Free Fangs Out by David Freed

statement saying, in effect, that Munz was lying.”
    “As I said, Mr. Logan, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but whatever I’d have to say about the Munz case, I already said many times, both at trial and during a very long, protracted appellate process. Beyond that, any information, or any personal opinions I may hold, would be considered privileged and confidential.”
    He stood. I stood and gave him my business card.
    “In case you decide to reconsider.”
    “Good luck to you, Mr. Logan,” Tassio said, extending his left hand once more. We shook.
    I watched him walk out, wondering how he’d lost the arm.
    The clerk shoved my driver’s license across the counter like she couldn’t get out of there fast enough and began turning off the office lights.
    As I made my way through the courthouse lobby and toward the exit, past a couple of silver-haired U.S. marshals in blue blazers, I sensed someone’s eyes on my back. When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw Steve Tassio staring at me from the elevator. Then the doors slid closed and he was gone.

Five
    B unny the Human Doberman was waiting for me when I stepped outside the federal courthouse. The plaza was steaming in the late afternoon sun. So was Bunny.
    “Mr. Dowd doesn’t much appreciate what you’re doing,” he said.
    “What am I doing?”
    “Asking questions. Stirring things up. Making him look bad, like he didn’t do his job ’cuz Dorian Munz lost big-time. There wasn’t nothing nobody could do for that dirt bag, anyway. The case was a dog from the git-go.”
    “You got it all wrong, Bunny. I came to bury Caesar, not to praise him.”
    Bunny stared at me like I was speaking Swahili.
    “Forget it. Have a lovely day.”
    I tried to sidestep him, but he clamped his paw on the front of my shirt and yanked me close. His breath reeked of garlic chicken.
    “Best thing you can do, homeboy, is go get in your ride and go back to wherever the fuck it is you came from, before somebody gets themselves seriously hurt.”
    “You have exactly five seconds to remove your hand,” I said, “or I will. And I guarantee you, you won’t like my methods.”
    “Is that right? Five seconds, huh? Then what, you gonna—”
    I reached down, grabbed his croutons, and squeezed like I was muscling the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube.
    Bunny grunted involuntarily and held his breath. His eyes bulged.
    “That probably wasn’t three seconds, was it? Gosh darn. My bad. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, Bunny—I hope you don’t mind me calling you Bunny, it’s just that I feel so close to you right now—but really, I wasn’t counting. Which is why I was never much good at touch football. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. You have to wait to rush the quarterback? What kind of dumbass rule is that? Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d very much appreciate you removing your hand from my shirt before it gets wrinkled.”
    He let go of me, gasping for air, his face the color of eggplant. And I didn’t even have to say please.
    “I’m gonna let you down now, Bunny, nice and slow, and we’re gonna pretend like we never met, OK?”
    He nodded in agony, then vomited. The Buddha must’ve been looking out for me that day because the spatter missed me entirely.
    I lowered him to the ground with one hand still clutching his groin, while unholstering his .50-caliber Desert Eagle with the other. “Holy Moses, what do you shoot with this thing, mastodons?” I released him and started walking. When I was about thirty feet away, I turned and yelled, “Hey, Bunny.”
    He was curled like a fetus on the sidewalk, moaning, both hands clutching his throbbing love spuds. I made sure he could see me toss his gun into one of those big municipal trash cans—I may be many things, but I’m no thief—then waved bye-bye. The Human Doberman didn’t bother waving back.
    Whatever became of basic civility?

    H AVING A friend and former colleague who works