“You’ll answer me or I’ll tear it loose and beat you over the head with it.”
Lang and his opponent were suddenly bathed in light. “Hold it right there!”
Lang looked up into the headlights of a police cruiser.
Swell.
Possibly, some neighbor had witnessed what was going on, and the 911 system had experienced another of its occasional successes. More likely, it was one of the rent-a-cops Ansley Park paid to beef up the virtually nonexistent regular patrols of the neighborhood.
“Back, stand back,” the voice from the car commanded. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”
By this time, porch lights were flickering on up and down the street.
Lang slowly let go of the man’s arm and stepped back, his hands held above his head. The man beneath him struggled up, took one look at the police car and bolted.
“Stop!” the cop yelled with no effect whatsoever.
It took only a nanosecond for the officer to realize he would have to abandon one potential arrestee for another in full flight. The old bird-in-the-hand theory. A bird that required no exertion to reduce to possession.
Lang pointed at the running man. “He tried to mug me. Stop him!”
The portly officer took only a glance as the fleeing man rounded a corner, before turning his attention to Lang. “You got ID?”
Lang produced his wallet, removed his driver’s license and handed it over for inspection under the beam of a flashlight.
The officer looked up. “You live around here, huh?”
“I can vouch for him, officer.”
Both Lang and the cop turned to see an elderly man in an old-fashioned smoking jacket and carpet slippers. Lang recognized him from one of the few neighborhood-association functions he had attended. He couldn’t put a name to the face, but for once he was going to benefit from the mind-your-neighbor’s-business culture of Ansley Park.
“And who’re you?” the officer demanded.
“Frank Hopkins,” the man puffed, clearly chagrined the policeman didn’t recognize him. “President of the Ansley Park Civic Association.”
The cop nodded. “Oh, yeah, Mr. Hopkins, I recall you now. I spoke about crime prevention at the meeting at your house a year or so ago.” He turned to Lang, returning the driver’s license. “You say the guy was trying to mug you?”
“That’s right,” Lang improvised, hoping Hopkins hadn’t seen all of what had happened. “He jumped out of that car right there and grabbed me. He was going for my wallet.”
“Looked to me like he wasn’t very successful,” the cop observed, “but I’ll still need to make a written report.”
Lang gave a brief if fictional account of what had happened, stopping several times as the policeman filled in a number of blanks and added a written narrative. His manner suggested filling out reports of robberies, both attempted and otherwise, was nothing new. The report, Lang suspected, would be duly filed away and intentionally forgotten lest it be counted in the city’s carefully edited crime statistics, numbers that uniformly demonstrated Atlanta was a safe city with an ever-decreasing crime rate, which was cold comfort to crime’s victims.
“Your association dues at work,” Hopkins observed proudly. “If this officer hadn’t come along…”
It was as though he was personally taking credit for Lang’s perceived rescue.
The policeman put his clipboard with the report on it back in his car and walked around the one deserted at the curb, painting it with his flashlight. “Rented.”
For the first time, Lang noted the Hertz sticker just above the tag. “The name of the renter should be on the papers. Try the glove box.”
The cop opened the passenger door, reached inside and produced what Lang recognized as a parabolic listening device and a set of earphones. “What’s this?”
Specifically, Lang thought, it is a DetectEar, available for just under five hundred bucks plus shipping and handling from any spyware order-by-mail warehouse. With a collapsible twenty-inch dish and only three triple-A batteries, it can pick up voices three hundred yards away. A glance told Lang it had obviously been modified in some manner to pick up the vibrations of conversations inside, the modification that had caused the humming sound on the phone.
That there was a market for such things was not a favorable comment on contemporary American society.
He said nothing.
“Looks like some kind of spy-movie stuff” came from a group of curious residents who had gathered.
“Someone was snooping!” Hopkins’s tone indicated national security might rest in the privacy of Ansley residences.
Shrugging, the policeman put it in the cruiser and pulled a sheet of paper from the glove box, holding it up to the light. “Car was rented a week ago by a James Wang of Doraville.”
Doraville was an Atlanta suburb popular with Vietnam immigrants, Koreans and Chinese, so popular that the local city council had required all business signs to be in English in addition to their proprietors’ native alphabets so fire and police could find them in an emergency.
“That should make it easy to check out,” Hopkins volunteered. “How stupid can you get?”
If Lang was going to bet, he’d put his money on the fact Mr. James Wang of Doraville was in for a very unpleasant surprise. Either his identification or rental car or both had been stolen. Again, he said nothing.
Twenty minutes later, Lang garaged the Porsche and walked into the kitchen, where Gurt was bent over, opening an oven that emitted a delicious aroma of freshly baked bread. Manfred was seated at the kitchen table, moving a pair of toy trucks around with appropriate sound effects. Grumps, ever the optimist, was attentively watching Gurt in hopes of a stray scrap or dropped morsel. He gave Lang the briefest of glances before returning his attention to the stove.
“Whatever happened to the tail-wagging welcome?” Lang asked rhetorically before giving Gurt’s rear an affectionate pat, much to Manfred’s amusement.
“Vati schlug Mommy’s ass,” he chortled.
“It appears our son is learning more in school than we might wish,” Lang observed, lifting the little boy by the arms and swinging him in a circle.
Gurt straightened up, a pan in her hands, and gave Lang an appraising look. “You have been to the boxing ring instead of the office?”
Following her gaze, Lang noticed for the first time that one of the seams of his jacket was ripped and his knee gaped from a hole in his trousers.
“I met someone on the way home,” he said pointedly, setting Manfred down. “We can talk about it later.”
Gurt set the pan on the table. No doubt about it, it was home-baked bread. She gently slapped Lang’s hand as he reached to break off a piece. “And you can let it cool. Your friend Miles called. He said he’d call back at ten o’clock our time.”
Lang reached to his belt and removed the weapon he had taken from the listener, laying it on the kitchen counter. He was not surprised to see that it was another knock-off Tokarev.
Gurt’s eyebrows arched. “Perhaps the person you met was Chinese?”
“Too dark to tell, but that’d be my guess. Oh yeah, I got this, too.”
He dropped the wallet beside the pistol. By this time Manfred’s attention had returned to the trucks.
Gurt picked it up, flipping it open. “James Wang? He was the person you met?”
Lang took it from her hand and started pulling out credit cards. “I doubt it, but I intend to find out. What’s for dinner, er, Abendessen, ” he said, remembering to speak German in front of Manfred. Except when the subject matter was one he preferred his son not understand.
“Schweinefleisch mit Apfel. ”
Pork with apples.
With Manfred now in prekindergarten, Gurt spent her new leisure time preparing native German dishes contributing to both Lang’s delight and his potentially expanding waistline. He put in extra time at the driving club’s
