I was two stoplights away from the office when I picked up my not-at-all-subtle tail, a dark blue Audi I recognized from just two days before.
I wasn’t entirely sure how he’d known to follow me, but there was no question he was following me when, just to be sure, I blew through a yellow that had just gone red, and he actually pulled around another car to plow straight through the intersection.
Even that might have been coincidence—asshole drivers are everywhere—but for him leaning out of his window screaming obscenities at me. His face was bright red, a rictus of anger.
And he quickly made it apparent that he wasn’t so much interested in tailing me as in hitting me, or at least running me off the road.
Now, I’m not much of a car guy. I don’t know about horsepower or torque or acceleration beyond being aware that they exist and are important to some people. On a straightaway I’d bet that his shiny new Audi could outmuscle It any day.
But it wasn’t a straightaway, there was traffic, and I had a much easier time of ducking between other vehicles than he did. I dove into a gap between two trucks and then around them on the shoulder and back on to the road.
I could hear him honking behind me, and the trucks honking back. But I had one more stoplight, a left turn, and a winding road through an office park to the firm.
It was a good time to find out just what kind of speed I could coax out of It. Turned out to be plenty, and I was equal parts exhilarated and terrified when I slewed into the parking lot. I’d like to say I spun it around perfectly into a spot, but what I really did was come to a stop between rows of parked cars that almost threw me over the handlebars.
I got off the bike, but I left my helmet, gloves, and jacket on. I heard a tormented precision engine making its way up the drive. The Audi careered past the entrance to the firm. I heard brakes squeal and then the engine shut off then angry footsteps.
I sighed and slipped my helmet off. But I kept it clutched in one gloved hand as I walked to the entrance.
Donald Jackson, haggard, short of breath, was stomping like an angry rain cloud towards me. Once he registered me in his vision he let out an inarticulate noise of anger and charged, one fist upraised.
I had plenty of options. I was wearing Kevlar gloves; I could probably put him down with two-thirds of a punch. I could probably take the punch if it was aimed at my body, similarly Kevlared. I could have brought my helmet up to the side of his head and cracked his scalp wide open, but I had paid good money for the Blue Squadron X-Wing pilot customization and I wasn’t taking any chances with it.
I could, if I had both hands free, have slipped the punch, taken his wrist and his elbow with my hands, and put his arm up behind his back in a classic come-along.
Heck, I probably could’ve just tripped him.
As it was, I waited until he was pot-committed and just sidestepped. He went swinging into empty air and overbalanced so far that he almost went down.
“That’s a free one,” I said. “You’re lucky it didn’t land.”
“YOU,” he yelled. “You ruined my marriage.”
“You realize everyone who can hear you thinks that means I’m sleeping with your wife, right?”
He came at me again, arms outstretched, trying for a tackle. He had fifteen years on me, no wind, and no training. This was as unfair as a fight could be, and I had no real desire to hurt him.
But I decided just a little clarification of the facts would benefit both me and Mr. Jackson.
So I sidestepped again, but I threw my left boot out and tangled up his legs. He went down hard, hitting the asphalt with an oomph of lost breath.
“Are we done, or are you out to embarrass us both some more?”
“You ruined my marriage,” he yelled again, as he started to push himself up. I thought, briefly, of planting a boot on the small of his back, but that was more contact than I really wanted to engage in.
“I think you probably did that, Donny,” I said.
He found a burst of strength from somewhere and pushed up to his feet. This time I didn’t step aside or trip him. I let him smack straight into me. I had my feet set, years of grappling training, heavy-tread boots, and an armored jacket. He had dress shoes, no ability to focus his body strength, and what smelled like a three-martini lunch on his breath.
There wasn’t much of an impact. With my free hand, I caught his collar and tie and twisted them as hard as I could.
I had him, essentially, by the throat. And he quickly realized it. I pulled his face up close to mine.
“Couple of things, Donny,” I began calmly. “First, I really don’t appreciate you trying to run me down. Roads are hard enough for bikers as it is; I don’t need an asshole like you making it that much harder.”
He croaked something out. Couldn’t tell if it was an apology or a complaint or a request for air. For the moment, I didn’t much care. He wasn’t in danger of passing out.
Yet.
“Second. You need to rethink this ‘ruined my marriage’ thing and work on your goddamn character. Infidelity followed closely by trying to kill the man your wife hired to investigate it are not the actions of a blameless man. Are we clear?”
His face was nearing purple. I heard some noise behind me; we’d probably attracted a crowd from the office. Donald Jackson’s head bobbed quickly up and down.
I eased off the pressure on his collar, but I kept my grip on his tie. He began taking huge, heaving breaths. I was suddenly hit with a cloud of gin-and-feta-stuffed-olive breath.
“Thirdly,” I said. “Gimme your damn car keys.”
Tears popped into his eyes. He’d been found out, unmanned, and now he was going to cry.
“You can’t take my car, man, I just bought that, I put ten grand down…”
“I don’t want your fucking car.”
The tears halted. He sniffled. Behind us, the crowd stopped tittering. I was not known as much of a shouter, but I had just gotten loud.
It was the way Donald Jackson had whipsawed through the least attractive emotions of his range. His anger, his determination to lash out at me, the way he was blaming someone else for his own faults, when what he was really angry about was getting caught. Then crying, not because he’d laid himself bare and looked with horror at what he’d found.
But because he thought I wanted his car. What I wanted was to give him a good shaking.
“I don’t give a shit about your car. I don’t want you back on the road because you are obviously drunk. Give me your goddamned keys.” He gingerly fished them out of a jacket pocket and held them out. I let go of his collar and snatched them away.
“Walk to the nearest gas station. It’s about four blocks that way,” I said, pointing. “Get some coffee. In an hour, you come back and you seem sober, you can have these back.”
“What…I don’t…” He looked like he wanted to reopen discussions. I didn’t.
I seized his tie again and tugged, lifting him to his tiptoes.
Behind me, I heard Jason’s voice.
“Put him down, Jack.”
I did what my boss told me to. The calming tone of his voice helped.
“Go,” I said. “You can have the keys back when you’re sober.”
Sheepishly he started away, head sunk low.
I tucked the keys in my jacket pocket and stalked into the office.