you some trouble, man.”
O’Shea was breathing hard, but the other man was curled into a pile, maybe not breathing at all.
“Shit, man. That was some rock ’n’ roll,” O’Shea was saying. “I haven’t stretched those muscles since I left the street.”
I staggered a couple of steps but wobbled and felt the pavement start to tilt.
“Whoa, big guy,” O’Shea said and helped me to the curb behind my truck and set me down. The top of my head felt like it grew in pain and size with every pulse of my heart and I was still blinking spots out of my eyes.
“Got some blood coming off that scalp, Max,” O’Shea said. “Old Sammy Sosa there get the bat on you?”
“Head-butted him,” I said. I reached up and patted the wet hair over the throbbing spot and came away with a dark stain on my fingers. “Guy must have a glass jaw.”
“Yeah, well, you might be right ’cause it’s in pieces over there now,” O’Shea said, rocking back on his heels and looking. “You didn’t learn that at Jimmy O’Hara’s boxing gym.”
I held my eyes closed for a moment and when I opened them a red film faded and my vision started to clear.
“Yeah, and you didn’t learn that, either,” I said, looking out at the lump in the street. “Is that guy still breathing?”
“Shit, yeah. He won’t be doing it easy for a while, but he’s breathing. Whattya think, I’m a killer or something?”
I could not tell if that was a mocking tone in his voice, but I could hear the distant wail of sirens.
“Shit, somebody called it in, Maxey ole boy. Time to go,” O’Shea said.
He got up and looked around for witnesses.
“Easy, Colin. They’re a couple of leg breakers who were sent to scare me off a case,” I said. I wasn’t yet even close to being able to stand.
“Yeah, OK for you, Max. But in the current state of things with your local law, I ain’t takin’ the chance of a night in lockup. That detective bitch of yours gets me in, I’m stuck for the long ride.”
The siren was louder. I thought I could actually feel it on the back of my eyes.
“You gotta get her off me,” O’Shea said, backing away. “You know I’m stand-up from the neighborhood, Maxey. Get her off me.”
The sound of him trotting away into the night was then overwhelmed by the siren that wouldn’t quit and blue lights whirling onto the walls, and I had the sudden urge to wretch.
I was in an office at the Oakland Park P.D., sitting in a metal chair, holding an ice pack to my head. I had refused medical treatment at the scene while paramedics loaded Bat Man and his friend into the ambulance. The big man had been able to walk with help. The other one was put on a stretcher. Neither of them was able to talk so mine was a one-sided explanation: Two guys tried to mug me with a baseball bat. Things got a little crazy.
I showed the officer my license, gave them my keys so they could check out the truck and registration. I repeated my story three times: I had a couple of beers at Archie’s. I came out to find two guys trying to break into my truck. I tried to chase them off and they turned on me.
I almost thought I was going to walk away with one of those “We’ll be in touch” deals when a shift sergeant by the unlikely name of Dusty Rhodes showed up. He talked with the patrol guys and surveyed the scene.
“How ’bout we take a ride into the station Mr., uh, Freeman,” he said, looking at my license. “Let the nurse take a look at that wound and see if maybe your head clears a little.”
So now I was stuck in the sergeant’s office, my head was somewhat cleared, but my story wasn’t gaining any more credibility.
“So you take on both these boys, uh, one with an extensive record of aggravated assault, battery on a law enforcement officer and attempted manslaughter,” Rhodes said, reading from a sheet of printouts, “and the other one with possession with intent to sell narcotics, simple assault and some damn thing here that looks
O’Shea was breathing hard, but the other man was curled into a pile, maybe not breathing at all.
“Shit, man. That was some rock ’n’ roll,” O’Shea was saying. “I haven’t stretched those muscles since I left the street.”
I staggered a couple of steps but wobbled and felt the pavement start to tilt.
“Whoa, big guy,” O’Shea said and helped me to the curb behind my truck and set me down. The top of my head felt like it grew in pain and size with every pulse of my heart and I was still blinking spots out of my eyes.
“Got some blood coming off that scalp, Max,” O’Shea said. “Old Sammy Sosa there get the bat on you?”
“Head-butted him,” I said. I reached up and patted the wet hair over the throbbing spot and came away with a dark stain on my fingers. “Guy must have a glass jaw.”
“Yeah, well, you might be right ’cause it’s in pieces over there now,” O’Shea said, rocking back on his heels and looking. “You didn’t learn that at Jimmy O’Hara’s boxing gym.”
I held my eyes closed for a moment and when I opened them a red film faded and my vision started to clear.
“Yeah, and you didn’t learn that, either,” I said, looking out at the lump in the street. “Is that guy still breathing?”
“Shit, yeah. He won’t be doing it easy for a while, but he’s breathing. Whattya think, I’m a killer or something?”
I could not tell if that was a mocking tone in his voice, but I could hear the distant wail of sirens.
“Shit, somebody called it in, Maxey ole boy. Time to go,” O’Shea said.
He got up and looked around for witnesses.
“Easy, Colin. They’re a couple of leg breakers who were sent to scare me off a case,” I said. I wasn’t yet even close to being able to stand.
“Yeah, OK for you, Max. But in the current state of things with your local law, I ain’t takin’ the chance of a night in lockup. That detective bitch of yours gets me in, I’m stuck for the long ride.”
The siren was louder. I thought I could actually feel it on the back of my eyes.
“You gotta get her off me,” O’Shea said, backing away. “You know I’m stand-up from the neighborhood, Maxey. Get her off me.”
The sound of him trotting away into the night was then overwhelmed by the siren that wouldn’t quit and blue lights whirling onto the walls, and I had the sudden urge to wretch.
I was in an office at the Oakland Park P.D., sitting in a metal chair, holding an ice pack to my head. I had refused medical treatment at the scene while paramedics loaded Bat Man and his friend into the ambulance. The big man had been able to walk with help. The other one was put on a stretcher. Neither of them was able to talk so mine was a one-sided explanation: Two guys tried to mug me with a baseball bat. Things got a little crazy.
I showed the officer my license, gave them my keys so they could check out the truck and registration. I repeated my story three times: I had a couple of beers at Archie’s. I came out to find two guys trying to break into my truck. I tried to chase them off and they turned on me.
I almost thought I was going to walk away with one of those “We’ll be in touch” deals when a shift sergeant by the unlikely name of Dusty Rhodes showed up. He talked with the patrol guys and surveyed the scene.
“How ’bout we take a ride into the station Mr., uh, Freeman,” he said, looking at my license. “Let the nurse take a look at that wound and see if maybe your head clears a little.”
So now I was stuck in the sergeant’s office, my head was somewhat cleared, but my story wasn’t gaining any more credibility.
“So you take on both these boys, uh, one with an extensive record of aggravated assault, battery on a law enforcement officer and attempted manslaughter,” Rhodes said, reading from a sheet of printouts, “and the other one with possession with intent to sell narcotics, simple assault and some damn thing here that looks
Similar Books
