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I was deaf. His thighs had shut out all sound except for the hush of blood moving through his veins. I squirmed and rotated myself by inches. I turned again until my nose was smashed up against the crotch of his panty hose with its soft, helpless bulge in range. He didn’t have a hard-on. That much was obvious. Any clothing other than panty hose would have offered him protection-heavy jeans or sweats serving as a jock strap or a codpiece of sorts-shielding his nuts. But he was turned on by the feel of silkiness against his naked skin. Such is life. We all have our preferences. I opened my jaws and bit down on his scrotum. I closed my eyes and clamped down until I thought my upper and lower teeth would meet in the middle. The wad in my mouth had the consistency of foam rubber with a touch of gristle at the core. I held on, like a terrier, knowing the searing message of pain was streaking like lightning through his frame.
A howl went up and his thighs popped open as though they were spring-loaded, letting the cold air rush in. I rolled over on my side, scrambling on my hands and knees as far as the car. He was thrashing on the ground behind me, gasping and groaning. He clutched his crotch where I hoped I’d inflicted permanent damage. He wept, his cries hoarse with anguish and disbelief. I felt around for my car keys and snatched them up. I was shaking so badly I dropped them and had to scoop them up again. He’d managed to pull himself upright, but he paused to puke before he staggered to his feet. His face was sweaty and pale, and he held himself with one hand while he limped in my direction. His obesity and his lumbering gait slowed him just long enough to allow me to open the car door and slide in. I slammed the door and banged the knob into the locked position as he grabbed the door handle and yanked. I flung myself across the passenger’s seat and banged the knob down on that door as well. Then I sat there, lungs heaving while I gathered my strength.
He slammed both his hands down on the roof of the car and pushed, trying to rock it with the force of his weight. If I’d been trapped in my beloved VW, he’d have rolled the car over on its side and then over on its roof. The Mustang he couldn’t budge beyond the faintest shudder. He had no tolerance for frustration. He grabbed the windshield wiper and twisted it, bending it until it stuck out like a dislocated finger. I could see him search for something else to destroy.
He circled the car. Mesmerized, I kept him in sight, turning my head as he moved around the rear and reappeared on my left. He was making sounds that might have been English, but the words were flattened and formless, without the dots and dashes of vowels and consonants to make them distinct. He skipped back two steps and ran at the car. He side-kicked the door. I knew he’d put a dent in the metal, but given that he was shoeless and clad in panty hose, he’d hurt himself more than he’d hurt the car. He yanked at the door again. He banged a fist against the glass and then tried to force his big meaty fingers into the crack between the window and the post. I felt like a mouse in a glass case with a snake outside, hissing and striking ineffectually while fear shot through me like zaps from a Taser gun. There was a hypnotic quality to his assault, fierce and relentless. How long would it take him to breach my small fortress? I didn’t dare abandon the safety of the car, which was at least keeping him at bay. I leaned on the car horn until the sound filled the night air.
He moved around the car again, prowling, looking for a weakness in my fortifications. He was clearly infuriated to have me in plain sight but inaccessible. He stood on the driver’s side staring at me and then abruptly, he turned away. I thought he was leaving, but he walked across the street and at the far side, turned to face me again. There was something in his eyes so crazy that I hummed with fear.
With a jangle of keys I managed to jam the right one in the ignition. I turned it and the engine roared to life. I jerked the wheel to my left and swung away from the curb. I knew it would take two tries before I cleared the bumper of the car in front of me. I backed up and turned the wheel again. I glanced over as Tiny began to run at the car with more speed than I’d have thought possible for a guy his size. He’d pulled his right fist back and when he reached the car, he drove it straight through the window, shattering the glass. I screamed and ducked as jagged shards flew by, some landing in my lap. The glass that remained in the window tore into his flesh. His punching arm was extended as far as his shoulder blade, but when he tried to pull free, glass bit into the fabric of his blouse like the angled teeth of a shark. He groped for me blindly and I felt his fingers close around my throat. The simple fact of physical contact jolted me into action.
I shoved the stick into first, popped the clutch, and floored it. The Mustang shot forward with a squeal of burning tires. Out of the corner of my eye I could still see Tiny’s arm and hand, like the branch of a tree driven through a wall by a gale-force wind. I slammed on the brakes, thinking I could shake him off. That’s when I realized I was suffering a misperception. Between his own weight and my speed, I’d left him half a block behind. It was only his arm that remained, resting lightly on my shoulder like an old chum’s.
35
I won’t go into a moment-by-moment account of what followed in the wake of that grisly incident. Much of it I’ve forgotten, in any event. I do remember Officer Anderson arriving in his patrol car and Cheney’s arriving later in his slick little red Mercedes convertible. My car was parked where I’d left it and I was, by then, sitting on the curb in front of Henry’s house, shaking as though suffering from a neurological disorder. Having battled with Tiny, I sported sufficient contusions and abrasions to lend credibility to my account of his attack. My head was still ringing from the punch. Since there were already warrants out on him for similar offenses, no one suggested that I was to blame.
These were the facts that worked in my favor:
At the time of the accident, I stopped and approached the injured man with every intention of rendering assistance if necessary, which it wasn’t because he was dead.
According to the Breathalyzer and later blood analysis, I was not driving under the influence of alcohol or drugs.
When the officer from the traffic division arrived on the scene, I gave him my name, address, registration, and proof of insurance. I had a valid California driver’s license in my possession. He ran my name, license number, and plate, and determined that my record was clean. I was worried he’d pick up on the tiny matter of the TRO, but since we hadn’t yet appeared in court, the restraining order probably wasn’t in the system. Besides which, I hadn’t done a thing to her.
There was a suggestion to the effect that I might have used excessive force in defending myself, but that opinion was quashed forthwith.
The Mustang was in the shop for repairs for a week. The windshield wiper and the window on the driver’s side would have to be replaced. The driver’s-side door was dented and the white vinyl bucket seat on the driver’s side was a loss. No matter how often or how thoroughly the upholstery was cleaned, there would always be traces of red in the seams. Whether I’d hang on to the Mustang was another matter altogether. Owning the car was like owning a fine Thorough-bred racehorse-beautiful to behold, but expensive to maintain. The car had saved my life, no doubt about that, but I wondered if every time I drove it, I’d see Tiny starting that fatal run with his right fist pulled back.
Gus was discharged after two days in the hospital. Melanie went through a local agency and made arrangements for a new companion for him. The woman did light housekeeping, prepared his meals, ran errands, and went home at night to a family of her own. Of course, Gus fired her at the end of two weeks. The subsequent companion has survived to date, though Henry reports hearing a good deal of bickering from the far side of the hedge. A week after Tiny’s death, Gus’s Buick Electra was found six blocks from the Mexican border. It had been wiped clean of prints, but there was a stack of oil paintings locked in the trunk that were later valued at close to a million dollars. Solana must have hated abandoning such assets, but she couldn’t very well disappear while continuing to hang on to a carload of stolen art.