seventy-three

The scream from Phil Martin’s house was followed by yelling, but I couldn’t make out the words. Jay and Bonnie raced up and down the fence between Martin’s yard and mine, and how they managed not to crash into one another was a mystery. Goldie and I turned toward the gate, and I was deciding whether to take the dogs with us when Bonnie made the decision for herself, clearing the four-foot fence with room to spare.

“Oh!” Goldie’s eyes went wide at the sight of her dog flying over that fence. She turned and ran for the gate. I gimped along behind her.

Bonnie raced across Martin’s backyard and disappeared through the open door. Jay was lining up to follow her over the fence when I called him. He ran along the side of my house toward the gate and shoved it out of his way as soon as I released the latch. Goldie’s long hair had come unpinned and was like a silver banner as she whirled past the gatepost and began to run. I ignored the pain in my ankle as well as I could, but it still slowed me down and Jay and Goldie were out of sight around the back of Phil Martin’s house by the time I rounded the corner.

A popping sound came from inside the house and I yelled, “Goldie! Gun! Don’t go in there! Jay!”

Too late. The dogs had disappeared past the flapping curtain and into the house.

“Bonnie!” Goldie was almost to the open slider and still running.

“Wait! Look!”

She stopped and turned toward me as I picked up the garden rake Martin had left leaning against the back of his house. “Good idea,” she said, looking around for a weapon of her own.

The house was dark but alive with sound. Bonnie alternated between high-pitched yips and the sorts of snarls you hear in a tug-o-war game. Deeper, more business-like growls told me Jay had joined the fray. I found a switch and light flooded the kitchen and guided me toward the front of the house. My ankle was on fire, threatening to quit, and I used the kitchen table as a crutch as I crossed the room.

Human voices mingled with the barking and snarling. Something hit the floor and slid, and I hoped it was the gun. A man yelled, “Get off maauugghhh!” followed by an impressive series of expletives and then, “My arm” and a howl of pain. I thought I knew the voice. Despite the desperation and change in pitch, I was pretty sure it was the goon, Albert Zola. But what had he to do with Councilman Martin?

The living room was aswirl with dogs, men, and long shadows. One of the men stood a little to the side and appeared to be swaying as he reached for something. He let out a long moan, spun a quarter turn, and fell to the floor. That had to be Martin, and I wondered whether he was injured or just overwhelmed.

The dogs had targeted the other man, and his curses and howls increased in volume. I was sure now that the voice belonged to Mick Fallon’s partner, Albert Zola. Bonnie continued to bark, with sporadic breaks to dive at the man’s legs.

“Hit him!” It was Goldie. “Don’t let him hurt the dogs!”

The goon was whirling one way, then the other. In the dim light, he and Jay appeared to be engaged in some bizarre tug game, but Jay’s snarling didn’t sound remotely like play.

“Goldie, do you see a light switch?”

I heard a wall switch click, but nothing happened. I stepped in closer to the fracas, hoping to see well enough to conk Zola. Jay’s body slammed into my leg and when I landed on my left foot, I thought the pain that rocketed through my ankle and up my leg might knock me flat.

Light flooded the room. Goldie had found the chain for a floor lamp.

“Get them off me!” Desperation twisted Zola’s voice and pitched it so high it was almost unintelligible. Jay had a firm grip on the man’s wrist and seemed to be trying to dislocate his arm. Bonnie snapped at his calf, his butt, his ankle, raising a bark-storm between strikes.

I held the rake up, tine-end toward the man’s chest, handle gripped like a javelin. “Stop fighting and I’ll call them off.” One side of the man’s face seemed to be a mass of scabs, as if he’d exfoliated with a vegetable grater, but it was so contorted with pain and fear that I wasn’t sure what else was wrong.

“Okay! Okay!”

“I’m calling an ambulance,” said Goldie. “Martin is hurt.”

Zola flailed at Jay’s head with his free hand.

“I said stand still,” I aimed the end of the rake at his face. “If you try to hit my dog again, I’ll shove this rake into your face.”

“Okay, just get it off me!” He held his free hand up in surrender. There was nothing funny about the moment, with my neighbor lying injured on the floor, but when I remembered the scene later, I wished someone had videotaped the last few seconds. Jay had lost his grip on the man’s wrist but was still yanking on his shirt and jacket sleeves and had pulled the shoulder seams halfway to Zola’s elbow. Bonnie had him by the front of his pants, and judging by the look on his face, she had more than fabric between her teeth.

“Are you going to stand still?”

“Yeah! Yeah!”

“Jay, drop it.”

Goldie was on the floor beside Martin. She called, “Bonnie, that’ll do.”

Bonnie released Zola’s fly and ran to Goldie. Jay rolled his eyes at me, still holding the sleeves. I forced my voice to be low and calm. “It’s okay now. Drop it.” He let go but kept his eyes on the man.

Sirens broke through the sudden silence, distant but getting louder. I glanced at Goldie, but she was busy pressing a chair-arm cover against Martin’s shoulder. “Did you call for help?” I asked.

“No, but we need to. He’s been shot.”

I turned my attention back to the man in front of me and took my hand off the back end of the rake handle to get my cell phone. The attacker saw his chance. He raised his arms, fingers spread, and lunged toward me.