|Bulldog's Plight (standard:action, 5881 words)|
|Author: hvysmker||Added: Apr 10 2004||Views/Reads: 2265/1303||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A Detective story in the 40's A kleptomanic detective. One who likes Hitler. Lots of action.|
“What the hell you doin' here, white boy?” One of three rather large negros stepped forward. The other two, leaning against the building, looked relaxed. Sam could see, however, that their weight was shifted forward, ready if needed. “What the fuck is it to you, nigger?” Sam asked, not even slowing down as he walked through the alley, in the south side ‘Nigertown' section of 1938 Chicago. “Outa' my fuckin' way, boy.” The two men against the wall smiled at his attitude. They appeared middle age, and were waiting to see their buddy's response. The large black braced his feet and growled at Sam, who was about the same age, and slightly under six feet tall. At 175 lbs, he seemed a poor opponent for the larger man. Sam tried to walk around the other man, who shuffled his feet to confront the white man, not letting him pass. The white Detective reached out and shoved the other man in the chest. The two grappled, to the amusement of the two onlookers. That is they were amused until they saw their friend drop to the dirty pavement. The other two started forward, to be stopped by the sight of an Army .45 in the white man's hand. “Jackson, you're coming with me. You,” he nodded at the other one, “take your buddy and get your black ass out of here, Now.” Sam waited while the third man left, half supporting his friend. “Now turn around, Jackson. You're under arrest.” Cuffing his prisoner, Sam ‘Bulldog' Jeffers, walked him to the plain police car. Sam kept a close watch on th alley as he put the prisoner in the passenger seat, he went around and started the car. It started all right, but wouldn't move, just making a kind of whirring sound. “God, Damn it.” He muttered. “You fucking stay right there, you hear me?” He told the prisoner, pausing to cuff the man's ankles with a spare set of hand-irons he found under the seat. Sam got out and looked at the tires, or actually where the tires should be. All four were gone, and the car up on concrete blocks. He had only been gone fifteen or twenty minutes. “We better be going,” he told the prisoner, “come on, and don't make any fuckin' trouble.” “You'll never get me out of here. My friends will stop you. Not your part of town, man.” “We'll just have to see, now won't we? Lets go” They started walking down the almost deserted sidewalk. An old lady passed them shaking her head, at the sight of Jackson hobbling along, a few inches at a time, with Sam steadying him. There was a police box around the corner on Halstead. Only a long two blocks away. About a block away, four men appeared out of a doorway, and spread across the sidewalk, waiting. “Now don't get nervous, Asshole. I won't let those bad guy hurt you.” He told his, now grinning, prisoner. “Oh, no. I feel fine, Officer. You getting a little nervous, are you?” Jackson hurried up, the cuffs were digging into his wrists. The sooner he got them off the better. At the time, before police radios were in vogue, if an officer needed help, he would blow his whistle. Sam disdained whistles, and never carried one. He had read a lot of old Westerns though. He pulled his backup .38 revolver, the cartridges were a lot cheaper and he had to buy them himself, and fired three warning shots. It was not permissible to actually shoot people with warning shots, but nothing in the book precluded shooting close. So he shot three times close to the brigands. One shot shaved a few hairs off an ear, another put an extra hole in the toe of a new oxford dress shoe, causing a great deal of pain, and causing the man to bump into two others. The third shot clipped the ring on another's finger, causing the targeted hand to slam sideways into another miscreant's balls. Click here to read the rest of this story (644 more lines)
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