Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

I shook my head.

Robin had room to back away. I motioned her to leave. When she started to get up, the drunk roared, “Sit. Slut!”

My brain fired.

Conflicting messages from the prefrontal cortex: rowdy young guys shouting: “We’re pumped, dude! Pound him to shit!” A reedy old man’s voice whispering: “Careful. The consequences.”

Robin sank back.

I wondered how much karate I remembered.

The drunk demanded, “Who. Am. I?”

“I don’t know.” My tone said the old man was losing out to the prefrontal bad boys. Robin gave me a tiny head shake.

The drunk said, “What. Did. You. Say?”

“I don’t know who you are and I’d appreciate- ”

“ I. Am. Doctor. Hauser. Doctor. Hauser. And. You. Are. A. Fucking. Liar. ”

The old man whispered: “Self-control. It’s all about control.”

Hauser drew back his fist.

The old man whispered, “Scratch all that.”

I caught him by the wrist, twisted hard and followed up with a heel-jab under his nose. Hard enough to stun him, well short of driving bone into his brain.

As he tumbled back I sprang up and took hold of his shirt, breaking his fall to give him a soft landing.

My reward was a face full of beery spittle. I let go just before his ass hit the deck. Tomorrow, his tailbone would hurt like hell.

He sat up for a moment, frothing at the mouth and rubbing his nose. The spot where I’d hit him was pink and just a little bit swollen. He worked his mouth to gather more spit, closed his eyes and flopped down and rolled over and started to snore.

A perky voice said, “Wow. What happened?”

A nasal voice said, “That dude tried to hit the other dude and the other dude protected his lady.”

The busboy, standing next to the waitress. I caught his eye and he smiled uneasily. He’d been watching all along.

“You were righteous, man. I gonna tell the cops.”

The cops showed up eleven long minutes later.

Patrol Officer J. Hendricks, stocky, clean-cut, black as polished ebony.

Patrol Officer M. Minette, curvy, clean-cut, beige hair ponytailed.

Hendricks eyed the spot where Patrick Hauser had fallen. “So both of you are doctors?” He stood just out of arm’s reach, notepad in hand. My back was to the glass wall. The diners who’d remained in the restaurant pretended not to stare.

An ambulance had come for Hauser. He’d greeted the EMTs by cursing and spitting and they’d restrained him on the gurney. Change had fallen out of his pocket. Two quarters and a penny remained on the deck.

“We’re both psychologists,” I said, “but as I said, I’ve never seen him before.”

“A total stranger assaulted you.”

“He was drunk. A brown Audi Quattro followed me home this afternoon. If you find one in the parking lot, he stalked me, too.”

“All ’cause of this…” Hendricks consulted his notes, “this report you wrote him up on.”

I retold the story, kept my sentences short and clear. Dropped Milo ’s name. Again.

Hendricks said, “So you’re saying you hit him once under the nose with your bare fist.”

“Heel of my hand.”

“That’s kind of a martial arts move.”

“It seemed the best way to handle it without inflicting serious damage.”

“That kind of blow could’ve inflicted real serious damage.”

“I was careful.”

“You a martial arts guy?”

“Not hardly.”

“A martial arts guy’s hands are like deadly weapons, Doctor.”

“I’m a psychologist.”

“Sounds like you moved pretty good.”

“It happened fast,” I said.

Scribble scribble.

I looked over at Officer Minette, listening to the busboy and writing as well. She’d interviewed Robin, first, then the waitress. I was Hendricks’s assignment.

No handcuffs, that was a good sign.

Minette let the busboy go and came over. “Everyone seems to be telling the same story.” The narrative she recited matched what I’d told Hendricks. He relaxed.

“Okay, Doctor. I’m going to make a call and verify your address with DMV. That checks out, you’re free to go.”

“You might check if Hauser’s got a Quattro.”

Hendricks looked at me. “I might do that, sir.”

I searched for Robin.

Minette said, “Your lady friend went to the little girls’ room. She said the victim called her a slut.”

“He did.”

“That must’ve been irritating.”

“He was drunk,” I said. “I didn’t take him seriously.”

“Still,” she said. “That’s pretty annoying.”

“It wasn’t until he tried to hit me that I was forced to act.”

“Loser insults your date like that, some guys would have reacted stronger.”

“I’m a man of discretion.”

She smiled. Her partner didn’t join in.

She said, “I think we’re finished here, John.”

As Robin and I walked through the restaurant, someone whispered, “That’s the guy.”

Once we got outside, I exhaled. My ribs hurt. Hauser hadn’t touched me; I’d been holding in air for a long time. “What a disaster.”

Robin slipped her arm around my waist.

“You need to know,” I said, “that this was a civil case, nothing to do with police work.” I told her about the harassment charges against Hauser, my interview of his victims, the report I’d written.

“Why do I need to know?” she said.

“The way you feel about the ugly stuff. This was out of the blue, Robin.”

We headed for the Seville and I scanned the lot for the brown Audi.

There it was, parked six slots south. The red letters on the bumper sticker said, Get Therapy.

I wanted to laugh but couldn’t. Wasn’t surprised when we reached the Seville and both of my rear tires were flat. No slash marks; the valves had been opened.

Robin said, “That’s pathetic.”

“I’ve got a pump in the trunk.”

Part of the emergency kit Milo and Rick had gotten me last Christmas. Tire changing kit, flares, orange Day-Glo road markers, blankets, bottled water.

Rick taking me aside and confiding, “I’d have picked a nice sweater, but an ahem cooler head prevailed.”

Milo’s voice bellowing from the corner of their living room: “Haberdashery don’t cut it when you’re stranded out on some isolated road with no lights and wolves and God knows what other toothy carnivores are aiming their beady little predator eyes at your anatomy, just waiting to- ”

“Then why didn’t we get him a gun, Milo?”

“Next year. Some day you’ll thank me, Alex. You’re welcome in advance.”

I hooked up the pump and got to work.

When I was finished, Robin said, “The way you handled it- just enough to defuse the situation and no one got hurt. Classy.”

She took my face in her hands and kissed me hard.

We found a deli on Washington Boulevard, bought more takeout than we needed, drove back to Beverly Glen.

Robin walked into the house as if she lived there, entered the kitchen and set the table. We made it halfway through the food.

When she got out of bed, the movement woke me. Sweaty nap but my eyes were dry.

Through half-closed lids, I watched her slip on my ratty yellow robe and pad around the bedroom. Touching the tops of chairs and tables. Pausing by the dresser. Righting a framed print.

At the window, she drew back one side of the silk curtains she’d designed. She put her face against the glass, peered out at the foothills.

I said, “Pretty night.”