“Move carefully,” Washington whispered.
“I’m not budging,” John said sharply, loud enough for the cop to hear. “Out, asshole.”
“It’s not ‘asshole.’ It’s ‘Colonel,’” John replied sharply. “Get out now,” and the cop shouldered the weapon, pointing it straight at John’s head.
“Better do what he says,” Charlie said bitterly. “Get out, John.”
“Hey, everybody chill. It’s ok,” Washington said, and his speech pattern had instantly changed from Marine DI to comfortable, laid-back African-American southern.
“Come on, bro,” Washington said, patting John on the shoulder with his left hand even as he slipped the .45 behind his back. “It’s cool; just do what the man says.”
Washington carefully eased out of the car, putting his hands up in the air. He walked up to the cop grinning, his gait loose and relaxed… and a second later the officer was flat out on the ground. The second cop started to swing his AR-15 around, but the .45, that Washington had kept tucked into his belt behind his back was now leveled straight at the second cop’s head.
“Move an inch, Officer, and you are history.”
The cop hesitated.
“No one gets hurt,” Washington said coolly. “Mr. Fuller is going in to see Mr. Torrell. Everything will turn out fine and then we drive away. We’ll all just sit here, wait, and talk like friends. Now son, either drop the gun or I promise you, you will be dead in five seconds.”
The officer laid the AR down.
“Boys, take their rifles. Their pistols, too.”
Washington kept the pistol leveled as Jeremiah and Phil disarmed the two cops, the one who had been knocked flat with one blow sitting up, red faced, blood trickling down from a broken nose.
“Sorry I had to do that to you, son,” Washington said, then turned to Charlie.
“Mr. Fuller, I think you should walk in. If the order is out to confiscate, we’ll definitely lose this car trying to drive to the county office. We’ll wait here.”
“I’ll go along,” John said.
“Ah, Colonel, sir,” Washington interjected. “I think you need to stay here.”
“Why?”
“More cops might come along and I just have these two boys.”
John nodded, took one of the AR-15s, and looked over at Charlie.
“I’ll get back here as fast as I can,” Charlie said. “Now listen, if for some chance I’m not back in,” he looked down at his old-style wristwatch, “make it two hours, go for home. If it looks like you might lose the car, or have to fight, get the hell out and I’ll walk home later. Ok?”
“Sure, Charlie.”
Charlie turned and set off at a slow trot to the twin buildings of the courthouse and county office. Watching him go, John had the same thought he always did when seeing the twin towers of Asheville, the famous local legend how back in 1943 the pilot of the B-17 bomber
Morgan was gone now several years, buried in the veterans cemetery in Black Mountain, and John turned to look back at the cop with the broken nose, the old Edsel, the two wide-eyed students of his…. My God, yet again, it was frightful to contemplate how much had changed.
“You all right?” John asked, trying to sound friendly, squatting down by the cop’s side.
“Screw you, you asshole,” he snapped. “That black son of a bitch broke my nose.”
Washington looked down at him and shook his head.
“You’re lucky that’s all I broke,” he said softly, all sympathy now gone. “And next time you address the gentleman, the first two words out of your mouth are ‘Colonel, sir,’ and as for me ‘Sergeant’ will be just fine.
“Boys, help him to the side of the road; put him behind that Honda SUV.” He turned and looked at the other cop. “Would you mind going over and sitting down there as well.”
The second cop nodded, saying nothing.
“Phil, get back into the Edsel. Turn it off, but be ready to fire it up if I give the word. Colonel, how about you and I stand sentry.”
Washington leaned against the bridge railing, John beside him, and from a distance it would look like nothing had changed.
John pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and saw the second cop looking up at him.
“Want one?”
“Yes, sir.”
John pulled one out, handed it down, the cop motioning to his pocket. Washington nodded and the cop drew out a lighter.
“Damn, thank you, sir. Ran out of smokes two days ago.”
John, still holding the pack, looked down and counted. There were eight cigarettes left. He pulled two more out and handed them over.
“Hey, thanks, sir.”
The universal gesture of a trade to cement the peace kicked in at that moment and John could see the second cop relax, exhaling with pleasure after he took a deep puff.
John looked over at the cop who was gingerly touching his now-swollen nose that was still leaking blood.
“You smoke?”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Hey now,” Washington said.
“Gus, you just don’t know when to shut the hell up,” the second cop said. “Stupid shit, you got what you deserved for once.”
Gus shot him a bitter look, saying nothing but the gaze communicating that there would be payback time later for the comment.
“What’s your name?” John asked the reasonable cop.
“Bill.”
“What’s been happening here, Bill?”
“I guess you can see it, sir,” and though still sitting on the pavement, he gestured back towards the town.
“Looting, panic. Martial law declared yesterday. They actually executed a guy last night right in the middle of Pack Place. He had killed a cop.
“Got what he deserved then,” Washington replied.
“How the hell would you know?” Gus replied, his voice thick.
“Because, you stupid shithead, I’m a cop, but unlike you I got some sense to me. Twenty-four years a marine before that. You might not believe this, buddy, but I’m on your side. But frankly, in your case, shore-patrol types like you I eat up for breakfast.”
“Some people coming,” Jeremiah announced, and nodded up Charlotte Street.
“I hope you guys cooperate,” Washington said.
“Yeah, sure,” Bill replied. “I got no beef with you. Besides, you guys were right.”
“Wait until I tell the chief about this,” Gus said coldly. “Be my guest. I’m not the one who got thrashed.”
John saw where Jeremiah was pointing and the sight was absolutely startling. It was like a procession, a hundred or more. Mostly the downtown weirdos as Jennifer called them.
Asheville across the years had developed something of a reputation as a throwback, a “Haight-Ashbury East,” with a bizarre street life of aging hippies and New Agers, Wiccans, and just a lot of drugged-out kids. They were, to John’s view, harmless, though the more conservative element of the city and county had real difficulties dealing with them. Frankly, he sort of got a kick out of their presence; there was still, within himself, a touch of them from his own youth.
It was indeed a procession, some guys up front beating on drums, a couple of girls, one of them definitely cute, with long blond hair and a sixties-looking nearly transparent dress on, with nothing on underneath, an old guy,
