fuck are you?” Grizzle said. His eyes were glassy and he swayed as he spoke. “Some kind of raghead lover?”
Up close, I noticed for the first time the gun in a holster on his right side. Ohio’s an open carry state, making it perfectly legal. I took a step back. Legal, but cause for concern with a guy in that condition? That was another matter altogether.
“I’m someone telling you to leave this lady alone.”
“We’ll leave her alone when she goes home. Where she belongs.”
“She is home, you nitwit. That’s probably why she’s buying groceries.”
“How do we know she don’t have a bomb under that?” said the scrawny guy with the tattoo, tugging on the scarf as he pointed at her dress.
“Stop it!” she said.
“How do we know you don’t have shit for brains?” I said. “Do everybody a favor and beat it.”
“Free country,” Tattoo said. “Except for terrorists.”
“The only terrorists I see are you two clowns. Why don’t you crawl back under the rock where you came from and we can all go about our business?”
“Make us,” Tattoo said, grinning.
“Are you deaf on top of stupid?” I said, reaching out and tearing the end of the scarf from his hand. He looked at me in surprise, as if I were a magician at a kids’ birthday party who’d just pulled a penny from his ear. I turned toward the woman, who rewrapped her scarf without meeting my eyes. I was turning back to face the cowboys when out of the blue Tattoo leaped onto my back. I reached around to try to pull him off, wobbling like a top at the end of its spin, and then gasped as he wrapped his right arm around my throat and cut off my air. What the hell? I thought. This was supposed to be a simple grocery run. I gasped as black specks floated before my eyes like flies hovering over dogshit. I staggered, spun around once more, summed up my available options, settled on one, and fell backwards, hard, into the car behind me. The kid made an “oof” sound like a guy who didn’t realize the medicine ball he was catching was quite that heavy, and dropped off me like a leech doused in sea salt.
I stepped away from him, inhaling deeply. “I said, beat it.”
“Let’s hold it right there,” Grizzle said, the gun out of the holster and in his right hand. Lesh hol’ it right there.
“Easy now,” I said, backing up.
He didn’t reply. He nodded at Tattoo, who slowly righted himself, walked over to the woman, grabbed her scarf again, and this time pulled it clean off. He shrieked in triumph like a movie Indian counting coup as the woman cried out and put both hands on her head.
I stepped in front of her, keeping my eye on the gun.
“Why don’t we all calm down a little? No one wants to get hurt.”
“Sure about that?” Tattoo said, charging up to me, scarf balled in his hands as he stuck his face in front of mine. I saw bloodshot eyes and smelled breath that would have wilted poison oak. “You shouldn’a gotten involved.”
“And you should try picking on people your own size for a change.”
“That’s what I’m about to do.”
“Have it your way—”
“Let’s get out of here,” Grizzle interrupted.
“What?” Tattoo said.
“I said, let’s go.” He held up a phone in his free hand.
“Gimme one minute with this douche. Just one fuckin’ minute.”
“Forget it,” Grizzle said. He waved the phone at Tattoo. “He’s saying JJ’s, now.”
Reluctantly, Tattoo took a step back, though his eyes never left mine.
“Don’t try anything stupid, ya dumb shit,” he said. “Raghead lover. Traitor.”
“There’s a cop,” I said.
“What?”
“Behind you.” He looked around. As he did I grabbed the scarf out of his hands for the second time that day.
He twirled back, eyes blazing, right arm cocked. But Grizzle whistled and held up his phone again. “JJ’s,” he said. Lowering his gun, he turned and limped toward a rusted brown pickup truck three rows over. Too far to see the plate.
“We ain’t done here, douche,” Tattoo said, following his partner.
“I’m free most Thursdays,” I called after him. He flipped me the bird. A minute later they were gone in a squeal of tires and cloud of diesel and a long, defiant blast of their horn.
I took a breath and turned to the woman.
“You all right?”
She nodded unconvincingly, phone already pressed to her ear as she made a call.
I’d had worse shopping trips, I consoled myself, reaching for my own phone. I was conscious, anyway.
Then it hit me: I’d forgotten to use my coupons at checkout.
Shit.
2
“JJ’S?”
“That’s what he said.”
“That a person?”
“Maybe. Or a bar. Or a pool hall in Spencer, Indiana, according to Google. I really don’t know, and I’m not sure I care. I was too busy looking at his gun.”
I was sitting in an Adirondack chair in my postage stamp of a backyard on Mohawk Street two days later. Sunday morning, the quiet kind that I don’t get enough of. Until a minute ago I’d been on my second cup of coffee, reading Dreamland and starting to think about breakfast. Hopalong, dozing at my feet, stirred briefly as my phone went off. I saw from caller ID it was Burke Cunningham. I almost didn’t answer, and not just because I liked listening to my new ringtone. A call from Cunningham on a Sunday morning was like the cluck of a dentist as she works on your teeth. The news can’t be good. On the other hand, because he’s one of the most sought-after defense attorneys in Columbus, Ohio, the news would probably involve a job, which I could use right at the moment. But it also meant an end to a quiet Sunday morning of the kind I don’t get enough of. I answered anyway. Unlike my conscience, my bank balance always gets the better of me.
“What’d the cops say?”
“They said it was a good thing I didn’t get my ass shot.”
“They did not.”
“Perhaps I’m paraphrasing.”
“Any leads?”
“Not
