Free Collision by William S. Cohen

and too small, Falcone felt a forearm that was thick and iron-hard.
    â€œFuck off, mister! Get your hands off me!” he shouted, jerking his arm away with stunning speed and power, catching the corner of Falcone’s eye with a closed fist.
    Blood gushed out of a cut that had been sliced open along the scar tissue Falcone had acquired years ago as a collegiate boxing champ at Syracuse University.
    The man seemed as surprised as Falcone when he saw the blood dripping onto Falcone’s white shirt.
    â€œSorry, but I told you…”
    â€œSon of a bitch,” Falcone cursed, and lashed out quickly, grabbing the man by the throat in a vise grip and squeezing hard.
    Unable to breathe, the man started to gag and sank to his knees.
    â€œYeah, and I told you to give me the goddamn coat and bag. Give them up or I’ll break—”
    â€œOkay, okay,” the man rasped, choking on his words. “I didn’t get the coat and bag from inside the Dumpster, but behind it.” Getting back to his feet, he dropped the tough-guy pretense. “Young guy hid it. Like he was going to have someone pick them up. Maybe someone like you.”
    â€œI’d appreciate it very much if you give them to me. There’s a reward,” Falcone said, trying to remember how much money he was carrying.
    â€œWell, maybe I want to keep them.”
    â€œLook, Mr.…”
    â€œMr. Jones.”
    â€œOkay, Mr. Jones. I’m Mr. Smith. I don’t want to report stolen goods and get cops involved. I’m going to give you one hundred dollars cash, and you’re going to give me the coat and the computer.”
    â€œJust the computer,” the man said. “I need the coat.”
    Falcone moved swiftly. He slammed the man against the Dumpster, stuck his hand into the pocket of the coat, and felt the handle of a gun. He pulled the gun out, stepped back, pushing the gun into the man’s stomach.
    â€œLook, Mr. Jones, I don’t have time to fuck around. What’s your real name?”
    â€œCrawford. Thomas Crawford,” the man said, sputtering. “I’m a vet, like a lot of guys here. Two tours in Iraq. One in Afghanistan. I don’t want any trouble, mister. I—”
    â€œJust take off that coat and give it to me, along with the computer bag,” Falcone said, speaking softly, embarrassed that he had lost control so quickly and had been about to hurt a complete stranger. A stranger who had worn the same uniform he once had. “I can’t tell you why I know, but there just might be a detective here soon, and he’s going to ask you how you got these. Just tell him the truth about finding them. And tell your buddies that there’s going to be a VA person here soon.”
    The alley was deep in shadow. A chill wind stirred, sending a cluster of paper and dead leaves across the man’s ragged sneakers. In slow motion, as if coming out of a trance, Crawford handed over the computer bag, which Falcone slipped over his shoulder with his bandaged left hand. Then he slowly removed the coat, which Falcone grabbed with his free hand.
    â€œTurn around,” Falcone said.
    Crawford instantly obeyed. Falcone took out his money roll and slipped the gun inside his belt under his suit jacket. He pulled out five twenty-dollar bills and stuffed them into a back pocket of stained and worn jeans.
    â€œCount to fifty before you even think of moving,” Falcone ordered. He pressed a white handkerchief on the cut that had been opened over his eye and walked rapidly down the alley to the street.
    *   *   *
    Ten minutes later, Falcone was in his apartment. He had managed to stop the flow of blood and had sealed the cut with a thin Band-Aid. Next, he placed a bag of frozen beans over the cut to keep the swelling down, as he pondered exactly what to do.
    He could call Chief Mobley or he could call Sprague. He had not actually charmed Mobley, and Sprague was