JONATHAN KELLERMAN. THERAPY

Milo hurried to the front, zigzagging through the makeshift aisles, dodging chairs, as the woman’s companion, a bald, weak-chinned man wearing granny glasses and a red CCCP sweatshirt jumped up and began rabbit-punching the back of Pea Coat’s neck. Pea Coat struck back at him, caught him on the shoulder, and the man fell back on his rear.

Issa Qumdis had cleared his eyes, now, was staring at the melee. Albin Larsen stood behind him, stunned, as he handed Issa Qumdis a handkerchief and led him toward the back of the store.

By the time Milo reached the fracas, another gray-hair had joined in and Pea Coat had been pounded to the ground. The woman who’d fought for the paint gun had finally gotten hold of it. She aimed downward, shot a torrent of blood at Pea Coat but he kicked her and her aim shifted and she hit her companion instead, reddening his jeans.

“Shit!” he cried out. A flush captured his face. He began kicking viciously at Pea Coat’s prone body.

Milo yanked him away. Pea Coat struggled to his feet, took a roundhouse swing at Granny Glasses, missed, and lost his balance again. Issa Qumdis and Larsen had slipped into the unisex bathroom.

The woman aimed the paint gun again, but Milo pressed down on her arm and the weapon dribbled onto the floor.

“Who’re you?” she exclaimed.

A couple of pierced-and-brandeds stood.

I rushed over just as someone shouted, “Get the fascist!” and the crowd erupted into shouts and curses.

Milo grabbed Pea Coat’s sleeve and dragged him toward the back door.

The young men marched forward and got within arm’s length of Milo. Milo stopped the bigger one with a quick, hard squeeze of bare biceps. The man’s eyes fluttered.

Milo said, “It’s under control, compadres. Go away.”

No badge-flash. His tone froze them.

I got the rear door open, and Milo shoved Pea Coat out into the briny, night air.

As the door swung shut slowly, I looked back. Most of the onlookers had remained in their seats.

A few feet behind the folding chairs, half-concealed by bookshelves—tucked in his own vantage point—stood the tall, thin black man in the good gray suit and the charcoal shirt.

*

Behind the store was a service alley, blackened by night. Milo propelled Pea Coat westward, walking fast, shoving the man when he faltered. Pea Coat began cursing and struggling, and Milo did something to his shoulder blade that made him squeal.

“Let go of me, you commie bastard!”

“Shut up,” said Milo.

“You—”

“I’m the police, idiot.”

Pea Coat tried to stop short. Milo kicked at his heel, and the man jerked forward involuntarily.

“Police . . . state,” he said. His voice was thick and raspy, words punching out between shallow breaths. “So you’re a fascist, not a commie.”

“Another moron heard from.” Milo spotted a parked car a few yards up, shoved Pea Coat to it, pushed him up against the trunk. Jerking one of the man’s arms behind his back, he got his cuffs free, snapped them around the man’s wrist, twisted the other arm, and completed the task.

Since Pea Coat had aimed his paint gun till now, no more than five minutes had passed.

The man said, “Antisemitic—”

“Keep your mouth shut and your head down.”

Milo frisked him thoroughly, came up with a wallet and a key ring.

The man said, “I know exactly how much is in there, so if you’re—”

Milo’s finger landed atop Pea Coat’s shoulder blade. The memory of the first touch made the man break off midsentence.

I could hear cars rumble by on Broadway; but for that, the night was still.

Milo inspected the wallet. “There’s twenty bucks in here. You know different?”

Silence.

Then: “No.”

“Twenty whole dollars,” said Milo. “Preparing for a big night on the town, smart guy?”

“He’s Hitler,” said the man. “That pig. He lies, he’s Hitler—”

Milo ignored him and read his driver’s license. “Elliot Simons . . . what’s this, here . . . Cedars-Sinai ID card—RN . . . you’re a nurse?”

“Surgical nurse,” said Elliot Simons.

“Great for you,” said Milo. “You’re a little out of your element, Mr. Simons.”