Free Snowjob by Ted Wood Page A

huffily and I went out into the night. It was showdown time, I figured, at the Brewski corral.
     
     

 
    FIVE
     
     
    It was cold outside but I didn’t put my parka on. It figured that Huckmeyer had phoned someone to convince me I should move on. If there were guys around waiting to put the boots to me, mobility would be more valuable than warmth.
    There was no immediate menace. As I went down the steps a good-looking young couple was heading in, holding hands and radiating the happy glow that announced they had just made love. And I didn’t see anybody else around but still I made my way warily along the center of the aisle between the parked cars. Sam was five seconds from me but I didn’t whistle him. I had lots of time to do that, I figured, before push came to shove.
    It did, when I was halfway down the back row of the lot. The reception committee was waiting in the same Oldsmobile I’d seen two nights before. They got out without speaking. Three of them. I guessed the one who had been nervous of Sam last time had chickened out. They were wearing ski masks like terrorists on a mission and they moved toward me, shoulder to shoulder. I stopped in my tracks and waited. Their pace slowed but they came on, the biggest one making circles with his clenched fist, anticipating what he was going to do. They were ten paces from me when I acknowledged them. “Well, well, well, the return of the Three Stooges,” I said.
    I’d hoped it would rile them so that one of them would rush me. One at a time I figured I could take them. But they just came on, two of them silent. The big one laughed. “Still feeling smart?” he sneered. That’s when I whistled Sam.
    He was out of my car in a moment, bounding down behind them. The big one pulled off his glove and dug his hand into his pocket as he turned and I saw he had a gun. I shouted, “Fight,” and there was the flat bang of a small-caliber round and then Sam had him by the gun hand. The other two men had stopped and turned to check on him and I charged, slamming one of them with the point of my shoulder, sending him flying against a car and into the snow.
    The other one turned back and I punched him hard in the gut. He folded and I followed up with a two-handed thump on the back of his neck that put him facedown in the snow. The guy with the gun was still struggling vainly with Sam and I turned to the man I’d charged first. He had scrambled to his feet but the fight had gone out of him. He stood where he was, spreading his hands in a gesture of submission. No threat. I turned to help Sam. The gunman was trying to yank his gun hand free as he batted at Sam with his left. “Drop the gun and I’ll call him off,” I said.
    He swore and tried to lift his arm with Sam’s weight hanging on it, high enough to aim at me. I stepped aside and gave him a short right-hand punch behind the ear. It knocked him down, still holding his gun. “Easy,” I told Sam, and as he backed off I put my heel on the guy’s gun hand and bore down while I took the pistol off him. It was a Ruger .22 automatic and I held it while I ripped the ski mask up off his face. He was the groper I’d stopped in the bar two nights earlier.
    “You’re in a whole mess of trouble, buddy,” I told him heartily. “Attempted armed robbery. You’ll be inside for three years, minimum.”
    “It was self-defense,” he hissed. “Your goddamn dog was out to kill me.”
    “Tell that to the police,” I said. “Give me your car keys.”
    He was slow to respond and I pressed harder on his wrist with my boot. He yowled then and said, “They’re in my pocket. Leggo my hand.”
    I lifted my foot and he lay there and dug into his coat pocket for his keys. I took them and told the other two guys, “In the car.”
    They got into it, helping one another painfully. Then I opened the rear seat and told Sam, “Good boy. In.” He jumped in and I commanded, “Guard,” and he sat up behind them.
    One of them tried to