The driver’s-side door on the Ford tore open too fast, springing on the hinges. Broker spun and heard a burst of unintelligible words, like profanity; a taunting back and forth between the man and woman. He could actually see the spat rise in a cloud of frosted breath over the top of the truck cab. The door slammed. Klumpe stalked around the back of the truck.
Broker shoved with his right arm, pushing Kit away. “Kit, go stand by the side of the school. Now!”
“Don’t yell at me.” Kit bristled.
“Move!”
Klumpe stepped between the back of the truck and the front of the Crown Vic and came onto the slippery school sidewalk. The cop sitting in the car bowed his head and swung it slowly from side to side. Through the windshield, Broker could read the pained silent grimace that formed on the cop’s lips:
Kit was clear, but Klumpe, in his face now, swung up his right hand, pointing his finger like a no-neck Uncle Sam.
“You owe my son an apology,” Klumpe stated.
Broker took it in fast: the window on the passenger side of the truck zipped down, framing the wife and kid, a glowering gallery. The cop heaved from his car, calling out, “Now, Jimmy, take it easy…”
Some parts of Broker, the old street parts, were going on automatic; other parts were stunned, treading on new ground, not sure what the rules were. He’d had custody of Kit when she was a toddler; Nina had her in Europe after kindergarten. He had handled a lot of pissed off, drunk, and just plain crazy people in his life. But he’d never dealt with an infuriated parent who was mad at
Hopefully the cop coming up behind Klumpe would chill it out. So he smiled, hands extended, palms out, reasonable. “Hey, fella; like the officer says, take it easy…”
The smile only infuriated Klumpe. The wife yelling-all her makeup curdling to war paint-“Don’t take any shit, Jimmy,” didn’t help.
“Sneaky little bitch sucker-punched my son, and you owe us an apology,” Klumpe yelled as he set his feet and balled his beefy hands into fists. A puff of angry white breath crossed the short space between their faces. Broker smelled the pancakes and syrup Klumpe had for breakfast. And, more significantly, caught a sour curdle of alcohol over syrup. Felt it actually in an angry spray of his spit. Broker did a fast shuffle between street rules and the new world of parent etiquette.
Okay, this Klumpe asshole was getting ready to hit him.
And he’d had just about enough of this “sneaky little bitch” routine.
Street won.
Klumpe had forty pounds on Broker, went 220 maybe, but he looked out of shape and puffy. But also a little nuts, like his wife. As he cocked his right fist back to throw the punch and charged, Broker instinctively closed the distance, his left hand drifting up, extending, palm still open to trap the punch before Klumpe could power it forward. Simultaneously, he fended Klumpe’s left hand away with his right hand, clamped down on the wrist, twisted, and levered the arm straight into a come-along hold.
The effect was to rotate Klumpe a half turn. When the bigger man was off balance, Broker stepped in fast behind him, whipped his right arm around Klumpe’s neck, scissoring the biceps and the forearm on either side of the throat. Now Broker lowered his forehead and pressed Klumpe’s head firmly into the V formed by his arm. His left hand came up and applied crushing pressure to his right hand. Smooth, pure reflex; it took less than two seconds.
Klumpe struggled briefly, then started to fade as the blood supply to his brain was cut off. The instant he felt the resistance cease, Broker loosened the restraint and stepped back. Klumpe staggered, flailing around. Lost his footing.
Broker backed away, hands up and fingers spread open. Klumpe fell face forward, unable to get his flailing hands up to break his fall. Red stippled the snow-packed concrete under his dripping nose.
Big Klumpe and little Klumpe had both caught some nosebleed action this morning.
As Klumpe went down, he was replaced by the cop, who now stood over him pointing his finger at Broker.
“You. Move away.”
“Yes, officer.”
The cop removed a green bandanna from his jacket pocket and thrust it in Klumpe’s face. “Here, Jimmy; hold this on your nose. Then get up and go sit in the front seat of my car. You hear? I mean it, Jimmy.”
Klumpe shook his head back and forth, blinked, took the hanky. “Okay. Okay.”
The wife yelled from the car, “Keith, you gonna let him get away with that!”
Nygard ignored her, bellying up to Broker. Broker asked, “Am I in trouble here?”
Nygard looked him over, his eyes doing a fair imitation of two tired ball bearings. “I seen it all. Jimmy was out of line, and I’ll give him a talking to. So, officially, no-” Nygard narrowed his gray eyes. “But-between the lines- watch yourself. This ain’t the ideal way to meet the sheriff. What’s your name?”
“Phil Broker.”
“Where do you live, Mr. Broker?”
“I’m renting Harry Griffin’s place south of town off County Twelve. On the lake.”
“Uh-huh.” The tension loosened a bit in his face. Maybe Broker detected a faint glimmer of curiosity in the gray eyes. “I know Harry. That’s one of his jackets you’re wearing?”
Broker nodded. “I work on Griffin’s stone crew.”
Nygard studied Broker’s clothing; jeans, work boots, and a tan Carhartt jacket smeared with dirt from manhandling the oak. “You work this morning?”
Broker shook his head. “I work part-time.”
Nygard’s eyes lingered on Broker’s face for a few more seconds, and then he said, “Okay, collect your daughter and go on home.”
Broker pointed to the playground. “I got to get her gloves off that shed by the monkey bars.”
“Fine. Make it quick.”
Broker motioned to Kit, who was waiting obediently next to the school, keeping her face blank with some effort. As she joined him, Nygard called out, “Broker. This ends here. Clear?”
“Clear,” Broker said. He took Kit’s hand, and they walked to the playground.
“Dad, there’s a bunch of teachers and the principal watching from the door,” Kit said under her breath.
“Don’t stare.”
“How’d you do that? Knock him down?”
“Shhhh.”
“You gonna show me?”
Broker’s voice stiffened. “I think I showed you too much already. This isn’t funny one bit. You better start thinking about the C word.”
“Consequences.” Kit lowered her voice, deflated.
They walked to the toolshed on the playground next to the monkey bars, where Broker spotted one of Kit’s green mittens peeking from the snow on the roof. He lifted her by the knees, and she was able to reclaim her gloves.
Then they walked back to the truck, got in, and fastened their seat belts. Broker started the Toyota, pulled away from the curb, and checked the rearview. Cassie Bodine and her son stood stolidly in the cold a few feet from the sheriff ’s car, where Jimmy Klumpe sat, head on his chest, in the front seat with the sheriff. Exhaust from the police car and Klumpe’s truck swirled in a gust of wind, cloaking them like smoke over wreckage.
He turned to his daughter. “We’ll talk to Mom about the fight with that kid. But we won’t mention what happened here, in front of school. You understand? She’s got enough on her mind, okay?”
Kit blew on her hands, rubbed them together. Then she sucked on her skinned knuckle. “Yes, Dad.”
