Read Online Night Vision by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online
Authors: Randy Wayne White
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landlord. You’ll just make him madder. Let me do the talking.”
Tomlinson’s attention remained on the girl, mine on Squires, who was still shouting threats at us and not slowing as he lumbered toward the water. I knew we had to hurry, but it would be worse to misjudge the situation. Steroid drunks, like pit bulls, are an unpredictable demographic. If the guy was as furious as he sounded, anything could happen.
I laced my fingers into the knee-high weeds that grew along the bank and pulled myself out of the water, hand over hand, trying to time it right. Friends sometimes chide me about my obsessive attention to detail and my hyperawareness of my surroundings—particularly if the environment is populated with strangers.
Sometimes, I am tempted to reply, “I’m still alive, aren’t I?” but never do.
Fortunately, my hyperwariness paid off. Again.
Just as I was getting to my feet, blue jeans muddy, a slimy mess, Squires appeared. He took a quick jump step, grabbed me by the left arm and stabbed the huge light into my face as I stood. He was screaming, “Can you see any better now, you son of a bitch! Who do you think you are, coming ’round here, giving orders!”
I pushed the light—a military Golight, I realized—out of my eyes and tried to back away, but the man’s hand was like a vise. In an easy voice, I said to him, “Calm down, Squires. We have a guy who needs medical attention.”
It didn’t help. “Screw you!” the man yelled, his breath hot in my face. “Who the hell died and made you boss, you goddamn do-gooder prick? You’re giving me orders?”
I kept my voice even. “When the police arrive, what are they going to think when I tell them you tried to stop us from saving this man’s life?”
Squires was trembling, he was so mad. He roared, “You’re not telling the cops nothin’, asshole! How you gonna talk to anybody after I snap your damn head off and use it to feed my gator?”
His gator? It was an unexpected thing to hear, but it told me something.
I was gauging the man’s size and his balance. He was about sixfive, six-six, probably two-eighty, but weight-room muscle is among the most common cloaks of male insecurity. To test his balance, I rolled my left arm free of his grip. At the same time, I gave him a push with the fingers of my right hand. It wasn’t an obvious push. It was more of a blocking gesture, but he didn’t handle it well.
Clumsy people have a difficult time with simultaneous hand movements, and this guy was clumsy. The little push turned his entire body a few wobbly degrees to the left. It was all the opening I needed, but I didn’t take it.
Now was not the time for a brawl. Besides, Tomlinson and I needed this guy’s cooperation if we were going to save the injured man. The illegals who lived in the park weren’t going to risk helping us—not if their blustering bully of a landlord disapproved. And I couldn’t blame them. They had to live here. I didn’t.
I squared my body to Squires’s, and said, “This is my last try to be reasonable. We’ve got an injured man and we intend to help him. Get out of our way and behave like an adult.”
That’s all it took. Squires screamed at me, “Or you’ll do what?” and he jammed the light toward my face again.
I had no choice, I ducked under the light and then drop-stepped beneath the landlord’s extended right arm. From the sound of surprise he made, the move was the equivalent of a disappearing act. Where had I gone?
I had disappeared behind him, that’s where. Years ago, in an overheated wrestling room, I had practiced hand control and simple duck unders day after day, week after week, year after year. I had practiced the craft of grappling so relentlessly that I had pleased even our relentless perfectionist of a coach, a man named Gary Fries. Fries was a wrestling giant, all five feet seven inches of him, and he would not tolerate mediocrity.
Thanks to that coach, I’ve never been in
Tomlinson’s attention remained on the girl, mine on Squires, who was still shouting threats at us and not slowing as he lumbered toward the water. I knew we had to hurry, but it would be worse to misjudge the situation. Steroid drunks, like pit bulls, are an unpredictable demographic. If the guy was as furious as he sounded, anything could happen.
I laced my fingers into the knee-high weeds that grew along the bank and pulled myself out of the water, hand over hand, trying to time it right. Friends sometimes chide me about my obsessive attention to detail and my hyperawareness of my surroundings—particularly if the environment is populated with strangers.
Sometimes, I am tempted to reply, “I’m still alive, aren’t I?” but never do.
Fortunately, my hyperwariness paid off. Again.
Just as I was getting to my feet, blue jeans muddy, a slimy mess, Squires appeared. He took a quick jump step, grabbed me by the left arm and stabbed the huge light into my face as I stood. He was screaming, “Can you see any better now, you son of a bitch! Who do you think you are, coming ’round here, giving orders!”
I pushed the light—a military Golight, I realized—out of my eyes and tried to back away, but the man’s hand was like a vise. In an easy voice, I said to him, “Calm down, Squires. We have a guy who needs medical attention.”
It didn’t help. “Screw you!” the man yelled, his breath hot in my face. “Who the hell died and made you boss, you goddamn do-gooder prick? You’re giving me orders?”
I kept my voice even. “When the police arrive, what are they going to think when I tell them you tried to stop us from saving this man’s life?”
Squires was trembling, he was so mad. He roared, “You’re not telling the cops nothin’, asshole! How you gonna talk to anybody after I snap your damn head off and use it to feed my gator?”
His gator? It was an unexpected thing to hear, but it told me something.
I was gauging the man’s size and his balance. He was about sixfive, six-six, probably two-eighty, but weight-room muscle is among the most common cloaks of male insecurity. To test his balance, I rolled my left arm free of his grip. At the same time, I gave him a push with the fingers of my right hand. It wasn’t an obvious push. It was more of a blocking gesture, but he didn’t handle it well.
Clumsy people have a difficult time with simultaneous hand movements, and this guy was clumsy. The little push turned his entire body a few wobbly degrees to the left. It was all the opening I needed, but I didn’t take it.
Now was not the time for a brawl. Besides, Tomlinson and I needed this guy’s cooperation if we were going to save the injured man. The illegals who lived in the park weren’t going to risk helping us—not if their blustering bully of a landlord disapproved. And I couldn’t blame them. They had to live here. I didn’t.
I squared my body to Squires’s, and said, “This is my last try to be reasonable. We’ve got an injured man and we intend to help him. Get out of our way and behave like an adult.”
That’s all it took. Squires screamed at me, “Or you’ll do what?” and he jammed the light toward my face again.
I had no choice, I ducked under the light and then drop-stepped beneath the landlord’s extended right arm. From the sound of surprise he made, the move was the equivalent of a disappearing act. Where had I gone?
I had disappeared behind him, that’s where. Years ago, in an overheated wrestling room, I had practiced hand control and simple duck unders day after day, week after week, year after year. I had practiced the craft of grappling so relentlessly that I had pleased even our relentless perfectionist of a coach, a man named Gary Fries. Fries was a wrestling giant, all five feet seven inches of him, and he would not tolerate mediocrity.
Thanks to that coach, I’ve never been in
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