I considered whistling for the dog, but something told me to hold off, not wanting to spook whatever had caused the dog to run. Pulling to the side, I parked, shut the door with minimal noise, and walked across the lawn. Not ten steps into my trek, two squirrels darted just across my path and scurried up another live oak off to my left. That must be it. The Lab probably saw some squirrels, and the owner couldn’t hold the dog back from chasing after a possible snack.
Given the direction from where the dog was running, the owner may not even be in the park. A bit more relaxed, I thought about letting rip on a finger whistle; that would wake up every creature in a three-block radius. Instead, I took a laid-back approach and decided to walk the park until I found him, or until I ran out of patience.
Striding up an incline, I arched my neck and found the nighttime sky, a sprinkling of stars glowing just above treetops. A smattering of small clouds were illuminated by a full moon so bright that one chunk of the perfect circle, right at the five o’clock mark, was filtered but still visible through a spotty cloud. I took in a casual breath and caught a waft of sweet tree sap and fresh grass clippings.
A bark. It sounded just like the Lab. The dog probably just spotted another squirrel that had escaped his clutches. I veered right about sixty degrees to follow the direction of the sound, and my hand instinctively reached for my sidearm.
But I had nothing to grab. Old training must have kicked in.
I made another mental note to Booker, the business owner. Once I got my PI license, I needed a handgun—not that I needed one tonight. Telling myself to chill a bit, I continued searching for the dog, or any other living creature on two legs.
I took three more steps, then I heard a series of barks, five or six quick woofs. Quickening my pace, I moved up a ridge and stopped. The shaking of a dog’s collar, shoes shuffling on a sidewalk, other rustling sounds.
Was that a person’s voice? A moan?
Hunkering down, I took cautious steps, part of me wishing this was three weeks from now when I’d have a licensed weapon at my disposal, for my protection and anyone else’s who needed my protection. My risk gauge had gradually shifted into the orange area; I was on high alert, although I’d yet to confirm anything other than a dog and squirrels.
My instincts hinted otherwise.
Looking over my shoulder, I took in the angle of the moonlight. Not waiting for man or beast to spot me before I spotted them, I banked right of where I’d heard the last set of barks and shuffling.
Just as I reached a line of trees, I caught a visual. Three, no…four people, I think all men. The dog standing off to the side, tail wagging, quiet for now. Continuing to shift right through the tree line, I maintained my focus on the cluster of people, one of which must be the dog’s owner.
Again, I reached for my side and felt belt loops on my jeans. Dammit. I had to stop relying on training from my previous life. The training wasn’t all a throw-away, but this situation resembled more of my life prior to the seven years on the beat, prior to attending police academy.
It relied more on a survival instinct, for me and for the people involved.
I then felt my pocket for my phone. Fuck! I must have left it sitting in the Saab’s cup holder.
Licking my lips, I kept one eye on the silhouette of people, while also ensuring each step stayed clear of any noisemaker. A reverberating thump sounded in my ears, and I could feel the same cadence in my neck.
Palming each tree that passed, I slowly angled behind their setting and a tad closer.
Suddenly, a person fell to the ground. Or was he shoved? Someone stood over him, jumping up and down. I could now hear voices; they were young, spirited, angry even. It appeared to be three guys dressed in dark attire, and an older man wearing loose-fitting clothes, now sitting up, one hand extended in fear.
While all of my training told me to wait for backup, to ensure I knew if the perps had weapons and what kind, I couldn’t wait and watch another beating like I had with George. Plus, there was no backup coming. I briefly second-guessed myself for at least not texting Paco, but I realized no one would have done any differently. I couldn’t see through darkness, read the minds of pets, or fly across the sky.
But I was no wilting butterfly either.
“Get yo punk-ass bitch self up and fight like a real man,” a voice said.
A figure, the tallest of the group, paraded around like a boxer, punching air, but coming ever so close to striking the man on the ground. “I’m sick of playing games with this bitch. Let’s shred his clothes, take his money, and leave the dog hanging from a branch on the tree. Come to think of it, let’s hang this motherfucker right next to his dog.”
Inching forward, I could feel a coat of perspiration cling to my back. I glanced at the man on the ground. He was bearded, a bit stiff. Seeing his reflexes, he was either ill or over eighty, maybe older than that.
I picked up two rocks and hurled one fifty feet away, off to the left, and it ricocheted off two trees.
Three heads turned that direction. Moonlight bounced off their heads—they were bald and very white. Could they be skinheads?
“Did you guys hear that? Let’s get out of here, man.” The one farthest from the old man grabbed the two thugs by a shirt and started pulling.
“Fuck that. It’s either a squirrel or some asshole too afraid to show his mug.” The shadow puncher danced on his toes like Muhammad Ali and began firing rapid-fire combinations. Looked like he might have had some training, Golden Gloves possibly.
But I saw no visual weapons, which was the point of my exercise. Keeping my breathing even, I thought through my options: scare them with a sudden attack, hoping they’d run off, or take a calm approach and let them see it was in their best interest to move on and not hurt anyone.
Just then, I noticed the tall one snatch something off the head of the old man. He proceeded to skip around the old man, holding it on his own head. I think it was a yarmulke.
“You don’t think we see through your bullshit? You walk around with your dog, wearing your little beanie, praying to whatever God you think you have, and then you Jew me every time you leave a tip. Cheap ass prick.”
“Yeah, man, fucking Jews are like slave owners. What do they got that I don’t have?” The second one screamed in the man’s face.
“Money,” the third one deadpanned.
“Fuck you, and fuck this Jew.”
Did he just kick him?
I quickly picked up three, four rocks. I tossed them in the same direction as the first one I’d thrown and took three steps forward.
“Hi, everyone. Can anyone tell me the name of this dog?” I kneeled on one knee and snapped my fingers. The golden Lab padded in my direction.
One balding guy took at least two steps backward, but the taller, aggressive one tossed the yarmulke to the side and yelled at me, “Where did you come from?”
The older man’s face looked worn, liked a crinkled refuse bag, as ringlets of curls hung around his face. He was Hasidic. I nodded ever so slightly, my lips tight, trying to signal I was there to help, to keep him from being harmed further.
“I was just taking a nice evening walk down the Katy Trail. I got to the park, and it just drew me in, you know what I mean? It’s a gorgeous night, don’t you think?”
I scratched the dog’s ears and jowls, and he wagged his tail in response, his panting breaths enough to peel paint. But to everyone around me, the air was fresh and the world full of goodness. As a first measure, I was attempting to kill them with kindness, or at least have them question my sanity.
“I don’t give a shit where you came from, but you need to get your nigger ass back to wherever you live.”
I wondered if they would go there. I used to count to ten backward, now I just take in a deep breath, forcing oxygen to reach my brain, so that I wouldn’t act on pure impulse.
Cool as a cucumber, I rose out of my crouch and made sure they understood I wasn’t feeble or ninety years old. I slow
ly pulled up my sleeves, revealing forearms that could squeeze their tiny necks like aluminum cans.
“Do you think it’s a good idea to be calling each other names? I could think of a few for you.”
I heard a slight chuckle from the far one, and the other two shot him a mean eye.
“Who are you telling us what to say or how to act?” The tall one actually had the balls to move closer to me. Keep it coming, I thought.
I felt my inner temperature rise, and I flapped my shirt.
“Look at that asshole’s shirt? What the fuck happened to you, get in a cat fight?” They chuckled, and two smacked hands.
I paused and looked directly at the most obnoxious one. “Yeah, a cat did this to me, just before I ripped off his head and had him for dinner. Cat meat, the new American white meat.” I smiled.
One started to gag and bent over, hands on knees. The taller one said, “Are you serious? You’re fucking psycho.”
I took the high road, ignored the question, and walked to the older man. “Hey there, let me help you up, sir.”
He nodded as I lifted him up to his feet with one arm, his eyes wide with fear…or some emotion. “What’s your name?” I asked him.
He put a finger to his chest, and I nodded. “I’m Yosef,” he said with a modest accent.
I stuck out my hand and he shook it, a bewildered look on his face.
“And your dog. What do we call this cute fella?” I asked as the Lab rubbed against my leg. I kneeled down again, sensing the taller one stepping closer. I put my hand on the dog’s collar.
“He’s named Sandy.”
“Well, I can see why,” I said, rubbing his thick, golden coat.
“No, it’s not what you think,” the man said, holding up a single finger. “I’m paying homage to the greatest pitcher in Dodgers history. A Jew named Sandy Koufax.”
I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle.
“So, Yosef, Sandy and I are going to keep walking. And you guys are going to go home before your mommies see that you’ve snuck out tonight.”
“Fucking Jews, that’s all they care about are other Jews. You’re black, but I guess you’re a Jew too? Jews are mating like rabbits now, huh, guys?” The tall one turned to the others, and three bald stooges had a nice laugh.
“You have heard of a black Jew named Jesus?”
You would have thought I’d suggested that Adolf Hitler was a drag queen. They looked at each other trying to decipher what I’d said, and why I was continuing to ignore their questions.
Putting a hand on Yosef’s back, we began taking small steps across the grass, headed directly toward my car, my eyes still on the three guys standing off to our left. The calm approach, mixed in with a smidge of psychotic craziness—perhaps inspired by my interaction with the mythical Nurse Ratched—appeared to have worked.
I glanced down at Sandy, then out of nowhere a dark object flew toward me. Pushing Yosef off to the side, an elbow connected with my jaw, sending me to the ground, lights blinking all around me. Nothing I hated more than a cheating fighter, especially one who’d used the “n” word on me.
As my eyes focused, I saw a huge boot one foot in front of my face. I flipped right just before impact, and it bounced off my shoulder, the one I’d injured so many times. The pain gripped me, and I held my arm against my body and rolled onto one knee.
Swiveling my head, I captured instant data on my enemy. Three bald guys about ten feet apart, all with their arms out, ready for a fight. The vocal one, the tall skinhead, had taken the first shots. If I took him out, the others might not have the balls to continue.
Like a bull eyeing his target, I patted the surface and took a handful of dirt. I exploded out of my stance, hurled dirt toward the eyes of the other two, and then bull rushed the tall one. Just before I crushed him, a thin chain looped around my neck and a steel ball smacked my face. Glancing left, one of the skinheads had used a chain like Indiana Jones used his whip.
“Don’t let him slip away,” one said. “Jump his ass. That fucker’s going to pay for fucking with our little playtime.”
Thumping footsteps approached from the back and I braced for impact. With the chain still taut around my throat, I could feel my Adam’s apple squeezing from pressure. Unable to peel my fingers under the chain, I grabbed three feet up the chain with both hands, leaned back to gain more leverage, and with every ounce of strength swung the guy who held the other end. Instead of letting go, he held on for dear life, and that cost him. He crashed into the guy who’d been rushing me from behind, and both of them toppled over like two bowling pins.
As it turned out, I’d executed my defense strategy the opposite of how I’d planned. But as I looped the chain off my neck, ignoring the stinging lesions, I eyed the leader.
“No one to help you right now,” I said walking right at him, my fingers fiddling thin metal links.
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t back down either. His eyes narrowed, looking at me like I was meat. I came at him low, but in control. I tried to grab his wrist and arm, but he was agile, and he slipped out of my grip. While he eluded my attack, I grabbed another fist of dirt.
I attacked again, moving in for a punch with my left arm. He ducked and swung his leg, aiming his thick boot toward my nuts. Jerking left, I tossed dirt at his face, and the boot hit my thigh muscle—virtually no connection. I then took the chain and did my best Indy Jones, snapping it around his ankle.
It caught. I yanked on the chain, and the guy tumbled to the ground. Giving him no time to recover, I jumped on him, flipped him over, grabbed his hand, and twisted it behind his back until I heard a scream. Digging my knee into his kidney, he knew I’d won.
“Okay, you little shithead, it’s time to end this game.”
He wrestled and tugged, trying to escape my grip.
“You’re not going anywhere. Well, maybe jail.” I put more of my weight into my right knee.
“Ahh!” His scream sounded juvenile. “Okay, okay, just ease up, dude!”
“What are you guys doing out here?”
“Nothing, just having some fun, dude,” he grunted through clenched teeth.
“Fun, my ass. Are you connected to the group that blew up that bus full of kids?”
He paused just for a second, his head moving ever so slightly. “I got no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I think you’re lying.” I pulled his leg behind him to where it nearly touched the back of his head.
Another scream, this one even higher-pitched. “Dude, I’m telling you the truth. We’re not skinheads. We’re just a bunch of college kids out to have a good time.”
“How is assaulting an older man having a good time? Tell me that, you piece of shit.”
Another pause, like he was searching for an acceptable answer. “I don’t know. It was wrong. Look, my stepsister is Jewish. I got nothing against them. We just got drunk and decided to get a little rowdy.”
I sniffed, and the air around me smelled like cheap beer. A college rite of passage.
I’d been in a few scraps in my younger years, some that changed my life, but I never took the first punch, and every one that I did take had been necessary to protect another person.
“Your translation of rowdy is messed up.”
“I know, I know,” he said, his voice straining. “Can you ease up a little?”
I didn’t budge, and he continued.
“We don’t normally dress like this. We just shaved our heads to be stupid. What can I say? We’re just three punks. But we got nothing against any race or religion. My girlfriend is Colombian.”
I paused, wondering if the kid was playing me. “What’s her name?”
“Adrianna,” he said quickly.
“What’s her phone number?”
“214-227-2004.”
Kids are really messed up these days. If they’re not bullying people online just for fun, they’re harassing, assaulting defenseless men late at night.
Releasing his
foot, I flipped him over, but I kept one arm on his chest. A necklace popped out of his black T-shirt, finding its way into my hand, silver. Looked like a dog tag, but I couldn’t make out the inscription. “You do know you could have gotten yourselves shot.”
He nodded, and it was easy to see he had no more fight left in him.
“Can I ask where you got moves like that?” he asked.
I thought about the hand-to-hand training I’d received through the police academy.
“The street.”
Yosef and Sandy stood off to the right, taking all of this in. Interestingly, the pair had not run off.
“Okay, we’re going to get up, walk to my car, and I’m going to call the cops. If you don’t pull any more shit, I’ll recommend that they go light on you. If you try to get away or fight back, I’ll break two of your ribs, and then you’ll get to play rock, paper, scissors with the jailhouse bullies. Understood?”
He opened his mouth to answer, then his eyes shifted to look over my shoulder. I turned my head and saw a blur flying at my head. I lunged left and a metal bar hit the meaty part of my right shoulder. I rolled away, holding my arm, then a knee slammed into the side of my skull, as pain points flickered in my brain.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I heard one say.
“But he was going to tell the cops to go light on us.”
“I don’t give a shit. He can rot in hell for all I care.”
Shoes shuffled all around me, then I felt a yank at my hand. One of them had pulled the chain out of my grip. Trying to get to my knees, I watched the three disappear out of the park. I touched the point of impact and a ripple of pain exploded in my shoulder and down my arm.
“Are you okay? You saved my life,” Yosef said.
I doubted the skinheads, or troubled college kids, or whatever they were, would have killed anyone, but they certainly enjoyed playing the fear game with Yosef. Feeling the shiner on my cheek, I contemplated if the leader was telling the truth about not being connected to the bus bombing.
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 13