sidewalk, broken with root heaves from the sickly trees growing from their niches, I walked in the street, between the parked cars and traffic. That provided more visibility and distance from the lurkers in the doorways and the groups of young men hanging out and doing business.
The working girls didn’t give me a second glance, nor did their pimps skulking in their tricked-out rides. I obviously wasn’t competition, not dressed as I was. Hopefully my purposeful stride and no-nonsense demeanor would keep trouble at bay long enough for me to reach my destination.
Several blocks and corners later my hopes were dashed. In the dimly lit street, the gloom broken only by the flickering neon signs of a seriously run-down bar, two men drifted into the street in front of me.
Immediately I made a hard right turn and hustled between two parked cars, glancing back the way I came to see two more closing the trap behind me.
Had I still been a cop I’d have shown my badge and weapon, trusting to the double threat of immediate force and the weight of PD retribution to back them off. I could have tried it anyway, using my P.I. badge and a false claim, but if that didn’t work, bullets would be my only remaining response. Instead, I hurried down the steps into a half-belowground after-hours joint and pushed open the scarred steel door.
Inside, the clientele and bartender stared at me as if I’d stepped off a flying saucer. With my business casual attire and mixed-Asian racial type, I didn’t fit in among the mostly dark faces. Those few lighter types still matched the social group, looking as if life had dumped them over the side too many times to count, leaving them broken and washed up here like bloated and gasping fish.
“Got a back door?” I said to the ancient barman as I hurried past the onlookers before they could react further.
He pointed silently and I followed his finger past a stinking toilet to a portal with an Alarm Will Sound bar across it.
Ignoring the warning, I shoved the heavy door open, my rubber-soled boots making an unpleasant ripping sound on the sticky floor. No alarm sounded after all. Up the stairs to street level with my hand on my weapon, I debouched into a dark alley and immediately turned left, which would, I hoped, allow me to continue toward my destination while circumventing the bandits.
A rustle and groan from a nearby dumpster brought my Glock out of its holder and into a two-handed grip, but the bleak soul who leered a meth-rotted smile at me from within presented no threat. Trotting down the alley with the weapon held low, I glanced over my shoulder to see dark figures burst out of the door behind me.
Damn. I’d hoped they were just muggers, though four working together would be unusual. No, these guys seemed to be after me specifically. I was no runner, though. My workouts consisted of yoga, light weights and judo several times a week.
Fortunately, as a P.I. and private citizen I had an option I’d never have exercised as a cop: a warning shot.
To cops, warning shots are pure bullshit. If you’re under direct threat, you shoot to take the bad guy down and if he dies, he dies. If not, discharging your weapon will only bring a pain-in-the-ass investigation that will put you on a desk for weeks or months before it clears.
In this case, in this neighborhood, keeping my five quarts on the inside outweighed the slight risk of getting caught to face a reckless discharge felony.
Besides, were my pursuers going to call the cops? Not likely.
Aiming low, I put a shot into the ground halfway between them and me. “Back off, scumbags. The lead man gets the next one in the face,” I snarled.
They stopped, but didn’t run right away, another sign they weren’t ordinary lowlifes. “Not kidding,” I said, shifting my weapon.
They backed off, reluctance in their body language. “C’mon,” I heard one say, and then four figures sprinted for the other end of the alley, visible momentarily
The working girls didn’t give me a second glance, nor did their pimps skulking in their tricked-out rides. I obviously wasn’t competition, not dressed as I was. Hopefully my purposeful stride and no-nonsense demeanor would keep trouble at bay long enough for me to reach my destination.
Several blocks and corners later my hopes were dashed. In the dimly lit street, the gloom broken only by the flickering neon signs of a seriously run-down bar, two men drifted into the street in front of me.
Immediately I made a hard right turn and hustled between two parked cars, glancing back the way I came to see two more closing the trap behind me.
Had I still been a cop I’d have shown my badge and weapon, trusting to the double threat of immediate force and the weight of PD retribution to back them off. I could have tried it anyway, using my P.I. badge and a false claim, but if that didn’t work, bullets would be my only remaining response. Instead, I hurried down the steps into a half-belowground after-hours joint and pushed open the scarred steel door.
Inside, the clientele and bartender stared at me as if I’d stepped off a flying saucer. With my business casual attire and mixed-Asian racial type, I didn’t fit in among the mostly dark faces. Those few lighter types still matched the social group, looking as if life had dumped them over the side too many times to count, leaving them broken and washed up here like bloated and gasping fish.
“Got a back door?” I said to the ancient barman as I hurried past the onlookers before they could react further.
He pointed silently and I followed his finger past a stinking toilet to a portal with an Alarm Will Sound bar across it.
Ignoring the warning, I shoved the heavy door open, my rubber-soled boots making an unpleasant ripping sound on the sticky floor. No alarm sounded after all. Up the stairs to street level with my hand on my weapon, I debouched into a dark alley and immediately turned left, which would, I hoped, allow me to continue toward my destination while circumventing the bandits.
A rustle and groan from a nearby dumpster brought my Glock out of its holder and into a two-handed grip, but the bleak soul who leered a meth-rotted smile at me from within presented no threat. Trotting down the alley with the weapon held low, I glanced over my shoulder to see dark figures burst out of the door behind me.
Damn. I’d hoped they were just muggers, though four working together would be unusual. No, these guys seemed to be after me specifically. I was no runner, though. My workouts consisted of yoga, light weights and judo several times a week.
Fortunately, as a P.I. and private citizen I had an option I’d never have exercised as a cop: a warning shot.
To cops, warning shots are pure bullshit. If you’re under direct threat, you shoot to take the bad guy down and if he dies, he dies. If not, discharging your weapon will only bring a pain-in-the-ass investigation that will put you on a desk for weeks or months before it clears.
In this case, in this neighborhood, keeping my five quarts on the inside outweighed the slight risk of getting caught to face a reckless discharge felony.
Besides, were my pursuers going to call the cops? Not likely.
Aiming low, I put a shot into the ground halfway between them and me. “Back off, scumbags. The lead man gets the next one in the face,” I snarled.
They stopped, but didn’t run right away, another sign they weren’t ordinary lowlifes. “Not kidding,” I said, shifting my weapon.
They backed off, reluctance in their body language. “C’mon,” I heard one say, and then four figures sprinted for the other end of the alley, visible momentarily
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