I got charged with assault. When they ran my name through whatever computers they run things through, they noticed I was licensed as a professional fighter. Somehow that upped the ante of my charges to something- something assault with a deadly weapon. Apparently, if you've fought competitively, and then hit someone with your hands, then you used a weapon. If they charging me with assault with a deadly weapon, they had obviously not looked at my record as a pro fighter. Of course, there probably aren't charges known as assault with a light jab and weak cross.
Fortunately, Karl didn't get charged and he had custody of Al. I had no idea where they were, but I knew Al was in good hands. Al might be wearing a Notre Dame helmet and rubber gloves on his paws, but he was probably safe. That was about the only thing I was reasonably sure of, and the fact jail sucked. At one point I got ushered into a small court room, which by the way looked nothing like the court room Sam Waterson worked on in every episode of Law and Order. This one had a lot of battleship grey paint, cheap wood paneling, and it smelled like the stuff they spray on puke in grade school.
They arraigned me and set bail at $10,000, which didn't exactly put me in Margaret Stewart status, but it might as well have because I had fourteen bucks in my pocket. Compared to Karl, that made me Donald Trump.
I had one of those little boxes of Cheerios for breakfast, with milk that tasted pretty close to spoiled. Lunch was a bologna sandwich with one slice of bologna and bad brown mustard. Dinner was supposed to be spaghetti with meat sauce, but it tasted more like lumpy ketchup over egg noodles. Now, thirty-six hours in jail didn't exactly make me Nelson Mandela or some hardened guy from Goodfellas, but I could see why violence happened in penitentiaries. The jail consisted of ten cells on the first floor, that I was on, and I don't know how many on the other floor. Three cells down one black guy sang bad rap songs about 20 hours a day. Next to him was a middleaged man who cried a lot, and right next to me was a fat Michigan hooligan with bad gas. I had delusions of making a shank out of my commissary plastic fork and making myself king of the cell block. It's amazing what you'll do when you're sleep deprived.
At 10:30 Sunday night a middle aged, balding guard with leathery skin and a look of utter existential indifference came to my cell and turned the key.
'Dombrowski, you got bail. Stop at the desk and complete the paper work,' he said.
'Huh? Who made bail?'
'Stop at the desk,' he said. I got the impression this guy liked an economy of words.
I filled out a form and signed the bottom without really taking the time to read it. I got a copy of it and several pages of directions. I headed through the door that brought me back into the public area. I was a free man. Standing in front of me was Dr. Rudy.
'Hey Rudy! What are you doing here?' I couldn't help smiling ear to ear.
'Oh, I'm a Big Notre Dame fan. C'mon asshole, let's go; we got a flight to catch.' He turned without looking at me or saying anything else.
'Where's Karl and Al?'
'Your brothers-in-arms? Your militia? Or should I say the other avengers?'
'Hey Rudy-'
'Hey Rudy, my ass. They left yesterday morning after that nut-job called me. They're driving your El Dorado back to Crawford. They're probably there by now.'
'Wow, so you came all the way out here to make sure I was okay and get me out of jail?'
Rudy didn't say anything, just shook his head. He drove north toward Chicago and O'Hare Airport. He handed me a ticket when we returned the rental car and we sat in silence at the gate waiting for the flight to Albany. It was after take-off; actually after the captain had turned off the seat belts lamp, that he said something.
'Kid, you gotta listen to me.' He wiped the sweat off his forehead with one of those undersized cocktail napkins.
'Remember when I told you you might have some damage…'
'Rudy, I don't think-'
'You're showing the signs of a guy who has some impairment.' 'Impairment' sounded clinical and told me he was trying to make a point. 'Kid, you're showing the exact signs of someone who has been damaged.'
'What are you talking about?'
'The main thing is you're taking what Karl says as gospel. For crissakes, he's your patient. You know he's paranoidschizophrenic and you drive a thousand miles and beat some math student with a knapsack full of canned goods because Karl says he's trying to bring down the free world! C'mon!'
'It's not like you think.'
'Oh, fuck you, Duff. The guy wears a football helmet and rubber gloves, believes the government is fattening our food and thinks doctors are tracking them on their car's GPS systems.'
'It's not-'
'Part of what you got messed up in your head tells you it makes sense. Look, I've known you for years, and probably know you as good as anyone. I'm telling you that you're in trouble and you've got to get it together.'
'Rudy-'
'I mean, stay at home, walk that fat fuckin' dog and watch Elvis movies. I don't give a shit what you do, but don't be chasing bad guys with Karl because you're going to get hurt, or I probably should say hurt worse.'
I decided to keep my mouth shut the rest of the ride home.
31
I could hear a loud pound…no, it was more like a pumping sound. The flow of blood, my heart racing, and a loud marching band. The band was playing something faster and louder and it was out of control. As the tempo shot through the roof so did my heartbeat.
It was the Notre Dame Marching Band and they were going faster and faster, but it was also inside my head at the same time. The force sped up my heart and my thoughts raced. There were thousands of crazed people in green running and singing, but they were doing it with rage and they just kept on. The band and the throng following it all turned into the Asian kid, whose eyes burned red with fire. Without any warning, they all began to bleed — spurting blood from their eyes, screaming, bleeding, and screaming. The band kept playing louder and faster while the blood kept pouring. Something wet and scratchy came across my eyes. I woke up, panting, covered in sweat. Al was right in front of me.
'I figured they'd come back after this weekend.' My vision broadened. Karl stood right behind Al. I shook my head, just like an actor would in the movies when they come out of a nightmare. It looks stupid in the movies and it didn't help me in any way.
'When did you guys get back?'
'Just in time to catch you screaming in your sleep.'
'What the hell happened at Notre Dame after they arrested me?'
'Well, for starters, Michigan kicked their ass, but Al and I had a good time at the tailgaters.'
'Karl!'
'That's okay, we found Newstrom there. Or should I say he found us.'
'Karl-it's been a hell of a weekend; don't speak in riddles now.' I got out of bed and headed to the kitchen to make the coffee. Al sat on the back of the chair doing surveillance on the sparrows.
'I'll fill you in on Newstrom in a minute. I gotta tell you about the puppy mill. That's a whole mess of injustice going on there.' Karl started to get animated. Though Newstrom's schemes seemingly had to do with war, billions of dollars and the killing of innocent people, I knew enough not to interrupt Karl's train of thought.
'Go ahead, Karl.'
'Me and Al broke into the place on the way back from ND. They probably have 40 hounds in their under deplorable conditions. Tied up, dog shit everywhere, many of them over-fed and it's all set up to produce puppies for profit,' Karl got so excited he had to wipe the spit from his lips with the back of his hand.
'Karl, look, I'm all about the dogs, but we have to be realistic. This is a business for some people-like it or not.'
