“There's nothing we can do for them now and if we don't get out of here we'll be next.” I pulled out my shirttail and wiped off the doorknob and the wall where she touched it. We turned and ran down the rear stairs hand-in-hand, trying to put the horror of the kitchen behind us. When we reached the rear gate, I heard Sandy's pained voice call to me as she tugged on my arm. “Slow down, damn it. If I fall, I really will break my butt!”
She was right. I slowed down and we stopped at the gate to take some deep breaths and clear our heads. “We'll head back downtown,” I told her. “I need some time to think.”
Her hand was still gripped in mine as we turned east up the alley and jogged slowly away. Side-by-side, our footsteps were finally in synch as they splashed and echoed off the old, worn asphalt. We had gone no more than a hundred feet when I heard the unmistakable “Pop! Pop! Pop!” of a silenced pistol firing at us from the shadows further up the alley. I heard one shot, then another and a third, as the slugs smacked into the heavy wooden garage door behind us like a bass drum. I didn't stop to think. I wrapped my arms around Sandy, picked her up, and dived blindly over a row of trashcans that stood against the brick wall to our left. The three shots had not come all that close, but I knew there were more bullets where those came from.
I twisted in the air as I went over the cans and landed on my back with Sandy on top. I got a sharp elbow in the ribs for my trouble, but I kept rolling until I had her jammed up against the wall and she couldn't get up, which was good. I turned my head and looked out through a gap in the cans. Across the alley, the dim outline of a man stepped from the shadows two houses ahead of us. I couldn't make out his features, but he had a pistol in his hand with a fat, ugly silencer screwed onto the barrel. A silencer? That ruled out the cops and the Neighborhood Watch Committee.
He came toward us in a low crouch, taking one small, hesitant step at a time as if he was trying to figure out his next move. Not that there was much we could do to stop him. We were safe for the moment, hidden in the deep shadows behind the cans, but we were trapped. I thought of making a run for it to draw the goon's attention away from Sandy but I knew that wouldn't accomplish much either. After he killed me, he would come back and do her. I looked through the crack again and saw the goon still hadn't come much more than halfway across the alley. That was something. He missed with his first three shots and that was something else. I couldn't see his face, but maybe he was scared of us, too. Maybe he was new at this. Maybe he wasn't sure if we were armed. Maybe there was a river of cold sweat running down his back just like mine. Maybe, but he kept edging closer, swinging the pistol back and forth.
“Ay! Give it up, guy,” he growled in a nervous, bass voice. “Youse two can come on out, I won't shoot ya, honest. I just wanna talk.”
“That's no Fed,” I heard Sandy mumble.
“Shut up!” I whispered, pushing her against the wall.
The goon was getting frustrated. He raised the pistol and shot twice more. One bullet slammed into the battered metal trashcans next to me with a loud, 'Pa-loonk!' and the other exploded on the soft brick of the garage wall behind us, showering us with red dust and chips of cracked clay. Two more shots and two more misses. That made five in all, but he wasn't likely to miss with very many more.
Sandy jabbed her elbow into my ribs again and tried to get up, but I shoved her back down on the muddy ground and leaned on her. “You son of a bitch!” she mumbled into the wall, furious at me, but I kept her there.
Fortunately, the gunman wasn't very bright. He could have ended it quickly if he had circled around the cans and come in behind us, but he didn't do that. And by not doing it with speed and determination, he gave us a chance. Quickly and quietly, I drew my legs beneath me and pushed myself up into a low crouch. He had a gun, which was his edge, but I was wound tighter than a Swiss watch. All I had to do was picture the bloody carnage back in the kitchen to flash back into a searing rage, but I needed something more. Something. Anything! My hands skimmed across the rough pavement of the alley searching for a weapon, or something sharp or heavy that might make a dent in the goon's skull. Other than a rotten head of lettuce and a bent soup ladle, the pickings behind the trashcans were slim.
When we didn't come out after the last two shots, the goon got really pissed. “I'm warnin' youse!” he threatened, but was cut short by the crash and clatter of an empty can tipping over across the alley and another screeching stampede of cats. When they dashed out Doug's kitchen door, they must have run through the back yard into the alley and the goon's gunshots spooked them all over again. They hissed and howled, tipping the can over. It went one way and the lid rattled the other and that spooked the goon. He turned and began popping shots at anything that moved. Just when I thought I would have to take him on with nothing more than a soup ladle, an angry, fifteen-pound ball of fur, teeth, and sharp claws skittered around the corner and bowled into me.
It was Doug's big, black Persian. I dug my fingers deep into the fur on its back and picked it up. The terrified Persian screeched, its sharp teeth bared and claws flailing the night air as I sprang over the top of the packing crate like a jack-in-the-box. The goon was not more than five feet away as I heaved the cat at him like a medicine ball and with that first quick look, I knew I had him. His eyes went round as saucers as he saw those teeth and claws flying at him. If he had the presence of mind to turn the gun on me, ignore the cat, and pull the trigger, I would be dead, but he did not do that. He couldn't. All he saw was a ball of razor blades coming at him and that sealed his fate. He froze. I may have gotten low marks for form, but a perfect ten for accuracy. The big Persian hit the guy flush in the chest. In that instant I had no doubt the cat understood what had happened to Doug and who was responsible. With claws flashing like four chain saws, it dug in and ran up the goon's chest, face, and over the top of his head, sending blood, strips of cloth, and flesh flying. The goon screamed and stumbled backward, using both hands to fend off the cat. His pistol clattered on the rough concrete and I knew he had forgotten all about me.
But I had not forgotten about him. He stood whimpering, his hands covering his face as blood ran down the front of his shirt. I hit him with a roundhouse right, putting my shoulder into it and following through. That should have been enough to put anyone down for the count, but this guy didn't want to cooperate. He staggered backward, shook his head, and roared with pain, then lumbered toward me again, wiping the blood out of his eyes, trying to focus them on me. With the image of that kitchen floor seared on my brain, I wasn't running. He wasn't running either, and that was just fine with me. I wanted something to hit.
“Come on,” I said as I squared around and motioned to him. “You want some more?” That only got him angrier. I put up my fists and circled him to the right as he came at me in a bull-rush. His right fist caught me flush on the shoulder and the left side of my body went numb. That was when a dark blur flashed past me. Spinning and grunting like a 100-pound dervish, Sandy gave the goon a lightning fast karate kick to the forehead. She had small feet packed inside those Reeboks. The kick snapped his head back like a hard, straight jab from a middleweight and stood him upright. I remembered what those feet had done to Toothpick on the El platform in Chicago and this clown didn't stand a chance. It was all over in a few seconds and I hadn't even moved.
The goon tried to clear his head, but Sandy gave him a second kick to the face and a third, followed by a sweeping smash to the kneecap that buckled his leg, a straight fist to the throat, and a hard kick to the groin. That one dropped him to his knees, groaning. With his head finally down at her level, she finished him off with a spinning heel to the temple. His eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled sideways on the ground like a felled oak, out cold. She stood over him breathing hard, bobbing up and down. “Come on you turkey!” she screamed, daring him to get back up, but he never did. Lucky for him. She was a lethal little package riding a huge adrenaline high and I had no doubt she would have killed him.
“Hey.” I got to my feet and laid my hand on her shoulder. “You won.”
Eyes wild, she spun around and would have kicked me too if I hadn't backed up. For that instant, I wasn't certain she recognized me and I wanted no part of those size-six feet or those delicate little fists. I raised my hands in mock surrender and smiled. “Sandy, remember me? I'm on your side.”
Finally, she blinked and looked down at the unconscious goon. “Jeez!” she giggled with an embarrassed smile. “Did I do that?”
“It must have been something he said.” I bent over and felt around the dark alley, trying to find his pistol. My fingertips skimmed across the rough concrete, knowing it had to be there somewhere. Finally, I felt the barrel in one of the deep ruts. Picking it up, I brushed the dirt off and slipped it into the waistband of my pants, as she stepped behind the line of cans and rattled around back there in the dark. She let lose with an angry moan as she came out cradling her broken camera in her hands.
“Look what you did!” She glared at me accusingly.
“Me? What did I do?”
“You threw me back there.”
“The guy had a gun. He was shooting at us, remember? I'll buy you a new one.”
