soft voice. Up close, their body odor surrounded them like an offensive moat. I was a little surprised I hadn’t noticed it before.

  “No!” he said sharply, angling his face and gaze up toward me. “Leave us alone.” He looked at me with a coldness in his eyes which I recognized, a dark void where nothing good lived.

  “C’mon, try the posture. It’ll be good for you,” I said, toying with him. I bent down so that our faces were on the same level.

  “Okay,” he grunted. He appeared not to want to make a scene. He formed the triangle with his hands and elbows and kicked his legs up like a deranged gymnast. He was going to tip over—he had zero control over what he was doing. I grabbed his ankles to prevent him from falling into another student.

  It was then that everything changed. A gun fell out of his pocket, a small .22-caliber Beretta. He forcefully jerked his legs away from my grip and came down hard on the mat. He reached for the gun.

  I got there first.

  “What’s this?” I asked in a whisper. I held the gun close to my body.

  “Geev it to me.” He reached for it. I pulled it back, just out of his reach.

  “Don’t move; just sit there,” I ordered. I kept my eyes on the larger one as I stood and slipped the gun into my pocket.

  “Everybody, come down gently and with control, and go into the pose of the child.”

  The students did as I asked, coming down almost in unison, even the woman in the front in pink. They got into a fetal position on their mats with their heads down and their hands along their sides, absorbing the benefits of the headstand posture.

  I bent down to get close to the larger man. “Get up, and move out of the class,” I instructed. “Don’t make a problem here.”

  “Geev it back,” he said through clenched teeth. He stood, clearly thinking about making a move on me. I rose to a standing position and moved in close to him, almost face to face.

  “Outside. Let’s go.” I pointed to the door again. I moved around behind them with my eyes steady on the larger man. They seemed to understand the message. They collected their stuff and walked to the door with me right behind them. The larger one was my height, six-foot-two, but I could see that health was not his primary motivation. He moved with a kind of brutish energy similar to his Neanderthal ancestors. His body odor trailed him like a boat wake. He glanced around to see if I was there, but kept moving, fortunately choosing not to make a confrontation in the class. He was thinking about it, though: how, where, when. So was I.

  “People, stay in the pose of the child for another two minutes. I’ll be right back,” I said as I moved quickly around the two men and opened the door ahead of them. Nobody looked up.

  The scene must have been surreal: thirty-four yoga students down in Child’s Pose and two misfits being kicked out of the class with the teacher holding their gun in his pocket.

  I gestured at them to leave the class, which—fortunately for everybody in that class—they understood. Sharp daggers as they walked by me holding the door, plus a big dose of their body odor.

  I walked them through the yoga center to the front door and pointed for them to go outside. They stopped just inside the door. Several people in the large entrance hall had paused and were watching the scene. It was obvious that something was out of place. A yoga teacher escorting foul-smelling men out of the yoga center… definitely not yoga.

  “Get out,” I said.

  When the large one took a step toward me, I reached out and planted my left hand on his throat at the indentation just under his Adam’s apple and pressed my fingers into it. It was a control point I’d learned in some past training. He clearly hadn’t been expecting it from a yoga teacher.

  I got real close. “Don’t make a problem here. You can have your toy outside, not in here.”

  He started to raise his hands. I blocked his right hand with my left elbow and batted his left hand with my right, a hard upper-moving block. Keep control, keep eye contact. I had taken trainings for situations like this, and some of it had stuck. He pulled back a little. I released the pressure at his throat and moved back a half step in case things changed—created space to operate if it got physical. He turned toward the door. I drew my hands back quickly so that he
couldn’t turn around and try something stupid. His friend was already outside.

  Once out the front door, I pushed him in the back, toward the end of the parking lot, and walked behind them. As we walked, I took his gun from my pocket and removed and pocketed the small mag.

  “Don’t ever come back here,” I said. I threw his gun to the end of the parking lot. It clanked on the cement about ten yards behind them.

  “Or what?” he challenged.

  “Don’t be stupid. Whatever you’re doing here, forget it. Go somewhere else.”

  They started to walk off, toward their gun on the ground.

  “And take a shower. You both stink!”

  They walked slowly to the gun. The smaller one picked it up and handed it to the other man, who looked to be the boss. They trudged on to a neighbor’s yard at the edge of the parking lot, then turned slowly in unison to see that I was going back inside. I could see their wheels turning. There would be more to this. Their eyes and body language told me as much.

  I opened the door and walked back into the center, through the entrance hall, and back to my class, taking several intentionally large breaths along the way to refocus. A few people stopped and watched me, looking for an explanation. I did not stop: I had a yoga class to finish.

  I made the transition from confrontation mode to yoga teacher mode as I walked and re-entered the yoga room, where the students were all still in pose of the child, peaceful and resting.

  “Okay, people, time for final relaxation,” I said as I closed the door. “Come up, turn over on your back, and get into Shavasana, relaxation pose.”

  The class moved in unison. Most of them were experienced Yogis who knew the routine. They were here for health and wellness. Some pulled blankets over their bodies.

  I guided them into a deep final relaxation, took my place at the front of the room, sat down in Lotus pose, closed my eyes, and internally said some healing mantras to center myself and finish the class properly.

  Nothing like this had ever happened to me in a yoga class—a gun! I knew that something would come of it later. But right then, I needed to finish the class with the purity which is yoga.

  * * *

  When I go to a city and give a series of yoga classes for a week, the classes are generally six to eight p.m., two-hour classes mostly for mid-level to advanced students. Different levels of students come, so I have to adjust to each class. One size doesn’t fit all. I have lots of experience teaching, so I just adapt myself, and it seems to work out.

  This was a Tuesday night, my second class in this Miami series. Last night, Class One had gone well, and more students came tonight. A good sign of word-of-mouth advertising at work. Tonight had gone well until the two jerks had almost ruined it. I felt like I had handled the problem, at least in respect to the class and its collective integrity.

  After the class, the yoga centers I teach at prepare a vegetarian meal. It’s a continuation of the special yoga experience. The students who have just had class are hungry, the food is almost always good, and it’s always healthy. For me, it’s a good opportunity to meet new people who are focused on their health and wellness, to get a feel for the city I’m in, and sometimes, to make good contacts or just absorb some local culture.

  This night, I met the three women on the left side of the class who had been the object of the two jerks I had escorted out of the class. They were in their late twenties and worked at the Miami office of Prime Mortgage Corporation, one of the largest lenders in the country. They were bright, pleasant women. They also showed that they had good wellness habits: they came to the class, together, and they stayed for the vegetarian dinner.

  I chatted with them the most during dinner and took their business cards.

  The most talkative of the three was Lauren Berger. Her card read that she was Vice President of Business Development. She had long, blondish hair with fashionable highlights and wore it back in a ponytail for the class. She ate European style, a utensil in each hand, and was able to talk easily about their business as well as current politics, sports, and local real estate. She laughed often, deeply and heartily, and made good eye contact. I felt something stir. I would be here in Miami for a few more days; you never know.

  I wanted to understand why the two jerks were so focused on these three women. Talking with them had given me some insight. The jerks were either sexual predators or they were part of some dark business operation. I’d go with the latter.

  * * *

  When all of the non-staff had left, I helped collect items and clean up the dinner plates. The spirit of a yoga center is warm and loving, and there is a collective energy we need more of in this country. If I could bottle that spirit and sell it, I would be a multi-billionaire. When I talk about it and tell people to just get on the yoga path—“Make your body and mind as healthful as you can, then it will all unfold for you”—well, it just seems too simple. It is simple, but you’ve got to do the work to get there.

  I said my goodbyes to the staff and the director, all wonderful people—all carrying the same basic vibe and energy I encounter at all the yoga centers I visit. They’re places of security and love in a world that needs a whole lot more of those things.

  I opened the door and walked out to the parking lot, eyes roving and on super-alert. I was sure I would encounter something which required an energy and an awareness very different from what yoga demanded. I was ready, or at least as ready as I could be. It’s generally referred to as situational awareness. I was on high situational awareness as I walked to my rental car, a Jaguar SUV from the Hertz Exotic Collection. I didn’t see anybody around. My car was the last one in the center’s parking lot.

  I opened the door, continued scanning, and got inside. As I fastened my seat belt, it happened.

  On the passenger side, the smaller of the two men rapped on the window with what looked like a Glock, the big .45-caliber model. He looked in at me with stupid eyes and rapped again, stronger this time, with force close to breaking the glass. I started the car, looked over at him, and nodded and pointed that I’d be right there. I unfastened my seat belt as if I was going to get out.

  Junior backed up a step, then another. I didn’t see his larger brother, yet.

  I jammed the transmission into reverse, cut the wheel hard to the left, and stomped on the gas. The car jumped to the right, smashed into Junior, and knocked him to the ground. I threw it into Park, opened the door, and bolted out, fully expecting Senior to be right there. He was, but he was standing about twenty feet away, watching with his own gun at his side. He seemed amused at his lackluster partner, with a smirk on his face and casual body position. He was moving toward me, taking slow steps as if he had the situation under control. He did not.

  I took fast steps around the car to where Junior was getting reacclimated to reality and grabbed his gun, which he was conveniently holding loosely on his chest. He was disoriented, and who wouldn’t be after being rammed by a large Jaguar moving at force?

  Something took over in my mind; I was in a street fight, and I wanted to survive.

  I took his gun in my right hand and, without thinking, whacked him with it, hard and blunt, right across the temple. He went down, eyes closed, no movement. But Senior was moving in on me.

  I rose up, swirled around, and pointed Junior’s Glock. I was in survival mode, reacting without thought or delay. Senior was close, maybe three or four feet away, with his gun pointed at me and mine at him. A Mexican standoff.

  I eyed him carefully, all of him—his face, his eyes, his posture, his general energy and attitude. Even though it was night, there was more darkness in his eyes. But there was something else in his eyes too. He smelled of alcohol.

  “Put the gun down,” I said, moving in closer and keeping eye contact as tight as possible. He must have drunk a lot after the class, because he was not totally focused on me. His gun hand was
moving a little, just enough for me to see. “Put it away.”

  “You made a mistake tonight.” There was the slightest accent, Eastern European, maybe Russian.

  “What do you want here?” I kept Junior’s gun up and aimed at his center mass and got even closer; our guns were almost touching. “Why are you here. It’s not for yoga.”

  “Our business is not your business. Get the fuck out!” He slurred a little.

  Junior groaned on the other side of the car. Senior took a peek, giving me just the opening I needed, a nano-second of opportunity. I stepped in with speed, grabbed his gun hand at the wrist with my left hand, pushed it up out of shooting range, and jammed Junior’s Glock straight into his solar plexus, a forward-right thrust with all the power I could give it. I felt it hit the right spot, way up toward the stomach and heart. He immediately bent forward, the breath knocked out of him.

  I grabbed his gun and drove my right knee up into his face, a good solid shot that connected fully. I heard breaking cartilage in his nose. He went down on the ground, on his back. His nose was flowing red. His eyes were open and looking at me, now with fear.

  I pocketed his gun, moved directly over him, and without a thought, smashed his face with Junior’s big Glock. He was definitely out.

  I quickly moved over to Junior, who was trying to push himself up. These guys were a lot like cattle, thick-headed and dumb. I whacked him again with the gun, this time on the other side, always at the temple. And this time, he went down for real.

  Both of them were out, on the ground. I scanned the area, but nothing caught my attention: no movement, no people.

  I went into their pockets and took everything. They had wallets, cell phones, some keys, and a few business cards, which looked to be from a local business. Real professionals would have been sterile. They had euros and dollars, maybe a few thousand. Each man had the same business card: Siroco Investments International Corporation. Miami Beach and Fisher Island. Lev Lavorosky, Executive Vice President. I pocketed everything.

  Moving fast, checking the area constantly, I grabbed each man around the ankles. I pulled Senior and then Junior from the parking lot and deposited them behind the fence of the next-door house. They were both out—I checked to make sure they were still breathing. I took the mags out of both their guns and jammed them into my pockets, made sure there were no bullets in the chambers, wiped my prints off the guns, and threw both a few yards beyond the bodies. I scanned the area. Still nobody.