an alarmed look.
"Did you come in here with another guy? A real big dude?"
I nodded.
"Clay says he's causing some trouble."
"Now, there's a surprise," I said. I got off the stool. "Where is he?"
"Follow me," the girl said.
Laurel plucked a lace shawl off one of the stools, took my hand, and headed into the crowd. She guided me to the other side of the room in about a quarter of the time it had taken me to get to the bar.
When we got to the metal door, Laurel put a cautioning hand to my chest. "Are you a cop?" she asked gravely.
"No."
She bit her lip. "All right. But don't get me in any trouble with the cops."
She pushed the door open and we stepped outside.
It was quite a scene. Two patrol cars were parked beneath us on the apron of pavement at the foot of the canopied stairs. Their blue flashers were on and their radios were squawking loudly in the hot night air. The sleazy doorman was sitting on the bottom stair, head bent, hat gone, hands between his legs. Another man, who looked just as sleazy, was sitting opposite him, one stair up, leaning against a canopy strut. His nose looked broken, and his left eye was black and swollen completely shut. A dozen bystanders were gathered in a semicircle in front of the patrol cars, staring at the main attraction -Otto Bluerock, who was lying on the pavement, wrestling with the cops. The cops -all four of them- were trying to keep Bluerock pinned to the concrete, but he kept bucking them off, like so many kids playing roughhouse with Dad.
"Jesus," Laurel said softly. "Who is he?"
"Otto fucking Bluerock,".I said with disgust.
I walked quickly down the stairs to where the cops were struggling with Otto. Two of them were holding his legs down, the third was sitting on his left arm, and the fourth was trying to get a pair of cuffs around his right wrist. Bluerock thrashed mightily beneath them.
"Why don't you arrest them?" he bellowed. "They're the goddamn lowlifes."
"Shut up!" one of the cops shouted. .
The cop who was trying to cuff Bluerock looked up, white-faced. "They won't fit," he said, with something like awe in his voice. "His wrists are too damn big for the cuffs."
At that moment, Bluerock managed to work his left arm loose again. He swung it up and toppled the cop who was holding it, then punched the cop who was sitting on his right leg and threw the one on his left onto the ground.
The cop with the cuffs jerked his nightstick out of his Sam Browne. "All right, motherfucker," he said. "You asked for it. You're going to get it."
Bluerock snarled at him and lunged at his pants leg. The cop brought the stick down hard on top of Bluerock's head. The stick made a pock like a mallet hitting a croquet ball. Otto groaned and fell backward, his fingers still grasping the cop's trouser cuff. The cop jerked his leg loose and raised the stick again.
I yelled, "Hold it!" at the top of my lungs.
The cop with the stick whirled around, his face livid with anger.
"Hit that man again," I said, "and I'll see to it that you serve time for aggravated assault."
"And just who the fuck are you?" he shouted, jabbing me with the stick.
I reached into my jacket with my left hand and pulled out my old badge -the one I'd worn as a deputy with the DA's office. "I'm a sworn officer of the court," I said, flashing the badge at him. "Just like you."
The cop stared furiously at the badge in its leather case. I could tell that he thought it was a phony. I could also tell that he was no killer just a tough man who'd lost his cool. Which wasn't to say that he'd liked me telling him his job. No cop likes that, and I knew that I'd pay for it later on, when he found out that his instinct had been right. But at that moment, the badge was enough of a distraction to calm him down. He glared at Otto, who was groaning on the pavement, and back at my badge. Then he slipped the nightstick slowly into his belt.
"Put that asshole in the car," he said to the other cops. "As for you" -he turned to me-
"Did you come in here with another guy? A real big dude?"
I nodded.
"Clay says he's causing some trouble."
"Now, there's a surprise," I said. I got off the stool. "Where is he?"
"Follow me," the girl said.
Laurel plucked a lace shawl off one of the stools, took my hand, and headed into the crowd. She guided me to the other side of the room in about a quarter of the time it had taken me to get to the bar.
When we got to the metal door, Laurel put a cautioning hand to my chest. "Are you a cop?" she asked gravely.
"No."
She bit her lip. "All right. But don't get me in any trouble with the cops."
She pushed the door open and we stepped outside.
It was quite a scene. Two patrol cars were parked beneath us on the apron of pavement at the foot of the canopied stairs. Their blue flashers were on and their radios were squawking loudly in the hot night air. The sleazy doorman was sitting on the bottom stair, head bent, hat gone, hands between his legs. Another man, who looked just as sleazy, was sitting opposite him, one stair up, leaning against a canopy strut. His nose looked broken, and his left eye was black and swollen completely shut. A dozen bystanders were gathered in a semicircle in front of the patrol cars, staring at the main attraction -Otto Bluerock, who was lying on the pavement, wrestling with the cops. The cops -all four of them- were trying to keep Bluerock pinned to the concrete, but he kept bucking them off, like so many kids playing roughhouse with Dad.
"Jesus," Laurel said softly. "Who is he?"
"Otto fucking Bluerock,".I said with disgust.
I walked quickly down the stairs to where the cops were struggling with Otto. Two of them were holding his legs down, the third was sitting on his left arm, and the fourth was trying to get a pair of cuffs around his right wrist. Bluerock thrashed mightily beneath them.
"Why don't you arrest them?" he bellowed. "They're the goddamn lowlifes."
"Shut up!" one of the cops shouted. .
The cop who was trying to cuff Bluerock looked up, white-faced. "They won't fit," he said, with something like awe in his voice. "His wrists are too damn big for the cuffs."
At that moment, Bluerock managed to work his left arm loose again. He swung it up and toppled the cop who was holding it, then punched the cop who was sitting on his right leg and threw the one on his left onto the ground.
The cop with the cuffs jerked his nightstick out of his Sam Browne. "All right, motherfucker," he said. "You asked for it. You're going to get it."
Bluerock snarled at him and lunged at his pants leg. The cop brought the stick down hard on top of Bluerock's head. The stick made a pock like a mallet hitting a croquet ball. Otto groaned and fell backward, his fingers still grasping the cop's trouser cuff. The cop jerked his leg loose and raised the stick again.
I yelled, "Hold it!" at the top of my lungs.
The cop with the stick whirled around, his face livid with anger.
"Hit that man again," I said, "and I'll see to it that you serve time for aggravated assault."
"And just who the fuck are you?" he shouted, jabbing me with the stick.
I reached into my jacket with my left hand and pulled out my old badge -the one I'd worn as a deputy with the DA's office. "I'm a sworn officer of the court," I said, flashing the badge at him. "Just like you."
The cop stared furiously at the badge in its leather case. I could tell that he thought it was a phony. I could also tell that he was no killer just a tough man who'd lost his cool. Which wasn't to say that he'd liked me telling him his job. No cop likes that, and I knew that I'd pay for it later on, when he found out that his instinct had been right. But at that moment, the badge was enough of a distraction to calm him down. He glared at Otto, who was groaning on the pavement, and back at my badge. Then he slipped the nightstick slowly into his belt.
"Put that asshole in the car," he said to the other cops. "As for you" -he turned to me-
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