the ground to do the jitterbug. I stepped back and slid my hand down towards my hip. A SIG is a handy bargaining tool when trying to dissuade two gangbangers from jumping you. The next move was theirs, within reason.
Ruffy didn’t take long to make up his mind. He took off across the park, fast, looking like a two-legged spider. It had probably been his M.O. since he was a kid. B-Dog, on the other hand, figured out after a moment that, if I was using a stun gun, I probably wasn’t a cop. He pulled a clasp knife from a back pocket and moved in.
I’d made a big mistake. I should’ve stepped back and drawn my SIG as soon as I’d lit Tyrone up with the stun gun. Instead, my good-cop training had taken over and I had waited to see if something would develop. In the academy, they call it waiting for the “threat of imminent danger.” On the street, they call it stupid.
But another thing the academy teaches is not to rely on your gun for everything. When cops across the country were found with a hand on the butt of their holstered gun, but dead from a stab wound they probably could’ve stopped if their hands had been free, there was a shift in training. Use your brain first, your gun second. In this case, if I’d gone for my gun, B-Dog would’ve opened me up like a birthday present.
So, I gave up on my gun, and just in time. B-Dog came in, swinging the knife in quick half-moons. His technique was wild, trying for a lucky cut rather than working deliberately towards getting me into a position where he could end it. He aimed high, towards my face, hoping I’d flinch. I swatted his arm away two or three times. This gave him the idea that I was afraid, so he moved a little closer. I surprised him when I did, too.
B-Dog was used to intimidating junkies and street punks. It didn’t look like he’d ever heard of an arm-bar. But I introduced him to the concept by wrapping my arm through his, grabbing it on the other side, and squeezing. He hollered and tried yanking his arm away, but wouldn’t let go of the knife. I squeezed more. He said, “Shit” and the knife dropped to the ground. I let up on the pressure, which he thought meant I was disengaging, so he pulled away.
But what I was really doing was giving myself room to swing a knee. Which I did at the same time that I yanked his arm and shoulder towards the ground. I wasn’t twenty anymore and cancer does lousy things to your stamina, so I needed to end this quickly. My kneecap connected just above the bridge of his nose. It didn’t feel like much on my end, but his body went slack, and suddenly I was holding a B-Dog-sized bag of Jell-O. The whole thing had taken maybe fifteen seconds.
I dragged him deeper into the park and propped him up against an old playground horse, the kind with the giant spring underneath. He bobbed and bounced as I held him in place. With my free hand, I took my gun out and kept it down by my side, out of sight of the street. No more tactical mistakes. Ruffy might decide to come back and Tyrone wasn’t going to stay on the ground forever.
I shook B-Dog. When he started to squirm and swear, I showed him my gun. Somehow, his hat had stayed on through our little tussle, though it was skewed at a angle and now looked like a cooking pot on his head. He quieted down, but his eyes flicked left and right, looking for a way out. I shook him some more.
“Fuck you want, man?” His tone, so cocksure on the corner, was plaintive and wheedling now.
“I asked you some questions earlier, Bertrand,” I said. “You can probably guess I’m still interested in hearing the answers.”
“Like what?”
“A local cop gets beaten and shot to death. Street business is down. Something bad in the ’hood is about to happen. You’re in the middle of it and you’re going to tell me what it is.”
“That all you want?”
“That’s it. Some information,” I said. “It shouldn’t be this freaking hard.”
B-Dog licked his lips and glanced down.
Ruffy didn’t take long to make up his mind. He took off across the park, fast, looking like a two-legged spider. It had probably been his M.O. since he was a kid. B-Dog, on the other hand, figured out after a moment that, if I was using a stun gun, I probably wasn’t a cop. He pulled a clasp knife from a back pocket and moved in.
I’d made a big mistake. I should’ve stepped back and drawn my SIG as soon as I’d lit Tyrone up with the stun gun. Instead, my good-cop training had taken over and I had waited to see if something would develop. In the academy, they call it waiting for the “threat of imminent danger.” On the street, they call it stupid.
But another thing the academy teaches is not to rely on your gun for everything. When cops across the country were found with a hand on the butt of their holstered gun, but dead from a stab wound they probably could’ve stopped if their hands had been free, there was a shift in training. Use your brain first, your gun second. In this case, if I’d gone for my gun, B-Dog would’ve opened me up like a birthday present.
So, I gave up on my gun, and just in time. B-Dog came in, swinging the knife in quick half-moons. His technique was wild, trying for a lucky cut rather than working deliberately towards getting me into a position where he could end it. He aimed high, towards my face, hoping I’d flinch. I swatted his arm away two or three times. This gave him the idea that I was afraid, so he moved a little closer. I surprised him when I did, too.
B-Dog was used to intimidating junkies and street punks. It didn’t look like he’d ever heard of an arm-bar. But I introduced him to the concept by wrapping my arm through his, grabbing it on the other side, and squeezing. He hollered and tried yanking his arm away, but wouldn’t let go of the knife. I squeezed more. He said, “Shit” and the knife dropped to the ground. I let up on the pressure, which he thought meant I was disengaging, so he pulled away.
But what I was really doing was giving myself room to swing a knee. Which I did at the same time that I yanked his arm and shoulder towards the ground. I wasn’t twenty anymore and cancer does lousy things to your stamina, so I needed to end this quickly. My kneecap connected just above the bridge of his nose. It didn’t feel like much on my end, but his body went slack, and suddenly I was holding a B-Dog-sized bag of Jell-O. The whole thing had taken maybe fifteen seconds.
I dragged him deeper into the park and propped him up against an old playground horse, the kind with the giant spring underneath. He bobbed and bounced as I held him in place. With my free hand, I took my gun out and kept it down by my side, out of sight of the street. No more tactical mistakes. Ruffy might decide to come back and Tyrone wasn’t going to stay on the ground forever.
I shook B-Dog. When he started to squirm and swear, I showed him my gun. Somehow, his hat had stayed on through our little tussle, though it was skewed at a angle and now looked like a cooking pot on his head. He quieted down, but his eyes flicked left and right, looking for a way out. I shook him some more.
“Fuck you want, man?” His tone, so cocksure on the corner, was plaintive and wheedling now.
“I asked you some questions earlier, Bertrand,” I said. “You can probably guess I’m still interested in hearing the answers.”
“Like what?”
“A local cop gets beaten and shot to death. Street business is down. Something bad in the ’hood is about to happen. You’re in the middle of it and you’re going to tell me what it is.”
“That all you want?”
“That’s it. Some information,” I said. “It shouldn’t be this freaking hard.”
B-Dog licked his lips and glanced down.
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