He came at me again, shouting, “I hate you. I hate you.” This time I smacked the fork out of his hand, and he stumbled into an end table, knocking the table over, smashing a lamp in the process. “My lamp,” he shrieked. “Look what you did to my lamp.” He lowered his head and charged at me bull-?style. I stepped to the side, and he crashed into a bookcase. Books tumbled out, and knickknacks shattered on the polished wood floor.
“Stop it,” I said. “You're wrecking your apartment. Get a grip on yourself.”
“I'll get a grip on you,” he snarled, lunging forward, catching me with a body tackle at knee level.
We both went down hard to the floor. I had him by about seventy pounds, but he was in a frenzy and I couldn't pin him. We rolled around, locked together, cursing and breathing heavy. He slithered away from me and ran for the door. I scrambled after him on hands and knees and grabbed him by the foot at the top of the stairs. He yelped and fell forward, and we both went head over heels tumbling down the stairs to the landing, where we tangled again. There was some scratching and hair grabbing and attempted eye-?gouging. I had him by the front of his shirt when we lost balance and pitched down the second flight of stairs.
I flopped to a stop in the foyer, flat on my back, gasping for air. Briggs was squashed under me, dazed into inertia. I blinked my eyes to clear my head and two cops swam into focus. They were staring down at me, and they were smiling.
One of the cops was Carl Costanza. I'd gone to school with Carl and we'd stayed friends . . . in a remote sort of way.
“I heard you liked the top,” Carl said, “but don't you think this is carrying it a little far?”
Briggs squirmed under my weight. “Get off me. I can't breathe.”
“He doesn't deserve to breathe,” I said. “He ripped my Levi's.”
“Yeah,” Carl said, lifting me off Briggs, “that's a capital offense.”
I recognized the other cop as Costanza's partner. His name was Eddie Something. Everyone called him Big Dog.
“Jeez,” Big Dog said, barely controlling laughter, “what did you do to this poor little guy? Looks like you beat the crap out of him.”
Briggs was standing on wobbly legs. His shirt was untucked and he'd lost a shoe. His left eye was starting to bruise and swell, and his nose was bleeding.
“I didn't do anything!” I yelped. “I was trying to take him into custody and he went berserk.”
“That's right,” Harry said from the top of the landing. “I saw the whole thing. This runty little guy just abou
t ruined himself. And this lady hardly put a hand to him. Except of course when they were wrestling.”
Carl looked at the cuff still attached to Briggs' wrist. “Your bracelet?” he asked me.
I nodded.
“You're supposed to cuff both hands.”
“Very funny.”
“You got papers?”
“Upstairs in my shoulder bag.”
We climbed the stairs while Big Dog baby-?sat Briggs.
“Holy shit,” Costanza said when he saw Briggs' door. “Did you do this?”
“He wouldn't let me in.”
“Hey, Big Dog,” Costanza yelled. “Lock the little guy in the car and come take a look. You gotta see this.”
I gave Costanza the bond documents. “Maybe we could keep this all kind of quiet—”
“Holy shit,” Big Dog said when he saw the door.
“Steph did that,” Costanza told him proudly.
Big Dog clapped me on the shoulder. “I guess they don't call you the bounty hunter from hell for nothing.”