Mike made frequent turns, apparently following no pattern, just cruising the neighborhood. He sped up or slowed down when he saw something-that’s what I thought he was doing. I was seeing it all through the lens of the camera I held to my eye.
Even as I fell in love with the area, I was growing edgy, as I do when there are big decisions to be made. Everything looked great, but were any of the neat-looking old men strolling on the sidewalks funny little old men who would bother my daughter? Were there sirens lying in wait for Michael behind the lace curtains? Were the sewers hooked up? Who would Bowser offend?
Mike seemed to be edgy, too, lost in thought, intent on the passing scene as he fiddled with the old handcuffs he kept dangling from his turn signal.
The cuffs were a standing joke between us. One night, just before we decided to cast our lots together, I cuffed him to the steering wheel and did him on the freeway while he drove. We both loved it, but it nearly got us killed. I had thought, now and then, when the magic grew cluttered with the daily chores, that I might try it again. Just for old time’s sake.
I touched his arm. “Why don’t you bring the cuffs in tonight? I’ll lock you to the bed and make love to you until you scream for mercy.”
“Uh huh.” He smiled with his mouth, but his eyes were elsewhere.
I left him to his thoughts and raised the camera again. Mike’s driving grew more erratic. I was about to say something when he sped into a turn and then, halfway through it, slammed on his brakes. The car behind us didn’t make the stop in time and rammed us. I heard rubber bumpers connecting, but no grind of metal, no broken glass. The bump was sufficient to bang my camera into the side of my nose, though. I said, “Ouch,” but there was no one there anymore to hear me.
Mike had bailed out his door, with the handcuffs, even before the bump came. When I turned around, I saw him at the driver’s side of the red Toyota that hit us, roughly hauling out the driver. Mike twisted the man’s arm behind his back, snapped a handcuff on one wrist, slammed him up against the side of the Toyota, kicked his legs apart, and then reached out and caught the free, flailing hand and cuffed it, too.
By the time I got out of the Blazer spewing coherent questions like, “Wha? Wha?”, Mike was patting down this totally befuddled man whose questions more or less repeated mine, with some surprisingly clear obscenities thrown in.
Mike tossed the man’s wallet, some loose change, and a Swiss army knife onto the hood of his car. He flipped open the wallet, read the license, then threw it back down.
I still had my camera in my hand. I wiped away the blood running down from the side of my nose and I did what I do: I took pictures.
The prisoner was an overweight, middle-aged, ordinary looking fellow in shirt-sleeves. It was hot, but not hot enough to make him sweat that profusely. His glasses had been knocked askew and he tried to set them straight by using his shoulder. Mike fixed them for him.
“You have no right,” the man seethed, straining against Mike’s hold. “You can’t do this to me.”
“Sure I can. I just did.” Mike’s voice was controlled, but edged with something dangerous I had never heard before.
The man hissed, “Do you know who I am?”
“The license says George Schwartz, but suppose you tell me the rest of it. And while you’re at it, maybe you could explain why you were tailing us.”
“That’s bullshit. I wasn’t tailing you.”
“Mike?” I said, wondering which one here was the lunatic. Mike only shook his head at me, as in, Go away. I was alarmed, but I still trusted that Mike knew what he was doing.
“Let me rephrase the question,” Mike said to Schwartz. “Maybe you could explain why you were tailing us before I beat the dog shit out of you.”
Schwartz wasn’t taking in enough air to gasp properly. In his position, I would have passed out from either anoxia or impotent rage. He managed to speak: “I’m an investigator for the district attorney’s office. Let go of me.”
“Marovich?” Mike smiled evilly. “Now, why in hell would Mr. Baron Marovich want to tail me?”
“Ask him.”
Mike yanked up the cuffs, making Schwartz wince. “I asked you three times now. Why don’t you save us all some grief and just tell me what this is about.”
“I don’t know what it’s about. Marovich told me to keep an eye on you.”
“Since when?”
“Since you called Jerry Kelsey and tried to set up a meeting.” “I can’t talk to my old partner without the D.A. putting the dogs on me?”
“I don’t know.”
I thought it was time for Mike to ease up. Poor Schwartz was hopelessly overmatched. He was about to lose the last of his dignity by crying or messing in his Dockers. I took a last shot of his face, then put down the camera.
“Mike?” I said again.
“Hold on,” he answered gruffly, but he relaxed his grip on Schwartz.
“I can’t decide what to do with you, Mr. Schwartz,” Mike said. “I could charge you with harassment, threatening a police officer with a lethal weapon-if you can believe this piece-of-shit car could be lethal. There’s a new stalking law we could try. Failure to signal before turning? How about plain old toostupid-to-be-out-on-the-streets? Maybe I should just shoot you. What’s your pleasure?”
Schwartz got himself together enough to answer. “This is bullshit, Flint. Total bullshit. Get these fucking cuffs off me right now or I’ll have your ass.”
Mike crossed his arms. “In a city as old as this one, there has to be a law still on the books against using obscenities in front of a lady. Now, if the lady declines to file charges, I’ll have to let you go this time with a warning.”
“Fuck you, Flint.” Schwartz was building up some angry steam now.
Mike jerked the chain between the cuffs, not enough to hurt Schwartz, but enough to make him madder. “Here’s the warning: You tell that asshole Marovich that if he wants to talk to me, all he has to do is pick up the phone. I’m a real cooperative guy. But if I ever see your ugly face, or any of his goons anywhere near my family again, tell that hell will look like Club Med in comparison with what I put him through. If we’re clear, Mr. Schwartz, you’re free to go.”
Mike gave Schwartz a shove as he let go of the chain. Off balance, Schwartz fell forward to his knees. Like a kneeling supplicant, he raised his face to Mike.
“Take these fucking things off me, Flint.”
“You can keep them. A little souvenir.” As Mike turned to walk away, Schwartz came up hurling his considerable bulk at Mike’s back. My camera came up with him.
“Mike!” I yelled, snapping the entire sequence. I didn’t need to warn Mike. He had set up Schwartz. He let Schwartz get almost within striking range, then he agilely slipped to the side at the last instant. Schwartz, in full flight and with nothing to stop him, crashed against the side of Mike’s car. As he slid back down to the pavement, the cuffs etched a long gash in the blue paint.
Mike looked over at me. “Did you get it all?”
“Yes.” I was so nonplussed I stood there frozen.
Mike pulled the slender key for the handcuffs out of his pocket and held it up to Schwartz. “Had enough, son? Come to papa.”
Warily, Schwartz got up and backed toward Mike with his wrists extended as far as he could. Faster than Houdini, Mike unlocked the left cuff and snapped it over the spare tire rack on the back of his Blazer. While Schwartz swore-none of it very original-Mike went to his car phone, called the local police, and reported a collision. And an assault on a police officer.
A black and white cruiser came right over.
“He rear-ended me,” Mike told the uniforms after showing them his badge. True, as far as it went. “I tried to talk to him, but he got froggy. So I had to cuff him. We have the whole thing on film. I’ll send you copies.”