Randy White - Everglades

Not even a little nervous, like he’d been through this many times before, DeAntoni said, “Sonny, did you just call me short?”

“Yeah, so what? You are short. Bald and short. You got a problem with the truth?”

DeAntoni said, “Maybe I’ll seem a little taller once I shove your head up your ass-give you a different perspective” as, from behind, James was telling them, “You men are on private property and we want you to leave. Jenny in there owns the place. Her and Bill-we all want you off this property.”

The guard at the front of the group was not the biggest of the men, but he had an administrative cool that indicated he was in charge. Pointing at us, he said, “These men stole one of our golf carts. Do you want to be a party to that, James? How about you, Bobbie Lee? Grand theft; a felony. Do you really want to help these guys? Maybe spend another couple nights in jail?”

DeAntoni began to walk toward the guards, saying, “They didn’t steal your damn cart; no one stole it. I borrowed it. Which reminds me: I’ve got a complaint for management. The damn thing stops at every bar we come to. I think your golf cart has an alcohol problem.”

Which got a nervous laugh from the locals, but tightened the expression on the faces of the guards.

DeAntoni continued to walk as he talked. Didn’t stop until he was standing toe-to-toe with the head guard, looking up at the taller man, the kind of physical tension spreading among the group that you sense in pack dogs just before they begin to fight. DeAntoni’s voice had gotten softer, more intense, forcing everyone to listen as he said to the man, “Tell me something: Are you the guy in charge of this bunch of candy-ass rent-a-cops?”

The guard was trying to force a professional calm into his voice. “You need to back away, sir. Get back. I’m not going to tell you twice …”

DeAntoni took two tiny steps closer so that he was, for a moment, standing on the tips of the taller man’s shoes. “I’ve got a proposition for you-sonny. Pick out any three of your guys. Let’s fight it out. My pal, the professor, here-”

Without breaking eye contact with the guard, he used his head to indicate me. “-we’ll take on all four of you. Tag team, if you want. No clubs, no tasers, just bare fists. You got the balls?”

The guard laughed nervously. I noticed a crisp trickle of sweat begin to river down his cheek. Behind him, a couple of his men were whispering, Do it, Jason; let’s kick their asses. Have a little fun, but Jason said, “Four of us against two of you? You can’t be that stupid. It wouldn’t be fair.”

DeAntoni edged up onto the man’s toes again, his chin nearly touching the guard’s chin. “You’re right, sonny boy. It wouldn’t be fair. Okay, here’s my last offer. You can have five guys. You and any other four you want. There. Like those odds better?”

From behind me, I heard James say, “That’s the thing about these guys. Without their weapons, they’re cowards.”

From the group of guards, a woman’s voice said, “Fucking drunken Indian better shut his mouth,” but Jason was still in charge, maintaining control, backing away from DeAntoni, telling him, “We’re not on the playground. We don’t negotiate with thieves. You’re gonna have to come with us so we can turn you over to law enforcement.”

DeAntoni told him, “Mac, you’re dreaming. Not a chance,” as I felt Tomlinson trying to push past me. I turned to see him using his fingers to comb his long hair back as he called to the head guard, “Jason? Jason. Arrest me-I took the cart. I mean it.”

I grabbed his arm, “I’m not going to let them dart you again, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

“They won’t touch me,” he said, trying to pull free. “You’ve never taken me seriously, but I’ve told you that I’m a master of t’ai chi-a completely passive, defensive martial art. Give me a chance.”

Looking toward us, DeAntoni said, “Stay where you are, Tinkerbell.” Then, turning back to Jason, he said, “So what about it, sonny boy? You candy-ass rent-a-cops take a hike right now-leave with the golf cart. Or let’s you and me roll around on the ground awhile. Unless maybe you want to go crying to the guru geek who pays all you little robots.”

That did it.

Three or four of the largest security staff came pushing forward. They’d apparently been talking among themselves; had already decided what they were going to do. They walked toward DeAntoni as a group. As they did, they unbuckled their tactical belts, to which were affixed handcuffs, saps, taser guns and empty holsters.

They handed the belts carefully to their friends, as the largest of them-a huge, black-haired man with winglike trapezoid muscles connecting shoulders and neck-said in a heavy German accent, “Bare fists, yah! Just like you said. Before I am done, you will be saying the name of His Holiness, Bhagwan Shiva, with respect. You will be begging me to let you say his name.”

DeAntoni was backing away, giving himself some room, causing a small human ring to form around him. He looked at me, and said, “If they double-team me, I expect you to bust a couple of heads.”

Staring at Jason, I lifted my hand and pointed as if my thumb and index finger were a gun. Speaking loud enough, I said, “I’ll start with him.”

I expected it to degenerate into a small riot. It didn’t-but only because DeAntoni immediately took command.

The German came out with his big fists held high, dancing and pawing at Frank, doing what appeared to be a clumsy imitation of a professional prizefighter. The other guards yelled encouragement- “Knock him on his ass, Yan!” -while the locals stood focused, not saying much, not yet willing to risk an alliance with losers, but interested.

Beside me, Tomlinson said, “Keep an eye on the muscle-bound guard. The guy with the biceps. He’s trying to sneak around behind us.”

He was, too: broad-shouldered man in his late twenties, black hat turned backward, biceps stretching the sleeves of his T-shirt. I watched him move slowly around the back of the little crowd, nonchalant, trying not to draw attention to himself.

Watching him from the corner of my eye, I began to move in his direction, still watching DeAntoni, too.

The German began to throw a fusillade of punches, swinging from the hips. DeAntoni got his arms up over his ears to absorb the first few blows, but, suddenly, he was no longer there to be hit. He ducked under the big man’s elbow, then used his open palms to clap the man’s ears, cymbal-like-a seemingly harmless slap that, in fact, was excruciating because both eardrums ruptured, judging from the blood that began to trickle down the man’s neck.

The German gave a throaty woof of pain and tried to turn, but couldn’t. From behind, DeAntoni had already laced an arm around the man’s throat, another up between his crotch. He lifted the German off the ground, and then dropped him-not hard-spine-first across his knee, and held him there, immobile, in one of the most dangerous of all submission holds.

To myself, I thought, They’re going to rush him now.

But the guards didn’t.

They wanted to. Adrenaline had taken over. But DeAntoni stopped them in their tracks, saying in a loud voice, “If you assholes take another step, I’ll snap his neck. You’ll take him home in a wheelchair. Kapeesh?”

After a micro-moment of silence, the guards still thinking about it, DeAntoni added, “Ask your big buddy what he wants you to do.”

The German, feeling the pressure on his spine, helpless, called to them, “Yah! Yah! No closer. We are done. We are done fighting! We take the golf cart and go, yah!”

I thought that was it. The end of it.

It wasn’t.

I’d lost track of the guard with the biceps. But he hadn’t lost track of me. I felt movement close to me; heard Tomlinson yell, “Doc! He’s behind you!” and I then felt a sickening blow just above my right ear. chapter sixteen