an act of self-preservation. In the distance, I watched his owners chasing him around a corner.
It was time to take Rocco and go, but I was too nauseous to move. I assumed that the Retriever’s jogger-owners would be back eventually to have a discussion about legal matters and vet bills. In Beverly Hills, potential litigation rarely goes uninvestigated. And I was pretty sure that somebody had called the police.
The gathered spectators, gardeners, a nanny, a few people that looked like residents, and the stopped motorists, were all leaving. I looked around for Amy and spotted her down the block getting into the back seat of my brother’s car. A Mercedes convertible had pulled in while the dogs were blocking the street during the fight, and it was now parked in front of the wagon.
In a few minutes, I was okay enough to attempt to load Rocco into the car. Getting up, I hauled him along the street toward the passenger side of the station wagon, using my belt as a leash. He resisted all the way, probably hoping for a rematch with the beaten Retriever.
When we got near the wagon, a man wearing a cowboy hat and a business suit stood up from the Benz and imposed himself between me and the car. “I hope you’re not planning on leaving,” he said. “There’s unfinished business here to attend to.” His accent was mid-western, Chicago. He wasn’t a cowboy, but he did wear boots and he was a full head taller than me and fifty pounds fatter.
“My dog is hurt,” I said back, lying. “He needs a vet.” I could now see that he had positioned his car at an angle with his rear bumper against the front bumper of my car, intentionally blocking us in. There was a cable TV truck behind the station wagon so we were jammed in tightly unless he moved his car.
“Your pink-eyed monster tore the crap out of that Retriever. His injuries looked serious. We’re staying put until the owners of the dog come back and decide what they want to do.”
He was too big to deal with head-on, so I walked around him, with Rocco in tow, motioning to Amy to open the car door. Then I scuffled the dog on board the back seat with her.
When I got to the driver’s door, a safe distance from the cowboy, I yelled, “I’m leaving. Move your fucking car now and don’t fuck with me!” Then I got in and pressed the lock button down. He sneered his disdain, then walked to his convertible and reached in through the passenger window, pulling out acar phone on a long cord. Then he looked at me smugly and began dialing.
I figured that I had nothing left to lose, so I started the car and flipped the gear shift lever into “D” drive range and floored it. The force of the torque from the 460 motor easily crushed the right rear tire of his convertible against the curb and I heard it pop like a loud balloon. Panicked, and waving his arms for me to stop, the guy saw the rear end of his Benz slide over the curb and come to rest on the grass, three feet in off the street.
I was still somewhat sandwiched in, but I had more room to maneuver now, so I banged the wagon into reverse and skidded back a couple of feet. My head felt relaxed and pleased, as I slapped the tranny back into “D” and slammed it hard again into the back of the convertible. This time, his trunk buckled and his car got pushed another foot or two forward. He wisely stood back, out of the path of my brother’s lurching, skidding station wagon.
After my third pass, another of his tires popped, but Amy was screaming and trying to get out of the car, so I stopped to see if I had enough room to maneuver the wagon back out into the street. I did. It was okay to pull away.
I knew that there was damage, but everything in the station wagon seemed to be working good and the motor was running as strong as ever. When we were down Sunset a few blocks into Hollywood, I looked back at Amy and the dog. “Sorry,” I said, “I guess I’m having a bad day.”
11
I CONTINUED DRIVING EAST AWAY FROM B
It was time to take Rocco and go, but I was too nauseous to move. I assumed that the Retriever’s jogger-owners would be back eventually to have a discussion about legal matters and vet bills. In Beverly Hills, potential litigation rarely goes uninvestigated. And I was pretty sure that somebody had called the police.
The gathered spectators, gardeners, a nanny, a few people that looked like residents, and the stopped motorists, were all leaving. I looked around for Amy and spotted her down the block getting into the back seat of my brother’s car. A Mercedes convertible had pulled in while the dogs were blocking the street during the fight, and it was now parked in front of the wagon.
In a few minutes, I was okay enough to attempt to load Rocco into the car. Getting up, I hauled him along the street toward the passenger side of the station wagon, using my belt as a leash. He resisted all the way, probably hoping for a rematch with the beaten Retriever.
When we got near the wagon, a man wearing a cowboy hat and a business suit stood up from the Benz and imposed himself between me and the car. “I hope you’re not planning on leaving,” he said. “There’s unfinished business here to attend to.” His accent was mid-western, Chicago. He wasn’t a cowboy, but he did wear boots and he was a full head taller than me and fifty pounds fatter.
“My dog is hurt,” I said back, lying. “He needs a vet.” I could now see that he had positioned his car at an angle with his rear bumper against the front bumper of my car, intentionally blocking us in. There was a cable TV truck behind the station wagon so we were jammed in tightly unless he moved his car.
“Your pink-eyed monster tore the crap out of that Retriever. His injuries looked serious. We’re staying put until the owners of the dog come back and decide what they want to do.”
He was too big to deal with head-on, so I walked around him, with Rocco in tow, motioning to Amy to open the car door. Then I scuffled the dog on board the back seat with her.
When I got to the driver’s door, a safe distance from the cowboy, I yelled, “I’m leaving. Move your fucking car now and don’t fuck with me!” Then I got in and pressed the lock button down. He sneered his disdain, then walked to his convertible and reached in through the passenger window, pulling out acar phone on a long cord. Then he looked at me smugly and began dialing.
I figured that I had nothing left to lose, so I started the car and flipped the gear shift lever into “D” drive range and floored it. The force of the torque from the 460 motor easily crushed the right rear tire of his convertible against the curb and I heard it pop like a loud balloon. Panicked, and waving his arms for me to stop, the guy saw the rear end of his Benz slide over the curb and come to rest on the grass, three feet in off the street.
I was still somewhat sandwiched in, but I had more room to maneuver now, so I banged the wagon into reverse and skidded back a couple of feet. My head felt relaxed and pleased, as I slapped the tranny back into “D” and slammed it hard again into the back of the convertible. This time, his trunk buckled and his car got pushed another foot or two forward. He wisely stood back, out of the path of my brother’s lurching, skidding station wagon.
After my third pass, another of his tires popped, but Amy was screaming and trying to get out of the car, so I stopped to see if I had enough room to maneuver the wagon back out into the street. I did. It was okay to pull away.
I knew that there was damage, but everything in the station wagon seemed to be working good and the motor was running as strong as ever. When we were down Sunset a few blocks into Hollywood, I looked back at Amy and the dog. “Sorry,” I said, “I guess I’m having a bad day.”
11
I CONTINUED DRIVING EAST AWAY FROM B
Similar Books
