and buttocks, a genuine ass kicking.
When I was about the texture of meatloaf I heard Buddy tell them, ‘I’ll take it from here.’ I was half-conscious, but I did not particularly relish the thought of being left alone with Buddy. Buddy squatted next to my face and pushed a cold piece of metal against my jaw. His voice had the sweetness of a lover. ‘This here gun is cold, Dave. I could say you pulled it on me, and I was fighting to get it away from you when it went off. There’s nothing the cops would do to me either. You want to know why I don’t pull the trigger?’
I didn’t answer. I recall thinking he wouldn’t kill me, but I knew even then that was exactly what he intended to do, in his own good time.
‘I said, “Do you want to know why I don’t pull the trigger?’’’
This was my cue to say something clever or brave.
I said, ‘Why?’ Even wasting that much breath hurt.
‘Because I’ve got plans for you, Dave. You and me… we’re going to have some fun before I’m finished with your ass.’
With that he stood up and pissed on me.
I tried to roll over, but I only managed to give him a better target. I lay there after he left and I felt more profoundly discouraged than at any time in my life. I don’t know if I got to my feet two or three minutes later or if I blinked out for a quarter of an hour. I do know that I came out of the alley just as the police pulled up to the kerb. I was pretty well softened up, and after they had patted me down and cuffed me they got me into the back of their car without breaking a sweat.
I saw the doorman talking to them, and when I looked again, apparently having passed out for a few seconds or what seemed like seconds, they were gone.
I assume they were inside taking statements. At the time I was so entirely disoriented I tried to reach for the ignition of my truck. The handcuffs promptly brought me back to reality.
The booking process was delayed long enough for me to be stripped of my clothes and given a shower.
One of the jailers was a former student of mine, a pretty good writer, actually. He checked my bruises and told me he didn’t think anything was broken. I got a clean jail uniform and a cell with four other drunks. They weren’t bad sorts, as it turned out, and we ended up telling stories until dawn.
Chapter 9
I HAD BEEN GIVEN THE CHANCE to make a phone call sometime around midnight. I dialled our home number and got the answering machine. Arrested, I said. City jail. Call Gail Etheridge first thing tomorrow morning. As an afterthought I added, ‘ …please.’
The following morning I shuffled in chains through an underground tunnel to the county courthouse, a nineteenth century relic full of various courtrooms and offices. Gail Etheridge met me outside the circuit court.
The sight of her reassured me. She didn’t really smile.
It was more like a smirk. ‘Rough night?’
She was talking about my face, which still had an imprint of Buddy Elder’s boot. ‘I’ve had worse,’ I lied.
‘What happened?’
‘Denise Conway’s boyfriend.’
Gail made a face. I expect she was calculating the effect on my case at the university. When it was my turn, we went up before the bar and sat at a small table. At that point an investigator for the prosecutor gave a reasonably accurate summation of my actions at The Glass Slipper. The judge, an old grey-haired dog in robes, listened to the narrative with some interest, asked for some clarification, specifically on the condition of my intended victim and the amount of property damage. Finally, he turned his attention to me.
He was a man in his late fifties with the indelible signs of a man worn out by routine. I was therefore a rather interesting exception to his day. ‘Dr Albo,’ he said with something akin to a sigh, ‘my impression is that last night was a bit out of character for you. Would you say that is the case?’ I looked at Gail. Her expression indicated I should answer the
When I was about the texture of meatloaf I heard Buddy tell them, ‘I’ll take it from here.’ I was half-conscious, but I did not particularly relish the thought of being left alone with Buddy. Buddy squatted next to my face and pushed a cold piece of metal against my jaw. His voice had the sweetness of a lover. ‘This here gun is cold, Dave. I could say you pulled it on me, and I was fighting to get it away from you when it went off. There’s nothing the cops would do to me either. You want to know why I don’t pull the trigger?’
I didn’t answer. I recall thinking he wouldn’t kill me, but I knew even then that was exactly what he intended to do, in his own good time.
‘I said, “Do you want to know why I don’t pull the trigger?’’’
This was my cue to say something clever or brave.
I said, ‘Why?’ Even wasting that much breath hurt.
‘Because I’ve got plans for you, Dave. You and me… we’re going to have some fun before I’m finished with your ass.’
With that he stood up and pissed on me.
I tried to roll over, but I only managed to give him a better target. I lay there after he left and I felt more profoundly discouraged than at any time in my life. I don’t know if I got to my feet two or three minutes later or if I blinked out for a quarter of an hour. I do know that I came out of the alley just as the police pulled up to the kerb. I was pretty well softened up, and after they had patted me down and cuffed me they got me into the back of their car without breaking a sweat.
I saw the doorman talking to them, and when I looked again, apparently having passed out for a few seconds or what seemed like seconds, they were gone.
I assume they were inside taking statements. At the time I was so entirely disoriented I tried to reach for the ignition of my truck. The handcuffs promptly brought me back to reality.
The booking process was delayed long enough for me to be stripped of my clothes and given a shower.
One of the jailers was a former student of mine, a pretty good writer, actually. He checked my bruises and told me he didn’t think anything was broken. I got a clean jail uniform and a cell with four other drunks. They weren’t bad sorts, as it turned out, and we ended up telling stories until dawn.
Chapter 9
I HAD BEEN GIVEN THE CHANCE to make a phone call sometime around midnight. I dialled our home number and got the answering machine. Arrested, I said. City jail. Call Gail Etheridge first thing tomorrow morning. As an afterthought I added, ‘ …please.’
The following morning I shuffled in chains through an underground tunnel to the county courthouse, a nineteenth century relic full of various courtrooms and offices. Gail Etheridge met me outside the circuit court.
The sight of her reassured me. She didn’t really smile.
It was more like a smirk. ‘Rough night?’
She was talking about my face, which still had an imprint of Buddy Elder’s boot. ‘I’ve had worse,’ I lied.
‘What happened?’
‘Denise Conway’s boyfriend.’
Gail made a face. I expect she was calculating the effect on my case at the university. When it was my turn, we went up before the bar and sat at a small table. At that point an investigator for the prosecutor gave a reasonably accurate summation of my actions at The Glass Slipper. The judge, an old grey-haired dog in robes, listened to the narrative with some interest, asked for some clarification, specifically on the condition of my intended victim and the amount of property damage. Finally, he turned his attention to me.
He was a man in his late fifties with the indelible signs of a man worn out by routine. I was therefore a rather interesting exception to his day. ‘Dr Albo,’ he said with something akin to a sigh, ‘my impression is that last night was a bit out of character for you. Would you say that is the case?’ I looked at Gail. Her expression indicated I should answer the
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