Chapter 2

"Can I have a word with you in private?" I asked.

"I suppose. I don't like to keep much from my boys," said Frank.

That had to be disingenuous. "Those two are very fine plow horses, but I wouldn't want them steering the plow."

"I've known them for a long time. They are very good muscle and they are quite skilled at handing their part of the operation. They aren't often refused."

"I respect their skill and your relationship with them, Frank."

"While you I've known only a short time."

"I hope it's clear I know how to operate a plow."

"Aye, but where will you be steering it?"

"Around the big rocks," I said. "Why don't you give me the driver's name? I'll see what I can find out." It was the first direct request I had made since we met.

"That's a dangerous game, my boy. If he recognizes you when we stop him, it could lead back to us. And you've said quite often you don't want to stir up any more trouble than absolutely necessary."

I took a sip of my Diet Coke. Frank threw down a shot of Irish whiskey.

"I won't so much as bump into him, Frank, unless I'm absolutely certain I can wrap him up."

"Let me think about it."

I slapped him on the back lightly and headed for the bar. "Fair enough."

I spied an empty table in the corner, wandered over and sat down. I am naturally shy around people I don't know and, despite the time I had spent here over the last few months, didn't know many of the patrons.

I had overheard things they said or being said about them so I had a sense of who they were. But I had built no personal relationships.

My shyness had worked for me in this situation. People don't warm up very easily to someone inserting himself into their conversations.

I met a few of the women when I asked them to dance. I like to dance and I like women, perhaps a little too much for my own good. My inability to resist them led to two divorces by the time I was twenty-seven.

My introduction to Frank Ryan and his crew had been provided by a loyal patron of The Shillelagh who supported it by drinking far more than was prudent.

The man grew loud and obnoxious. He was already imposing before he started to drink.

The bartender was having little success handling him. None of the patrons offered to help because he had injured several men during prior bouts of inebriation. I didn't know that when I got up to help.

I don't relish the spotlight, but when the guy started manhandling his date, I was unable to control my impulses.

He was unimpressed when I tried to establish rapport by telling him I knew he didn't want to hurt her. His unusually well-reasoned response was, "Well now I can hurt you instead."

He had nine inches and ninety pounds on me. There were gasps when he threw his first, and only, punch at me.

I did what any respectable black belt judoka would do. I ducked under the punch grabbing his right sleeve with my left hand and his shirt with my right, turned my back to him, pressed my hip against him, bent at the waist enhancing his forward motion and shot my right leg back against the inside of his left thigh launching him into the air; a very flamboyant uchi mata.

His body peaked at seven feet.

Unfortunately for him, there was no mat to cushion him and, having no judo experience, he didn't know how to break his fall. Tables rattled as his back crashed into the floor.

It knocked the wind out of him. The paramedics later told us the concussion was the reason he did not move.

On the plus side, he behaved much better after that.

The police were skeptical that I had handled him so easily, but the patrons were unanimous that the altercation had lasted less than three seconds from the first movement of his fist to his collision with the floor.

The conclusion of the officer in charge was that they should bring me into the station and "sort this all out."

"What are you charging me with?" I asked. I was polite and respectful.

"You can start with resisting if you give me any more trouble."

"You have to arrest me for something before I can resist."

"Don't worry, smart guy. We'll come up with something."

My control of my temper wasn't any better than my self control in a wide range of areas. "Then you can add resisting false arrest."

They wouldn't do anything in front of this many witnesses. They would wait until I was in the patrol car or at the station.

My hands were yanked behind my back with unnecessary force and cuffed. I had the good fortune to be white. They might rough me up a bit, but if I were black I probably would have been tuned up pretty good.

The desk sergeant asked, "What do we have here?"

"Ag assault; he took out a guy in a bar fight. Guy was taken to the hospital on a stretcher."

They had cuffed me, but they hadn't gagged me.

"Don't forget to tell him the guy was six four and two hundred fifty pounds if he was an ounce. And he threw the only punch."

The leader shoved me. "Shut up. Nobody's askin' you."

The instant the look came on the Sergeant's face I understood he agreed with me: these guys shouldn't be on the force or, at the least, not in his District.

"Let's not get sued," he said. The "again" was silent.

They took me back to print me. That had me somewhat concerned. Despite the disorganized and incomplete state of fingerprint information, they might trip over mine.

If they didn't, they would lose interest years before they would find a match if they diligently pursued me.

I objected to being printed. I said they needed a reason, like a crime, to print someone. They laughed and told me to shut up.

That worked out well. Somebody reported I was a pain in the ass. I don't know which side of the law it came from. It enhanced my street credibility.

It was with great reluctance the police finally released me. I returned to The Shillelagh.

Frank came over and introduced himself. "Very impressive, young man. Frank Ryan. Pleased to meet you." He held out his hand.

I shook it. "John Smith."

He looked skeptical, but didn't question it.

"How did you learn to do that thing?"

I told him I learned in college. We had to take some physical education courses and judo looked like fun. I made the college team which allowed me to practice with our heavyweights. This guy had been laughably easy compared to them. They were strong, sober and knew what they were doing.

"I don't know how you managed not to beat him senseless after you tossed him. I wouldn't have been able to control myself," Frank said.

"I make it a policy not to commit any more crimes than absolutely necessary."

"Is that what you learned in college?" he asked.

"No. I was a biochemistry major."

"And what does biochemistry major do?"

"He learns the chemistry of living things. He learns the theory and how to work in the lab. It's a lot of fun, but not all that useful without an advanced degree."

He got the implication. "So what do you do without the advanced degree, John Smith?"

"This and that. I keep busy."

My response might seem evasive, but in street parlance it said I was a criminal.