the
porch, then feeling a sickening momentum build up in my gut. I ran
toward Ozzie, collapsing into a forward roll as another shot was
fired, landing by Gerson, grabbing his bloody uniform shirt,
beginning to pull. Kelsey shouted curses at me but then he was there
too, helping. Together we lugged Ozzie around the corner of the
building. Ozzie made wet sounds of pain.
The uniform next to me was yelling a code 10-11 into
his field unit. The uniform at the mobile home was screaming at the
bald guy to get on the floor. I looked over in time to see the
officer's nightstick flash. Two strikes to the knees and Baldie
crumpled awkwardly on the steps. At the count of three, his hands
were cuffed in the small of his back.
No more shots came from inside the cinder-block
house.
Ozzie Gerson was propped up against the wall,
alternately cursing and screaming. There were so many voices I almost
didn't hear the other noises coming from around the back of the
building.
A door slammed. There was a muffled thud, some
rustling. Then a very loud: "Hey!"
It was DeLeon's voice. A single shot ricocheted off
brick, followed by more scuffling noises.
I locked eyes with Kelsey and just for an instant I
saw what the bastard was thinking, what options he was weighing. Only
one of those options was running to DeLeon's assistance. Then he was
up and moving but I was already ahead of him, ripping through the
brush and stickers.
When we got to the back of the house it was already
over.
A second Latino man was kneeling with his chest and
the side of his face slammed into the back wall of the house. He wore
only jeans and huarache sandals. He was an enormous man, dark-skinned
and hairy as a timber wolf. It was hard to tell much else about his
looks because they were mostly ruined by the pistol-whipping he'd
received. Nearby in the dirt lay car keys and a gun — a
long-barreled .38.
Detective DeLeon didn't look much better than her
apprehendee. Her skirt was torn and her panty hose reduced to amber
cobwebs. Her white blouse was ripped. Her blazer floated in the tall
grass nearby like some kind of pointy scarecrow. She had shiny red
cross-hatching on her cheek and a line of blood down the side of her
mouth.
She also had her Glock 23 pressed decisively under
Timber Wolf's ear and was in the process of cuffing him one-handed.
Kelsey looked at her, looked at me, then lowered his
weapon. He shouted our status to the officer at the front of the
house.
Three seconds later the young uniform came busting
out the back door with his gun drawn. He took one look at DeLeon and
the apprehendee I assumed was Zeta Sanchez and was so surprised he
nearly backed up into the house.
DeLeon got up and wiped her bloody mouth with the
back of her hand. She let the uniform take over with Zeta Sanchez,
then stumbled toward Kelsey and muttered, "Thanks for the front
door."
She stumbled again as she walked past us. Sirens were
already wailing in the distance.
Kelsey watched her go. In a tone of grudging
admiration he muttered, "I'll be damned."
I turned and punched him hard in the gut.
It was a tai chi upper cut, only slightly less
forceful than a pile driver. By the time I regained the feeling in my
hand, Kelsey was doubled over, contemplating the pool his lunch had
made in the dirt.
Then I walked back around the corner of the house,
figuring I should try to help stop the bleeding of another guy I
didn't like much either.
SEVEN
That evening after the Eyewitness News I owed Andy
Warhol a reimbursement check for two and a half minutes.
With a concerned face, KENS anchorman Chris Marrou
told San Antonio all about my day — how a pipe bomb this morning
had nearly killed a private investigator, a UTSA administrator, and
an SAPD homicide investigator; how the incident had spurred police
into swift action this afternoon, leading to a bloody standoff and
finally the arrest of longtime fugitive Anthony "Zeta"
Sanchez. Police would not officially comment on Sanchez's
porch, then feeling a sickening momentum build up in my gut. I ran
toward Ozzie, collapsing into a forward roll as another shot was
fired, landing by Gerson, grabbing his bloody uniform shirt,
beginning to pull. Kelsey shouted curses at me but then he was there
too, helping. Together we lugged Ozzie around the corner of the
building. Ozzie made wet sounds of pain.
The uniform next to me was yelling a code 10-11 into
his field unit. The uniform at the mobile home was screaming at the
bald guy to get on the floor. I looked over in time to see the
officer's nightstick flash. Two strikes to the knees and Baldie
crumpled awkwardly on the steps. At the count of three, his hands
were cuffed in the small of his back.
No more shots came from inside the cinder-block
house.
Ozzie Gerson was propped up against the wall,
alternately cursing and screaming. There were so many voices I almost
didn't hear the other noises coming from around the back of the
building.
A door slammed. There was a muffled thud, some
rustling. Then a very loud: "Hey!"
It was DeLeon's voice. A single shot ricocheted off
brick, followed by more scuffling noises.
I locked eyes with Kelsey and just for an instant I
saw what the bastard was thinking, what options he was weighing. Only
one of those options was running to DeLeon's assistance. Then he was
up and moving but I was already ahead of him, ripping through the
brush and stickers.
When we got to the back of the house it was already
over.
A second Latino man was kneeling with his chest and
the side of his face slammed into the back wall of the house. He wore
only jeans and huarache sandals. He was an enormous man, dark-skinned
and hairy as a timber wolf. It was hard to tell much else about his
looks because they were mostly ruined by the pistol-whipping he'd
received. Nearby in the dirt lay car keys and a gun — a
long-barreled .38.
Detective DeLeon didn't look much better than her
apprehendee. Her skirt was torn and her panty hose reduced to amber
cobwebs. Her white blouse was ripped. Her blazer floated in the tall
grass nearby like some kind of pointy scarecrow. She had shiny red
cross-hatching on her cheek and a line of blood down the side of her
mouth.
She also had her Glock 23 pressed decisively under
Timber Wolf's ear and was in the process of cuffing him one-handed.
Kelsey looked at her, looked at me, then lowered his
weapon. He shouted our status to the officer at the front of the
house.
Three seconds later the young uniform came busting
out the back door with his gun drawn. He took one look at DeLeon and
the apprehendee I assumed was Zeta Sanchez and was so surprised he
nearly backed up into the house.
DeLeon got up and wiped her bloody mouth with the
back of her hand. She let the uniform take over with Zeta Sanchez,
then stumbled toward Kelsey and muttered, "Thanks for the front
door."
She stumbled again as she walked past us. Sirens were
already wailing in the distance.
Kelsey watched her go. In a tone of grudging
admiration he muttered, "I'll be damned."
I turned and punched him hard in the gut.
It was a tai chi upper cut, only slightly less
forceful than a pile driver. By the time I regained the feeling in my
hand, Kelsey was doubled over, contemplating the pool his lunch had
made in the dirt.
Then I walked back around the corner of the house,
figuring I should try to help stop the bleeding of another guy I
didn't like much either.
SEVEN
That evening after the Eyewitness News I owed Andy
Warhol a reimbursement check for two and a half minutes.
With a concerned face, KENS anchorman Chris Marrou
told San Antonio all about my day — how a pipe bomb this morning
had nearly killed a private investigator, a UTSA administrator, and
an SAPD homicide investigator; how the incident had spurred police
into swift action this afternoon, leading to a bloody standoff and
finally the arrest of longtime fugitive Anthony "Zeta"
Sanchez. Police would not officially comment on Sanchez's
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