Chapter 18

“Stay here and call 9-1-1,” I whispered to Mikayla.

Then I trotted down the alley and barked, “Leave him alone!”

My voice and sudden appearance startled the men doing the kicking. Both the guys were muscular but on the small side, neither taller than five-nine, or heavier than 150. Their neck and arms were covered in tattoos, some professional and some homemade.

“Stay out of this Cabron,” one of them said with a heavy Spanish accent.

“I will man, if you both leave so I can help that guy,” I said.

I guess leaving didn’t appeal to them because one of them flicked open a wicked looking pocketknife and the other pulled a blackjack out of his back pocket. Both of those things were covered by my Ranger hand to hand training, only we Rangers were usually armed too. I looked around for some sort of equalizer. Weapon pickings were slim there in the back of the bodega. So, figuring anything was better than nothing, I picked up a brick and pried the metal lid off a garbage can. The brick was one of those with three holes in the middle and three of my big old fingers fit in them.

The guy with the blackjack thought I was hilarious and started laughing.

“You think you a Spartan?” he asked, and his English was better than his buddy’s.

“Nope, I’m an Army Ranger, and we’re way better,” I said cockily.

The guy with the knife was not impressed and started to circle to my right. Rather than let them get on either side of me I charged the guy with the knife. I kept the garbage can lid between me and the knife and drove him toward the wall. The guy was quick and managed to turn enough to push the knife past the lid. I felt a sharp sting as the blade sliced my side just as I smashed him against the back wall of the bodega. He grunted as his head bounced off the wall and moaned piteously when I drove my knee into his junk as hard as I could manage.

I had turned to my left away from where the knife had cut me and that turn caused the blackjack aimed at my noggin to bounce off my right shoulder. That shit hurt like a bitch, but I kept turning and smacked the blackjack guy a glancing blow in his side with my improvised brass knuckles. He tried to jump on my back, but I shrugged him off and slung him against the wall next to his partner.

He didn’t like the new odds as his partner sat against the wall whimpering so he tried to flee. Escape wasn’t in his future because by then I was well and truly mad as hell. He wasn’t going anywhere. I jumped on his back and drove him to the dirty pavement. He tried to break his fall with his hands, but 240 pounds of pissed off Ranger caused him to land face first. He was out cold, blood dripping from his nose and mouth when I got off him.

I checked the guy’s pulse and used my phone to check his pupils. He was in no danger of croaking, so I dragged his stupid ass over by his buddy.

“Either of you dumb shits move and I will beat you some more with this brick,” I growled.

I turned to check on the guy they were kicking and there stood Mikayla, her eyes as big as saucers and tears on her cheeks. I reassured her I was fine and sent her back to the street so she could direct the emergency responders. She did as I asked but only after she told me what an idiot I was. I didn’t let on about my numb arm and burning side for fear she’d finish me off.

I did a cursory examination of the small middle-aged Asian man the thugs were kicking. He was conscious but in rough shape. His torso was tender almost everywhere I touched him. I determined he had several broken ribs, and his right arm was broken in a couple of places. His lower back was already turning black and blue, and I was certain he would be pissing blood for a while. His face was bruised and his nose bloody, but he didn’t appear concussed. He had taken quite a beating but because he curled up in a ball and covered his head, none of his injuries were life threatening.

It took fewer than ten minutes for the first police car to screech to a stop at the mouth of the alley. Two officers climbed out of the squad car and Mikayla directed them down the alley. I had the attackers sitting against the wall and was checking their injuries when the officers warily approached me with their weapons drawn. Without being told, I put my hands on my head.

“What the fuck happened here?” one of the cops asked.

Before I could say anything, they had me on the ground with my hand cuffed behind my back. The officer who cuffed me acknowledged a radio transmission and told his partner, “The bus is five minutes out, I told them to roll another one.”

When Mikayla came down the alley to check on me, she was more than a little displeased that I was the only one in cuffs. I thought she would start chewing ass but instead she was the sweet voice of reason when she addressed the patrolmen.

“Officers, the guy you have in handcuffs is the only reason you aren’t here investigating the murder of that man over there. Johnny came to the man’s aid as those two guys were beating him. My boyfriend is a decorated Army Ranger who just returned from Iraq and deserves better treatment. So, before I get on my phone and make a big stink about this, why not ask him what happened,” she said.

The older officer held his hand up in a stop gesture and chuckled.

“Ma’am, if you let us do our job, we’ll sort this out and it will probably turn out to be just what you said. But I’m in no hurry to uncuff a guy who took out two armed gangbangers. Okay?”

Mikayla nodded, placated for the moment. I was uncuffed by the time the ambulance rolled up. I briefed the EMTs on what I’d found and had to shake my head as the gang members had the more serious injuries, so they were transported first.

Before the second ambulance arrived, I took Mikayla aside and told her I had been cut. I told her it was minor, but I wanted a medic to look at it. The two newly arrived EMTs had the original victim loaded up and were about to close the ambulance doors when I took one of them aside.

One of those guys that beat your patient cut me in a place hard for me to see, can you check my side?” I asked.

She nodded yes, so I pulled up the right side of my sweater. No one had noticed the cut because of the bulky green sweater and the dim light in the alley. Mikayla gasped when she saw the cut, but she didn’t say anything.

“Yeah, you’re gonna need stitches dude, six or eight probably. We’re taking this guy to Bellevue, want us to transport you, too?”

I didn’t know what to do so I looked at Mikayla.

“What do you think, Mickie?” I asked.

“I’ll get us a cab and take him to Presbyterian, it’s only a mile from here,” Mikayla said.

The EMT shrugged and said, “You better have good insurance, or you’ll end up at Bellevue anyway.”

The police officers at the scene ended up giving us a ride to the hospital and my military ID card got me past the screening station and into a treatment room. Mikayla insisted on being in the treatment room with me. So when I took off my sweater and t-shirt she was the first to see where the guy hit me with the blackjack. I guess it left a mark because Mikayla finally lost her composure as she lightly touched my back.

“You have a horrible red and black bruise on your back, Baby, and that cop told me the thug who stabbed you was part of some gang. He said you were lucky they didn’t have guns. You survive being in a war, come visit me, and are almost killed by gangsters. I told you I was bad for you,” she said tearfully.

I pulled her around to if front of me and hugged her.

“I’m fine, Sweetness, and you didn’t do anything wrong. We probably saved that guy’s life. That’s what you need to remember,” I said.

A few minutes later a trauma surgeon sewed up my side. I was impressed that a surgeon was doing the sewing and told him so. We ended up having a nice chat about how the emergency medicine we practiced in the field worked its way into the hospital ER. The doctor scrounged me up a 2XL scrub top when he finished and gave me a bag for my sweater. I loved that sweater because Mikayla gave it to me, and I thought it was repairable. Mikayla said I was being silly, she’d get me a new one, but I think she was secretly pleased I kept it. So anyway, we were in, out and home from the hospital in an hour and a quarter.

Not much officially came of the incident other than a NYPD detective came by to interview us. The detective was polite, and he liked looking at Mikayla, but he didn’t really ask us a lot of questions. He did tell us why the beating was being administered. According to the victim, he had inadvertently disrespected the seventeen-year-old girlfriend of one of the gangbangers by not selling her a pack of cigarettes.

“These gang cases seldom go to trial. Most likely those two will make bail and disappear back to El Salvador, or wherever,” he said.

I walked him to the door and since I’d seen almost every episode of NYPD Blue, I couldn’t help myself.

“Tell Detective Sipowicz I said hello,” I said.

He just rolled his eyes and left. For whatever reason we never heard anything else about it. All in a night’s work in the big city, I guess.

So, like I said, nothing official came of it, but for the next four days I was treated as if I were the Sultan of Brunei. I woke up the morning after the altercation stiff and in some pain. Mostly my right shoulder hurt but I had a number of other bumps and bruises, including a sore ankle, from wrestling around with those two idiots.

I groaned as I got out of bed and Mikayla suddenly turned into an amalgamation of Florence Nightengale and Demi Moore from the movie Striptease. Mikayla waited on me hand and foot wearing only skimpy lingerie under one of my shirts for the two days it took for me to stop hobbling around. In addition, if the Kong even looked slightly interested, she dragged me into bed.

I was back to normal Sunday morning, so Mikayla took me to the 1130 Mass at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. She insisted I wear my freshly cleaned Dress Blues and she wore a demure knee length long-sleeved dress and low heels. Even dressed down for church my sweetie was stunning. We garnered some attention when we arrived, and I was a little embarrassed and a lot proud as people thanked me for my service.

The church was huge, but Mikayla confidently led us down a side aisle longer than a football field. She stopped about halfway down the aisle, turned into a row of pews, and there sat Camille Dubois and Lana Swistak. I got some kisses on the cheek along with some scolding about my actions Thursday night.

After Mass I escorted three beautiful women to an upscale restaurant for afternoon tea. It was all a little too frou-frou for me, but the company made the effort worthwhile. The women chatted amongst themselves about fashion and whatever. They occasionally threw me a conversational bone, but mercifully mostly left me alone. My mind was aimlessly drifting when I heard my pal Jerome Pettis’ name mentioned. Lana was doing the talking.

“My Zharome is leaving zee Army next month and we will wed in zee fall,” she proclaimed.

That was news to me. I thought JP was going to be a lifer (career soldier) for sure. I excused myself and walked out into the hallway. A sour faced dude in a tux eyeballed me as I left. He probably thought I was stealing silverware, I guessed. I phoned JP as soon as I was in the hallway outside the palatial restrooms.

“Yo,” he answered, “Lana told me you were up there causing trouble.”

“Nah, just making friends with the natives. But speaking of Lana, she just told me you were getting out. What’s up with that?”

“I decided not to reenlist so I can give stand-up a try. And I’m going to go back to school. Take some writing courses at NYU maybe. But whatever bro, I can’t stand being away from Lana. I’d dig ditches if it meant I could be with her.”

“I’m gonna miss you man, but I understand. I’ll see you in a couple of days and you can fill me in on this comedy thing,” I said.

I walked back into the restaurant and sat back down. I don’t think the chattering women even noticed my absence. My spidey senses started tingling when MME Dubois switched to speaking French. Marcella blushed, gave me a look, and replied in the same language. Then all three women looked at me and started tittering. When I gave Marcella a curious raised eyebrow look, she burst out laughing.

“Tell you later,” she said as she patted my hand.

Mikayla told me what they were talking about when we were home. Turns out, the women were discussing sex and Marcella was mock complaining about my stamina and perpetual readiness.

“I told them you were like a love machine,” she giggled.

And then it was Monday, and I was leaving the next day. Mikayla, well actually Marcella, took the day off so we could spend it together. We went to Aleman’s Deli for lunch after fooling around all morning. Mister Aleman greeted us warmly when walked in and pointed to a table as he waited on an elderly couple. He finished their order and came around his deli case to greet us. He took Makayla’s hand and did this little courtly bow over it before enthusiastically shaking my hand.

“It is a joy seeing you looking happy, Miss Delong,” Aleman said.

“I am happy, Mister Aleman,” she said while squeezing my hand.

I was about to tell him that I was happy, too, when Ranger police officer who was a former Ranger came through the door. Aleman excused himself and went back behind his deli counter.

“How about a bagel with your coffee today, Officer Bright?” asked Altman.

“Sounds good Saul and toast one for Casey while you’re at it, he’s paying today.”

While Mister Altman was slicing bagels, Officer Bright walked over to our table.

“That you the other night at Tam’s Bodega?”

Yes, Sir. That was us. How is he?” I replied.

“I figured it was you when word got around about a big Army guy laying out a couple of gangbangers. Neat trick with the garbage can lid. Tam spent two days in the hospital before they could fix his arm. I haven’t been by there today, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was back at work already.”

It was a sunny and mild day so we strolled over to the World Trade Center site. The new Patriot Tower was just a thicket of steel beams rising up from a deep hole. Further along earth moving machines and cranes were preparing the site where a 9/11 memorial and museum would stand. There were models and artist renditions of what everything would look like. There were also so temporary memorials to the victims of the terrorist attack. The place was a sober reminder of why I had been in Iraq.

That evening Mikayla had Chinese food delivered for dinner. We ate and did the dishes just like a regular couple. I put away the last plate and turned around to tell Mikayla how domestic we were. Before I could say anything, she took my and tugged me toward the couch.

“Come sit with me, Baby, we need to talk,” she said.

Don’t you just love it when a woman starts a conversation with those words? Prehistoric cavemen cringed when, after a hard day of Mastodon hunting, his wifey says, “Grog, we need to talk.”

I heaved a mental sigh and plopped down next to her on the couch.

“Talk about what?” I grumbled.

“About the future, Baby. About plans and dreams and reality. Do you remember me telling you about studying art and fashion design at university?”

“I remember,” I said with a nod.

“Okay, well if you looked in that desk over there, you’d see a bunch of designs I been working on. I’ve even sold a few. The designs are important because I don’t plan on being a model forever. I have a five-year plan that has me with my own fashion house where I do most of the designing for my brand. To accomplish my goal, I need practical experience in not only design but the business side as well. So next week I am starting an apprenticeship with Maison Chloe in Paris. I don’t want to lose you, Johnny, but I’ m not sure how we can keep that from happening for the next couple of years,” she said, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears.