stance.
"Don't even think about it, asshole," I yelled.
They never listen. He pulled a silver plated revolver out of his waistband, but instead of aiming it at us, he pointed the barrel down at the dog.
"Don't!" I screamed seconds before a shot split the air. The dog yelped and Miguel dragged the shooter off the fence, laying him out on the ground where he kicked the gun out of his hand, and slapped cuffs on the still cursing man's wrists.
He hauled him upright and slammed him against the fence that rocked under the combined weight of the two of them on one side and the hysterical dog on the other.
69
A Forest of Corpses
by P. A. Brown
Cursing and struggling, he wasn't giving up. Miguel shoved him again. "Shut up or I'll toss you over there, and let Fido finish the job."
I had to admire my partner's quick wits. The cuffed guy subsided into sullen silence and glared at both of us under the dome of his tattooed, hairless head. Movement near the back door drew me around, Beretta still in hand, to find the woman we had talked to earlier standing in the doorway. There was a worried look on her lined face that already bore a lot of worrylines.
"Don't hurt him, officers. He's a good boy—"
We ignored her as we hauled the disarmed 'good boy' past her into the house we had tried to enter earlier. She trailed after us, wringing her hands. "Are you arresting him? You can't arrest him, he hasn't done anything."
I made a quick study of the visible parts of the house.
Nothing suggesting illegal activity, but we'd have to wait for the warrant to search deeper. In sharp contrast to what Miguel and I were there for, the house was inviting and homey. The rich smell of cooking meats and sharp spices filled the small space. The stovetop was covered with simmering pots and pans.
Miguel shoved his arrestee down onto a sofa and began to list off the charges, first in Spanish, then in English,
"Resisting, carrying a concealed weapon and if I'm guessing right, a non-registered weapon—if you're still on parole that compounds those charges—discharging a weapon, assault of a police officer, animal cruelty...that'll do for starters. I'm 70
A Forest of Corpses
by P. A. Brown
sure we can add more as we go along. Where's Antonio, Ramiro?"
"He not here," Ramiro said sullenly.
I stepped up beside Miguel and leaned over, planting my arms on either side of Ramiro's head. He flinched back from me. "Where is he, cholo ?"
His sullenness grew. " No mames. Vete a la verga. "
I was in his face. "You kiss your mother with that mouth, pendejo ?"
He tossed out a few more choice curses, leaving Miguel with a flaming face and an angry set to this mouth. We were marching him out to our vehicle for transportation back to the station for booking when a teenage boy appeared out of a back room.
"Antonio," his mother cried. " Ese, vuelva a su cuarto.
The younger son ignored her just like the older one had.
He stared at us, his hostility ratcheting up until I knew he was going to do something stupid.
"No lo haga, el nino," Miguel spoke softly, his hand tightening on Ramiro's cuffed wrists. I could see he was getting jumpy. "Stand down, ese ."
Antonio opened his mouth to tell both of us where to get off. This time his mother took direct action. She latched onto the kid's ear so hard I swear I heard cartilage pop. Antonio yelped and tried to pull away, but she hung on grimly. Ramiro started struggling again, and I was tempted to ask her to take him in hand, but he subsided after a couple of sharp tugs on his handcuffed hands.
71
A Forest of Corpses
by P. A. Brown
The old woman let loose with a string of epithets that had even my ears burning. I had to admit, I was curious. If these punks had this at home, how had they ended up getting jumped in by a bunch of losers like Eastside? I guess it just proved the sad truth that the lure of the street was stronger than a loving family could fight. I took over babysitting Ramiro and signaled my
"Don't even think about it, asshole," I yelled.
They never listen. He pulled a silver plated revolver out of his waistband, but instead of aiming it at us, he pointed the barrel down at the dog.
"Don't!" I screamed seconds before a shot split the air. The dog yelped and Miguel dragged the shooter off the fence, laying him out on the ground where he kicked the gun out of his hand, and slapped cuffs on the still cursing man's wrists.
He hauled him upright and slammed him against the fence that rocked under the combined weight of the two of them on one side and the hysterical dog on the other.
69
A Forest of Corpses
by P. A. Brown
Cursing and struggling, he wasn't giving up. Miguel shoved him again. "Shut up or I'll toss you over there, and let Fido finish the job."
I had to admire my partner's quick wits. The cuffed guy subsided into sullen silence and glared at both of us under the dome of his tattooed, hairless head. Movement near the back door drew me around, Beretta still in hand, to find the woman we had talked to earlier standing in the doorway. There was a worried look on her lined face that already bore a lot of worrylines.
"Don't hurt him, officers. He's a good boy—"
We ignored her as we hauled the disarmed 'good boy' past her into the house we had tried to enter earlier. She trailed after us, wringing her hands. "Are you arresting him? You can't arrest him, he hasn't done anything."
I made a quick study of the visible parts of the house.
Nothing suggesting illegal activity, but we'd have to wait for the warrant to search deeper. In sharp contrast to what Miguel and I were there for, the house was inviting and homey. The rich smell of cooking meats and sharp spices filled the small space. The stovetop was covered with simmering pots and pans.
Miguel shoved his arrestee down onto a sofa and began to list off the charges, first in Spanish, then in English,
"Resisting, carrying a concealed weapon and if I'm guessing right, a non-registered weapon—if you're still on parole that compounds those charges—discharging a weapon, assault of a police officer, animal cruelty...that'll do for starters. I'm 70
A Forest of Corpses
by P. A. Brown
sure we can add more as we go along. Where's Antonio, Ramiro?"
"He not here," Ramiro said sullenly.
I stepped up beside Miguel and leaned over, planting my arms on either side of Ramiro's head. He flinched back from me. "Where is he, cholo ?"
His sullenness grew. " No mames. Vete a la verga. "
I was in his face. "You kiss your mother with that mouth, pendejo ?"
He tossed out a few more choice curses, leaving Miguel with a flaming face and an angry set to this mouth. We were marching him out to our vehicle for transportation back to the station for booking when a teenage boy appeared out of a back room.
"Antonio," his mother cried. " Ese, vuelva a su cuarto.
The younger son ignored her just like the older one had.
He stared at us, his hostility ratcheting up until I knew he was going to do something stupid.
"No lo haga, el nino," Miguel spoke softly, his hand tightening on Ramiro's cuffed wrists. I could see he was getting jumpy. "Stand down, ese ."
Antonio opened his mouth to tell both of us where to get off. This time his mother took direct action. She latched onto the kid's ear so hard I swear I heard cartilage pop. Antonio yelped and tried to pull away, but she hung on grimly. Ramiro started struggling again, and I was tempted to ask her to take him in hand, but he subsided after a couple of sharp tugs on his handcuffed hands.
71
A Forest of Corpses
by P. A. Brown
The old woman let loose with a string of epithets that had even my ears burning. I had to admit, I was curious. If these punks had this at home, how had they ended up getting jumped in by a bunch of losers like Eastside? I guess it just proved the sad truth that the lure of the street was stronger than a loving family could fight. I took over babysitting Ramiro and signaled my
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