Gone

“You don’t owe me any explanation.”

“Everything we’ve been through,” she said, “I can’t figure out what I owe you.”

Footsteps approaching the table rescued me from having to answer. I looked up, expecting Ms. Chirpy. More than ready for another drink.

A man loomed over us.

Big-bellied, ruddy, balding, fifty or so. Black-framed eyeglasses slightly askew, sweaty forehead. He wore a maroon V-neck over a white polo shirt, gray slacks, brown loafers. Florid jowls settled over the shirt’s soft collar.

Swaying, he placed broad, hairless hands on our table. Sausage digits, some kind of class ring on his left index ring finger.

He leaned down and his weight made the table rock. Bleary eyes behind the specs stared down at us. He gave off a beery odor.

Some joker who’d wandered over from the sports bar.

Keep it friendly. My smile was wary.

He tried to straighten up, lost balance, and slapped a hand back on the table, hard enough to slosh water out of our glasses. Robin’s arm shot out before her wine toppled.

The drunk looked at her and sneered.

I said, “Hey, friend- ”

“I. Am. Not. Your. Friend.”

Hoarse voice. I looked around for Ms. Perky. Anyone. Spotted a busboy up a ways, wiping tables. I arched my eyebrows. He continued wiping. The nearest couple, two tables down, was engaged in an eye-tango.

I told the drunk, “The bar’s back in there.”

He leaned in closer. “You. Don’t. Know. Who. I. Am?”

I shook my head.

Robin had room to back away. I motioned her to leave. When she started to get up, the drunk roared, “Sit. Slut!”

My brain fired.

Conflicting messages from the prefrontal cortex: rowdy young guys shouting: “We’re pumped, dude! Pound him to shit!” A reedy old man’s voice whispering: “Careful. The consequences.”

Robin sank back.

I wondered how much karate I remembered.

The drunk demanded, “Who. Am. I?”

“I don’t know.” My tone said the old man was losing out to the prefrontal bad boys. Robin gave me a tiny head shake.

The drunk said, “What. Did. You. Say?”

“I don’t know who you are and I’d appreciate- ”

“ I. Am. Doctor. Hauser. Doctor. Hauser. And. You. Are. A. Fucking. Liar.”

The old man whispered: “Self-control. It’s all about control.”

Hauser drew back his fist.

The old man whispered, “Scratch all that.”

***

I caught him by the wrist, twisted hard and followed up with a heel-jab under his nose. Hard enough to stun him, well short of driving bone into his brain.

As he tumbled back I sprang up and took hold of his shirt, breaking his fall to give him a soft landing.

My reward was a face full of beery spittle. I let go just before his ass hit the deck. Tomorrow, his tailbone would hurt like hell.

He sat up for a moment, frothing at the mouth and rubbing his nose. The spot where I’d hit him was pink and just a little bit swollen. He worked his mouth to gather more spit, closed his eyes and flopped down and rolled over and started to snore.

A perky voice said, “Wow. What happened?”

A nasal voice said, “That dude tried to hit the other dude and the other dude protected his lady.”

The busboy, standing next to the waitress. I caught his eye and he smiled uneasily. He’d been watching all along.

“You were righteous, man. I gonna tell the cops.”

The cops showed up eleven long minutes later.

CHAPTER 25

Patrol Officer J. Hendricks, stocky, clean-cut, black as polished ebony.

Patrol Officer M. Minette, curvy, clean-cut, beige hair ponytailed.

Hendricks eyed the spot where Patrick Hauser had fallen. “So both of you are doctors?” He stood just out of arm’s reach, notepad in hand. My back was to the glass wall. The diners who’d remained in the restaurant pretended not to stare.

An ambulance had come for Hauser. He’d greeted the EMTs by cursing and spitting and they’d restrained him on the gurney. Change had fallen out of his pocket. Two quarters and a penny remained on the deck.

“We’re both psychologists,” I said, “but as I said, I’ve never seen him before.”

“A total stranger assaulted you.”

“He was drunk. A brown Audi Quattro followed me home this afternoon. If you find one in the parking lot, he stalked me, too.”

“All ’cause of this…” Hendricks consulted his notes, “this report you wrote him up on.”

I retold the story, kept my sentences short and clear. Dropped Milo ’s name. Again.

Hendricks said, “So you’re saying you hit him once under the nose with your bare fist.”

“Heel of my hand.”

“That’s kind of a martial arts move.”

“It seemed the best way to handle it without inflicting serious damage.”

“That kind of blow could’ve inflicted real serious damage.”

“I was careful.”

“You a martial arts guy?”

“Not hardly.”

“A martial arts guy’s hands are like deadly weapons, Doctor.”

“I’m a psychologist.”

“Sounds like you moved pretty good.”

“It happened fast,” I said.

Scribble scribble.

I looked over at Officer Minette, listening to the busboy and writing as well. She’d interviewed Robin, first, then the waitress. I was Hendricks’s assignment.

No handcuffs, that was a good sign.

Minette let the busboy go and came over. “Everyone seems to be telling the same story.” The narrative she recited matched what I’d told Hendricks. He relaxed.

“Okay, Doctor. I’m going to make a call and verify your address with DMV. That checks out, you’re free to go.”

“You might check if Hauser’s got a Quattro.”