The Night Detectives - [11]

My mind momentarily thought of search warrants and probable cause, but, as Peralta said, we weren’t the law anymore. When I heard a fist connect with flesh, cartilage snap, and a man squeal, I opened the door.

“What the fuck?”

The voice belonged to a very large man with caramel-colored skin, mustard-yellow driving cap, delicately manicured beard, eyes way too small for his face. A Bluetooth device was attached to the left side of his head. He was my height and about a third wider. He wore a black T-shirt proclaiming RUN-D.M.C. Below his shorts were heavy stomp-your-white-ass boots.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Life insurance.” I smiled.

He raised his shirt so I could see the butt of a semiautomatic pistol in his waistband. Then he advanced toward me, one step, two…

I thrust my hand forward suddenly, open and straight-fingered into the middle of his windpipe. The small eyes burst wide, the cap and Bluetooth flew off, and he was gasping. Both his hands clutched his throat in what we had been taught in first-aid classes was the “universal choking symbol.” Done properly, this was a useful move for incapacitating someone. Done wrong, it would kill him, which was why it had been discontinued by police agencies.

My next move, one second later, was to remove the Python from its shoulder holster and level it at his face.

“See, you never know when you might need life insurance.”

He staggered back. From his open mouth came the sound of an ailing carburetor. His eyes showed the most primal emotions: surprise, pain, and the sense that he was suffocating. It was a testimony to his size and strength that he was still standing. That made me uneasy.

“Move back, asshole.”

He did. When I was all the way inside, I kicked the door closed but made sure I was still facing him.

“Who are you?” This from a skinny, pale kid with bushy red hair, sitting on a sofa. He was probably the only person in O.B. without a tan. He was in pain, clutching his face. Seeing his hands occupied, I ignored him.

“Can you talk now?” I said this to the black man.

“Iiiihhhhhhhhhh.”

I asked him whether he was right- or left-handed. He opened his mouth and showed a gold incisor. He finally managed, “Left.”

“So use your left hand and pull out that gun very slowly and hand it to me.” I knew he was lying about which hand he favored, or at least I took that chance. After I had possession of the Glock, I shoved him back onto the sofa next to the white kid. Gravity did most of the work. Large human objects are easier to push around when they can barely breathe.

“Should’a known you was a motherfucking cop.” His voice was a shadow of its former booming self.

“I’m not a cop.” I kept the.357 magnum leveled at his chest. The barrel was only four inches of thick ribbed steel, but the business end might as well have been the size of eternity.

“Now wait a motherfucking minute.” He held out two big hands, palms facing me and tried to make himself smaller on the sofa, no easy task. His expression changed. He wasn’t worrying about his throat any longer. “Motherfuck! I’ve heard about you. Big guy with a big motherfucking gun…”

I held up my hand. He stopped talking.

“Did you ever consider that repeating the same profanity over and over deprives it of any ability to shock? You might consider trying out a word such as ‘mountebank’ or ‘scoundrel.’”

He lowered his hands and took a deep breath. “Look, man, I got no problem with Edward, man. I’m completely good with him. Why you think I’m here right now? This is between me and this skinny pale-ass mother…” He stopped. “Scoundrel.”

I said, “Who is Tim Lewis?”

“He is.” The black guy quickly pointed to the red-haired kid next to him.

“Then it’s time for you to leave.”

“What about my Glock?”

“Get another one.”

He stood without protest, picked up his cap, and hurried out the door, quietly closing it. I locked it, expecting him to at least be muttering indignation and threats as he departed, but nothing. I heard heavy steps thudding along the concrete, down the stairs, and then they faded. The gate to the street clanged shut.

I waited a few seconds and holstered the Python. “Who is he?”

“I think my nose is broken!” His voice sounded like a teary fourteen-year-old.

“So who broke it?”

“You don’t know? He knows you.” His eyes were curious. “He calls himself AFP.”

My mind did a sort: FDR, JFK, LBJ. I asked again.

Through his hands came a nasal response. “America’s Finest Pimp.”

Get it: San Diego called itself America’s Finest City. I didn’t smile. I leaned against the outer wall and stealthily looked out the drawn curtain. The courtyard was deserted. Nobody was at the pool that dominated the space. Beyond the fence, nobody was on the sidewalk.

From my pocket I produced the photo and held it out. “Do you know her?”

“That’s Scarlett.”

I worked hard to conceal my surprise. “Who?”

“Scarlett. My girlfriend.”

“What’s her last name?”

“Mason. Scarlett Mason. Do you know where she is?”

I nodded, put the picture away, and asked him what problem he had with America’s Finest Pimp.

“I’m really hurting, dude!”