was just part of his technique.
The ambulance took off with the wounded youth. Two of the squad cars left. One
of the remaining cops tried Mr. Nu’s back door, but it had locked automatically
and hadn’t been forced; the boys must have gotten hold of some legitimate keys
somehow.
I told my story again in my office,
this time for a lieutenant, and produced my firearms license and investigator’s
permit without being asked. The only lie I told was I said I’d pegged the tall
one from just inside my premises, from the doorway. As bizarre as it may seem,
I could legally have a weapon at the office or at home or in my car, but not
about my person out in the brave, cruel new world. The lieutenant didn’t
believe me, but he let it pass, given the satisfactory outcome of it all. I
made a date with him to go down to the station and make a formal statement;
then we went back outside. A cop sealed the back doors of the van and drove it
off to the police pound; in all the excitement no one had remembered to get the
keys from the driver, who had automatically pocketed them, so someone had to
radio in the van’s model and year, and finally someone else showed up with a
spare set. I wondered vaguely how much of Mr. Nu’s merchandise would be left
when the van’s contents were finally released to him. I wondered how hurt the
man I’d shot was. A lot, I hoped. I do not get a thrill out of shooting people,
but I get far less of one being shot at. And then, of course, there is the
expense: the kind of bullets I use, copper points, cost roughly eighteen bucks
for fifty, which works out at about thirty-six cents each (plus tax). I
wondered vaguely how late I would be for lunch with Sara.
I locked up and then, ears still
ringing and adrenaline still Pumping, strolled the few blocks to Sam’s Turf ’n’
Surf, and found out. Sara was already there, walking impatiently up ar| d
down the sidewalk in front.
“You’re twenty-two minutes late,” she
informed me coldly. “Here. My latest report.” She held out a sheet of Paper. I
took it and stuffed it in a back pocket, then calmed her down by telling her
why I was twenty-two minutes late letting her poke her finger through the holes
in my slacks. When we were finally settled into a booth across from the
charcoal grill and after I’d complimented her on the luggage strap she was
wearing as a necklace, I said to her, “Sara, I’ve got a big favor to ask.”
“So ask,” she said, handing me a
menu. “Better put your glasses on, Prof, the print’s kinda fine.” In fact, the
menu as written in huge letters.
“Maybe I don’t have any right to
ask,” I said, “but I don’t know who else to turn to.” I bit my lip and looked
away. “Well come on, Prof, out with it.” She waved one hand, the one without
the glove, wildly in the air to try and get the waitress’s attention.
“Better we eat first,” I said.
“Perhaps I’ll feel better with some nourishment in me.”
So we ate—me, a reasonable rib steak;
her, grilled lobster tails with melted butter—then I got out the violins again.
I told her about Billy, about us being kids together and growing up together
and what his present predicament was and how I felt that I had to try and help
him somehow.
“Natch,” she said, wiping most of the
butter off her chin with her gloved hand.
“I’m going to need all the help I can
get,” I said, making a sizable dent in my second bottle of beer. “Benny leaves
tonight for a preliminary look around. I figure on going down there in a few
days, and I’d like you to come with me. I’ll I need a skilled assistant there
aside from Benny.”
“Terrific,” she said, giving my arm a
couple of friendly punches. “Ready when you are, Prof. You’ll have to square it
with Mom, though, but she won’t be any problem.”
“I’ll tell you what will be,” I said.
“You know what the Mexicans are like about punks.”
“Yeah,” she said proudly. “They hate
us, like everyone
The ambulance took off with the wounded youth. Two of the squad cars left. One
of the remaining cops tried Mr. Nu’s back door, but it had locked automatically
and hadn’t been forced; the boys must have gotten hold of some legitimate keys
somehow.
I told my story again in my office,
this time for a lieutenant, and produced my firearms license and investigator’s
permit without being asked. The only lie I told was I said I’d pegged the tall
one from just inside my premises, from the doorway. As bizarre as it may seem,
I could legally have a weapon at the office or at home or in my car, but not
about my person out in the brave, cruel new world. The lieutenant didn’t
believe me, but he let it pass, given the satisfactory outcome of it all. I
made a date with him to go down to the station and make a formal statement;
then we went back outside. A cop sealed the back doors of the van and drove it
off to the police pound; in all the excitement no one had remembered to get the
keys from the driver, who had automatically pocketed them, so someone had to
radio in the van’s model and year, and finally someone else showed up with a
spare set. I wondered vaguely how much of Mr. Nu’s merchandise would be left
when the van’s contents were finally released to him. I wondered how hurt the
man I’d shot was. A lot, I hoped. I do not get a thrill out of shooting people,
but I get far less of one being shot at. And then, of course, there is the
expense: the kind of bullets I use, copper points, cost roughly eighteen bucks
for fifty, which works out at about thirty-six cents each (plus tax). I
wondered vaguely how late I would be for lunch with Sara.
I locked up and then, ears still
ringing and adrenaline still Pumping, strolled the few blocks to Sam’s Turf ’n’
Surf, and found out. Sara was already there, walking impatiently up ar| d
down the sidewalk in front.
“You’re twenty-two minutes late,” she
informed me coldly. “Here. My latest report.” She held out a sheet of Paper. I
took it and stuffed it in a back pocket, then calmed her down by telling her
why I was twenty-two minutes late letting her poke her finger through the holes
in my slacks. When we were finally settled into a booth across from the
charcoal grill and after I’d complimented her on the luggage strap she was
wearing as a necklace, I said to her, “Sara, I’ve got a big favor to ask.”
“So ask,” she said, handing me a
menu. “Better put your glasses on, Prof, the print’s kinda fine.” In fact, the
menu as written in huge letters.
“Maybe I don’t have any right to
ask,” I said, “but I don’t know who else to turn to.” I bit my lip and looked
away. “Well come on, Prof, out with it.” She waved one hand, the one without
the glove, wildly in the air to try and get the waitress’s attention.
“Better we eat first,” I said.
“Perhaps I’ll feel better with some nourishment in me.”
So we ate—me, a reasonable rib steak;
her, grilled lobster tails with melted butter—then I got out the violins again.
I told her about Billy, about us being kids together and growing up together
and what his present predicament was and how I felt that I had to try and help
him somehow.
“Natch,” she said, wiping most of the
butter off her chin with her gloved hand.
“I’m going to need all the help I can
get,” I said, making a sizable dent in my second bottle of beer. “Benny leaves
tonight for a preliminary look around. I figure on going down there in a few
days, and I’d like you to come with me. I’ll I need a skilled assistant there
aside from Benny.”
“Terrific,” she said, giving my arm a
couple of friendly punches. “Ready when you are, Prof. You’ll have to square it
with Mom, though, but she won’t be any problem.”
“I’ll tell you what will be,” I said.
“You know what the Mexicans are like about punks.”
“Yeah,” she said proudly. “They hate
us, like everyone
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