Chapter 1

Three hours worth of driving of the very worst sort. My trip was mixed in with the evacuation of parts of two states in the face of a hurricane barreling down on the Gulf Coast, and after white-knuckling a mere hundred miles, I pulled onto a secondary road thinking that maybe, just maybe, the traffic would be less than the main highways. I was only partially correct, and I finally heeded my stomach's growling and pulled my rig into a roadside diner in a small town in north Louisiana.

I asked for, and got, a seat at a table in the corner, my back to the wall, so I could relax without dodging other clientele and also watch what was going on. Evacuations were sort of like kicking over the rotten log of civilization. You never knew what was going to scurry out into the sunlight.

I was entertaining a breakfast of steak and eggs, pretty nicely done, actually, and noticing the activity at a nearby booth. The occupants looked to be some bozo in maybe his early forties, around my age, a woman maybe five or so years younger, and a teen girl, I'm estimating maybe sixteen or seventeen at this point. They're just a little too far away for me to make out the conversation, but it doesn't appear to be too cordial, from the expressions of the participants.

I heard "mumble mumble mumble" from the guy, mumble mumble mumble" from the older female, and then "mumble mumble mumble" from the teen girl, except her voice had a tone of hurt and a bit of fright. Not my business. I forked another load of steak and eggs into my mouth.

The conversation changed. The guy's voice got loud, as in "MUMBLE MUMBLE" pause "MUMBLE MUMBLE MUMBLE" apparently directed at the teen who replied with a shake of chestnut hair, "mumble mumble".

The loudness put me on alert. I mean, country diner and all, you didn't expect to see people acting like this, and heads were turning in the direction of this one booth.

The guy got loud enough to understand. His actions made it even easier to understand. "YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BITCH!!!!" and he reached across the booth table and grabbed the front of her blouse, yanking her up as he rose. His free hand was coming back. It didn't take a lot of analysis to see what was coming next.

Me.

I stood up and pushed around my table. "HOLD!" I said, in my best command voice.

The dude dropped his free hand, shoved the girl backward against the back of the booth and turned towards me. "Boy!" he hissed. "You need to mind YOUR own fuckin' business!" I outweighed him and out-reached him and was a good six inches taller. Bad odds. His right hand started into his pocket. The situation had just escalated.

My own right hand went across my midsection under my shirt-tail and came out with a compact 9mm pistol.

"Bud," I said, "if that hand doesn't come out of that pocket VERY slowly and VERY empty, you're gonna have a big hole in you."

His hand came out, slowly. The girl had slid down in the booth and was trying to get herself up from halfway on the floor. The older woman was screaming, "He's got a gun!" I didn't parse that very well. My own gun was obvious. Was she talking about her companion? The poor waitress was back behind the counter.

"Call 9-1-1," I said. "We need some law here. Fast!"

"They're on the way. I called when he raised his voice."

Indeed they were fast. Scarcely a minute and half passed, me holding the guy at gunpoint, when I saw the flashing lights and a deputy sheriff pushed through the door, gun drawn.

Three people said at the same time, "NOT HIM!" as I two-fingered the gun delicately onto the table and stepped back. A second car pulled into the parking lot, lights blinking mad blue. A second deputy was in the place in a few seconds.

"Hurley!" screamed the waitress. "It's not the big guy!" I was the big guy. 6' 2", 200 pounds. I locked my fingers on top of my head, frozen. I mean, you never know with the small town cops, who's trigger happy, who's scared shitless, and any bad move, well...

"Hurley" was apparently the deputy who was first on the scene. He kept that damned pistol of his at eye level, midway between me and the bozo who started the mess. He addressed me. "Sir! Do you have any other weapons on you?"

"Yessir," I said. "I've got a folding knife hanging in my right pants pocket."

"Carefully remove the knife and put it on the table and step back."

I think that Deputy Hurley's thinking isn't really good if he lets me step close to the table with the gun laying on it, but I drop my right hand very slowly and remove the knife clipped in my pocket with a thumb and index finger and drop it softly on the table. And I step back. Hurley steps up and sticks my pistol and knife in his thigh pocket. He's looking at his partner.

"Jim," Hurley says, "That guy clean?"

"Jim" answers, "I haven't checked."

I know what comes next. "Sir," says Hurley, "turn around and put your hands behind your back."

And there I am, in the dining room of a Louisiana restaurant, in handcuffs. They perform a similar operation on the doofus and have a lot more fun with him, retrieving a little black automatic pistol from his pants pocket. Yeah. The pocket he was reaching into. Now he's in cuffs, too, and they're marching all four of us, me, the doofus, the middle-aged chick, and the teen girl, all of us, out into the parking lot. Now comes the fun part, where they try to unravel the story.

The waitress is out there too. And half the clientele, apparently regulars. And if you're a regular at a small town diner, you also get pretty familiar with the cops, so nobody was getting run off. They were the witnesses.

They started with the girl. Deputy Hurley asked, "Miss, do you have some ID?"

"I-in my purse," she sniffled. "It's at the table."

Hurley spoke to one old guy standing nearby. "Unka Bob, can you get this young lady's purse?" The old guy left and Hurley turned his attention back to the teen. "What's your name?"

"Tina. Christina Johnson," she sobbed, still shaken by the rush of events.

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Now, very carefully, tell me what happened." He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a little recorder and punched a button.

"I- We were having breakfast, and had an argument, and Mister Jeff grabbed me and started to slap me." Sob. "And that guy stood up and told 'im to stop. An' Mister Jeff was pissed and threw me down and started to go for that pistol, 'cept that guy (me) was faster. Mister Jeff put his hands up an' you came in."

Hurley looked at me, then the doofus. "What was the argument about?"

Tina took a deep breath. "He said they didn't have enough money for breakfast an' cigarettes, and I was eatin' too much an' to give him my money so he could buy cigarettes. An' I told 'im "no" an' he called me an ungrateful little bitch an' grabbed me."

By that time Unka Bob was back with Tina's purse. He handed it to the deputy. The deputy eyed Tina. "Is there anything in there I need to worry about?"

Tina took another breath, trying to control her sobs. She shook her head. "No sir. My wallet. Tampons. Pictures. Little notebook. A pen."

He handed her the purse. "Show me your ID." She complied. He examined it and handed it back to her.

I was next. He stood in front of me, six feet away. "And you're?"

"Alan Dean Addison. Forty-one. From..." I named my home town.

"You heard what Miss Tina said?"

"Yessir," I said. Damned straight I called him 'sir', despite him being at least a decade my junior. The guy was small town law enforcement and I was, in my own mind, 100% legal in my actions, but also 100% at his mercy as far as resolving the situation with the least pain to me.

"Is that pretty much what you saw go down?"

"Yessir," I said. "Except I didn't hear any of the conversation before he yelled "You ungrateful little bitch" and grabbed her. He was hauling his right hand back to slap her when I told him to stop. He threw her down, turned at me and said mind my own business and started reaching into his pocket. That's when I drew."

"Uh, Mister Addison, I'm gonna undo your cuffs. I want to see your ID. Don't move fast."

Freed, I very gingerly removed my wallet and retrieved two pieces of ID, a state drivers' license and a permit that allowed me to legally carry a concealed handgun. Hurley looked them both over and handed them back to me.

"So, you're carrying legally. That's one for you."

"Hurley. Son!" Unka Bob was interrupting.

Hurley turned. "Yessir?"

Unka Bob smiled at me. "This feller," he said, pointing to me, "saved that little girl a butt-kickin'"

The waitress intruded on the scene and joined in, "Yeah, I called your cell when that bunch started gettin' loud. Before he grabbed her. This guy stepped in just in time."

Things were lining up for me. Hurley looked at me. "Mister Addison, can you wait here? I need to get back with you."

Deputy #2 was going through the purse of the adult woman, and there were some curious artifacts laid out on the hood of his squad car, many of them involving tiny plastic bags. The guy was already sitting in the back seat, behind a closed door. The woman ended up in the other police unit, still in cuffs. Their car was an older Japanese import and by the time the deputies started going through it, a state police crime lab unit was on the way. Drugs.

Deputy Hurley approached me. "What are you driving?"

"That rig over there," I said, pointing to my "on the road" rig, a big silver diesel pickup truck towing a thirty-five foot travel trailer.

"Wow!" he exclaimed. "Can you follow us to the station? I'm gonna need a statement."

"Sure," I said. "I hope you have room for me to pull in. That's a bitch to back up."

He laughed. "We'll fix you up." And there was forgotten participant. Miss Tina. Hurley looked at her. She'd regained composure. Was standing there, all five-foot seven or eight (tall girl) of her, hips a little wider than a bikini model, the tiniest bit of a muffin top over her tight jean shorts, her blue cotton blouse knotted just above the beltline of the shorts. Auburn hair. Blue eyes. And pissed.

"What about me?" she asked. Hurley's eyes darted back and forth between his car and his partner's, each with a handcuffed suspect in the back seat. Hurley opened his passenger side door for her and the doofus in the back began screaming and cursing her. He took her to the other car, and got much the same treatment from the woman.

He looked at me. At her. At me. "You saved 'er. Got any problem with giving her a ride? Miss Tina? "Is that okay?"

Tina looked at me. "I suppose."

"Wait a second," I said. I spotted the waitress and pulled out a twenty and a five dollar bill. Handing it to her, I said, "This'll cover my breakfast. And that little lady's. And your tip." I turned back to the deputy. "Let's go, then." I turned to the second deputy. "How about some flashy light stuff so I can get this thing out of the parking lot?"

"Sure," he said. "You just gave her like a six dollar tip. You gonna ruin 'er for the rest of us."

"Yeah," I said. "But her day went all to hell. Figure she could use a boost."

Lights flashing, I followed as we crossed the steady stream of hurricane evacuees and I followed him to the sheriff's office. True to their word, they led me around in a big parking lot so I didn't have to fight that long trailer. Tina didn't say a word the whole trip. It wasn't a long trip. Just awfully silent.

We followed the deputy into the building. He motioned to a set of chairs. "Ya'll can wait here. Wanna coke? Coffee?"

"Coffee would be nice," I said. I looked at Tina. "You want something?"

"Coffee, I guess," she said.

"Coffee pot's in here," the deputy motioned, looked, then said "I'll get somebody to make a fresh pot."