That evening I sat on my front porch and sipped a margarita made with fresh limes, Manny’s Casamigos tequila, Grand Marnier, and blended ice. Why? Because vive la vida, that’s why.
And I needed a strong drink to wash away the day’s hurt.
Temperatures were in the fifties, possibly too chilly for a frozen drink. For lesser men. Beside me on the windowsill, Kix’s monitor hissed quietly. Manny left earlier but he texted, said he’d return tomorrow morning. Timothy August was on a date with someone who should know better.
I rocked alone, watching the video of Louis Lindsey storm around the backyard of George Saunders, cursing and threatening everyone. The scenario on my phone screen was a testament to the power wielded by men like Louis. George or Dianne could have called the police but it never occurred to them. George’s wife, despite her anger, was essentially hiding. Filming from the protection of her house. George, taller and stronger, huddled with his arms crossed like a scared little boy.
Louis’s words hit like hammers, even slurred. His accusations were whips and I found myself wincing as I watched. Years in the pulpit had given him a stentorian voice and iron armor and fiery eyes.
Whoa.
Mackenzie August, a little dramatic. Slow down on the margarita.
Two cars motored by on Windsor.
I kept watching. The ending of the video intrigued me. Louis finished his rant and he was leaving, stumbling to the gate, but at the last moment he turned, as if to say, “And another thing!” but the video stopped. I might be imagining it—I dragged my thumb across to scrub one frame at a time. Slow motion replay. I convinced myself Louis had said more that Dianne didn’t capture. A shame. It might’ve helped.
A man approached, walking the sidewalk across the street and whistling. Car keys bounced on his palm. Despite the late hour, and despite his good humor, he didn’t strike me as drunk. I couldn’t see his face; he wore an Atlanta Braves baseball cap.
I snorted. Braves. Those dummies.
He opened the door to a car parked on the street, one house down. Closed the door. The engine tried to turn over but failed. The telltale ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh of a dying battery, too exhausted to fully engage the starter.
The battery in my Accord was not exhausted. And I had jumper cables. And also, I was a good Samaritan.
No. A great Samaritan. The best Samaritan.
I set my phone down and met him on the street as he popped his hood.
“Dead battery,” I said.
He looked up. “Sounds like it, huh.”
“I got jumper cables.”
“That’d be helpful,” he said.
“I’m a great Samaritan.”
“Great what? American?”
“Both, come to think of it.”
He paused. Paused some more. And then.
Someone hit me in the back of the head. I’d been running my mouth, like a great American, and hadn’t heard the approach. The someone caught me at the base of the skull. A shot crunching both bone and muscle.
Getting hit in the head activates all the senses. For reasons unknown, my head filled with the scent of a childhood kickball. Strong nostalgia, strong rubber odor, and I tasted it too. My ears rang. I saw red and white flashes.
The man behind wore brass knuckles. The searing imprint felt stronger than from a mere fist.
Guy in the Braves hat hit me too, put a right hook into my stomach. Not a great punch but I was out of sorts already. Grabbed my collar. Pivoted. Threw me into the side of his car.
“Don’t know when to quit, do you,” said Braves Hat. “You were warned, asshole.”
He tried to hit me in the mouth, a left jab, but I rolled. He jabbed my shoulder instead.
Pressure built at the base of my brain. The world swayed. Streetlights burned and hissed in my eyes. I couldn’t see well, but well enough to find the guy with brass knuckles. Much taller and broader than Braves Hat. Brass Knuckles was a black man; Braves Hat was white, maybe Italian.
Diversity in the workplace, I thought, was good.
Braves Hat tried again. He threw an ineffectual right, which I caught on my bicep. A result of luck and muscle memory, and I shoved him. It was a good shove; I was bigger than him, and he fell.
“You guys from the cable company?” I said.
It was funny and I’d be proud of it later. At the moment, the words hurt. Like shoving bricks into my ears. The big guy’s sucker punch had been world class. Brass had torn skin and blood trickled down my spine.
Braves Hat got up. Glared at his partner. “The hell you doing? Hit the guy! What, you’re too pretty?”
“I did hit him,” said Brass Knuckles. “Give him the message and let’s go.”
I knew the voice. My access to memory, however, was disrupted. I squinted into the night.
“A sissy boy, you know that,” said Braves Hat. Glared at both of us. He made fists and rolled his shoulders, like preparing for a title fight. “All muscle and a pretty face. No heart. A got’damn sissy.”
“I almost took his head off, look,” said Brass Knuckles. Big guy, but not a big voice. I knew him. Somehow. “Tell him and let’s go.”
“Message ain’t properly delivered yet.”
Braves Hat came on. He kinda knew what he was doing. He didn’t loop or exaggerate his punches. He knew to keep his hands up, keep them in front, he knew to snap the fists. He knew to work quick. But knowing doesn’t make one adept. The punches landed around my shoulders and neck without stopping power. No real damage done. Had my head been clear, I’d have broken his teeth already.
I tried to back up but his car was behind. Tried focusing. Saw double. I ducked a right and he hit my ear.
Brass Knuckles watched.
Braves Hat made a mistake; he stopped.
Put a finger in my face. “Know what’s good for you, jackass, stop your got’damn investigation, understand me? Next time we—”
He was too close. I brought my foot up in a straight-leg kick. My shoe went between his legs; my knee connected solidly with his crotch. Not my best work. I’d bruised balls more effectively in the past. But it worked.
“Oh shit,” he said. Or tried, but it came out a wheeze with smeared syllables. Getting hit between the legs is like being electrocuted—there’s nothing to be done; no way to fight back, no way to alleviate the pain. You let it pass and hope you don’t die in the wait.
He laid down and moaned more syllables at Brass Knuckles.
“This about Louis Lindsey?” I said.
Brass Knuckles nodded. “It’s about Louis.”
“Not very priestly of him, hiring guys like you."
“You gotta back down.”
“Do I?” I said.
“Yup.” He took a step closer. “Or I gotta hit you more. Get it?”
The ache in my head made my teeth and tongue throb but I had some fight. I moved away from the car, got my hands up.
“I shove the brass up your nose,” I said, “it’ll make your apology to Louis more embarrassing.”
“Hell you will.”
He looked better than Braves Hat. He had a longer reach, more muscle behind the fist. If I caught one of those in the chin or nose, fight was over. But I got the impression he was uncomfortable. Didn’t want to do this.
The neighbor’s dog started barking. Kept at it.
I moved sideways and back. Giving way. Hands up, ready to parry. My head still swam. Should probably run, but…
Death before dishonor, and all that.
Stupid Marine Corp, getting us gallant idiots killed.
With a clear head, my odds went up a lot. But I didn’t have a clear head. Still I might be the favorite. Not my first rodeo.
We moved under a streetlight.
He paused. Leaned forward, seeing my face in the light.
“August?”
“That’s me.”
“Mack August? Ah shit.” Said it like shee-yit.
“We know each other.”
“Naw.” He lowered his fists and backed up. “No you don’t. Shit, he didn’t tell me your name. Told me you were just some guy.”
“Braves Hat said I was just some guy? Hurtful.”
The neighbor’s dog wouldn’t shut up. The noise bounced around my head, red hot.
“Listen, August, I’m gone.” Kept backing. “He didn’t gimme a name. Sorry about…you know. We good.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“We good? We’re done. Aight?” He turned and moved quick. Ran.
I wanted to chase him down. But my head throbbed and the world swayed. His first punch had nearly removed my head.
Also, as he’d turned I got a decent view of his profile and I placed the face. Name was Russel. I’d find him tomorrow.
I stopped beside Braves Hat, still unrecovered. I lowered next to him and the redistribution of blood made my neck hurt worse.
His hands were between his thighs. I patted him for a gun. Found a revolver on his belt and I took it. He complained until I hit in him the nose. A sharp chop, connected sideways, like trying to take it off instead of shove it in.
A gout of blood spurted onto the street and he made a gurgling groan.
“The Braves? You deserve it. Come back,” I said, “and I’ll rip your ears off. Stick to bullying guys smaller than you.”
I walked stiffly back to my porch. Finished the margarita in one drink.
The normally docile dog behind my house still howled. Last time the dog’d done that we had an intruder.
I checked the revolver. It was loaded. I stepped into my living room, let the door close softly behind. Cleared the main level.
Dog still baying. Head still throbbing.
Went upstairs, revolver held low and ready.
Rooms were empty; no one here. Kix slept, unaware his old man’s head was splitting. I turned to go.
I spotted it then. My heart froze.
A pink toy was in Kix’s crib. New. Not there earlier when I put him to bed. Someone had been in here. I picked the thing up. A stuffed goat.
Outside, the dog was losing energy. He’d seen an intruder. Warned the world but I’d been busy. The interloper was gone now, and so the dog ceased the siren.
I squeezed the toy and fumed.
A goat? What on earth.