the shadows. Gripping a loose set of handlebars, he
darted out when least expected to whack a guy in the head or knee before
scuttling back into the darkness.
Lafarge, reluctant to fire his gun, employed fists instead, delivering quick,
clean jabs and ferocious straightarms that cracked against the gangsters’ jaws.
All the while he danced, and even seemed to be humming to himself.
My blood was up, a sort of high I had never experienced, and I was ready to take
on the world, when suddenly it was over. Beside me, Hobbs was still in
baritsu
stance. The six bike thieves lay sprawled at our feet,
while Lafarge trained his gun on them. Whitey emerged from the shadows and
hurried to his Schwinn, kneeling to inspect it for damage.
Lafarge swung his head to glare at me, then at Hobbs. “Now. Who are you
guys?”
“We,” said Hobbs, “are the men who will put you behind bars.”
Lafarge smiled at him. “Funny. I have the same plans for you.”
Lafarge, it developed, was an undercover cop, and when his buddies
in blue arrived he announced the bust would have gone smoothly if we three
hadn’t bungled in and alerted the gang to his presence.
As he said this, I looked hard at Whitey and thought to say something, but Hobbs
caught my eye and shook his head. Whitey had been about to leave when the cops
burst in and ordered him to stick around. He now leaned on his bike, looking
bored.
Lafarge had been after the bike ring for months. The cops had known it was a big
operation, extending north to Seattle, east to Spokane, and south to Eugene, but
had no solid proof until this bust.
“I take it, then,” Hobbs said to Lafarge, “that you are not the Garden Gnome
Bandit.”
“Is that what you clowns thought?” Lafarge had a good laugh.
Hobbs bristled, but I had no argument. We really had made fools of ourselves.
“The city,” Lafarge said, “will be much safer with you two off the streets.
Interfering with a police operation will get you serious time.”
Hobbs’s mouth dropped open. “But it was we who saved you from these villains.
Without our assistance, they would have escaped. You might well be dead.”
“This for that,” Lafarge said, thumbing his nose. He went back to making notes on
a report.
Hobbs, looking dejected, sat on a wooden crate and stared gloomily about.
I strolled over to Lafarge. “We need to talk. Privately.”
Lafarge rolled his eyes, but finally agreed, and we retired to the warehouse
office.
He fixed me with his best cop glare. “What?”
“You assaulted me last night at Cartopia. Before witnesses.”
He flushed. “Sorry about that. Candy . . . well, I’m just not over her yet. You
know how it is.”
“I know how it is with the media. They love police brutality. Brings out all the
crazies. Along with marches, petitions, lawsuits, investigations . . .”
Lafarge glowered at me. “What do you want?”
I told him. He sputtered, argued, pleaded, even threatened, but in the end he
agreed.
“With one condition,” he said. “You stay the hell away from Candy.”
I didn’t like that. But all in all, I was getting the best of the bargain.
I said, “Deal.”
Hobbs, Whitey, and I left together through the big garage door.
“Congratulations,” I told Hobbs. “You solved the Northwest Bike Ring Case.”
“I did?”
“That’s what Lafarge will tell everyone. He was acting on information provided by
local consulting detective Mr. Skyler Hobbs.”
“I thought he was arresting us.”
“You misjudged him. He’s a swell guy at heart.”
Hobbs eyed me queerly, but offered no argument.
“Be seeing you,” Whitey said. “Call when you have more twenties.”
He looped a leg over his Schwinn and was about to pedal off when Hobbs clamped a
hand on the rear rack, holding the bike in place.
“A moment, if you please. We have unfinished business.”
Whitey squinted at him. “I thought you were broke.”
“You were
darted out when least expected to whack a guy in the head or knee before
scuttling back into the darkness.
Lafarge, reluctant to fire his gun, employed fists instead, delivering quick,
clean jabs and ferocious straightarms that cracked against the gangsters’ jaws.
All the while he danced, and even seemed to be humming to himself.
My blood was up, a sort of high I had never experienced, and I was ready to take
on the world, when suddenly it was over. Beside me, Hobbs was still in
baritsu
stance. The six bike thieves lay sprawled at our feet,
while Lafarge trained his gun on them. Whitey emerged from the shadows and
hurried to his Schwinn, kneeling to inspect it for damage.
Lafarge swung his head to glare at me, then at Hobbs. “Now. Who are you
guys?”
“We,” said Hobbs, “are the men who will put you behind bars.”
Lafarge smiled at him. “Funny. I have the same plans for you.”
Lafarge, it developed, was an undercover cop, and when his buddies
in blue arrived he announced the bust would have gone smoothly if we three
hadn’t bungled in and alerted the gang to his presence.
As he said this, I looked hard at Whitey and thought to say something, but Hobbs
caught my eye and shook his head. Whitey had been about to leave when the cops
burst in and ordered him to stick around. He now leaned on his bike, looking
bored.
Lafarge had been after the bike ring for months. The cops had known it was a big
operation, extending north to Seattle, east to Spokane, and south to Eugene, but
had no solid proof until this bust.
“I take it, then,” Hobbs said to Lafarge, “that you are not the Garden Gnome
Bandit.”
“Is that what you clowns thought?” Lafarge had a good laugh.
Hobbs bristled, but I had no argument. We really had made fools of ourselves.
“The city,” Lafarge said, “will be much safer with you two off the streets.
Interfering with a police operation will get you serious time.”
Hobbs’s mouth dropped open. “But it was we who saved you from these villains.
Without our assistance, they would have escaped. You might well be dead.”
“This for that,” Lafarge said, thumbing his nose. He went back to making notes on
a report.
Hobbs, looking dejected, sat on a wooden crate and stared gloomily about.
I strolled over to Lafarge. “We need to talk. Privately.”
Lafarge rolled his eyes, but finally agreed, and we retired to the warehouse
office.
He fixed me with his best cop glare. “What?”
“You assaulted me last night at Cartopia. Before witnesses.”
He flushed. “Sorry about that. Candy . . . well, I’m just not over her yet. You
know how it is.”
“I know how it is with the media. They love police brutality. Brings out all the
crazies. Along with marches, petitions, lawsuits, investigations . . .”
Lafarge glowered at me. “What do you want?”
I told him. He sputtered, argued, pleaded, even threatened, but in the end he
agreed.
“With one condition,” he said. “You stay the hell away from Candy.”
I didn’t like that. But all in all, I was getting the best of the bargain.
I said, “Deal.”
Hobbs, Whitey, and I left together through the big garage door.
“Congratulations,” I told Hobbs. “You solved the Northwest Bike Ring Case.”
“I did?”
“That’s what Lafarge will tell everyone. He was acting on information provided by
local consulting detective Mr. Skyler Hobbs.”
“I thought he was arresting us.”
“You misjudged him. He’s a swell guy at heart.”
Hobbs eyed me queerly, but offered no argument.
“Be seeing you,” Whitey said. “Call when you have more twenties.”
He looped a leg over his Schwinn and was about to pedal off when Hobbs clamped a
hand on the rear rack, holding the bike in place.
“A moment, if you please. We have unfinished business.”
Whitey squinted at him. “I thought you were broke.”
“You were
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