A dozen veterans fell in behind Chuck as he moved towards Schecky and his six friends. He stopped inches away from Schecky and fixed him with a baleful glare. Before Chuck even said a word, Schecky’s eyes flicked away twice, perhaps searching for moral support from Arnold and his other friends, who were backing away.
“You don’t even have the right to be here,” Chuck said.
“You’re wrong, man, the second amendment gives us the right to assemble.”
“The second amendment gives you the right to bare arms, dumb-ass, something we did for our country to protect little pricks like you.”
“Sir!” the young mother said, hands still over her five-year-old.
“We still got the right to assemble; it’s in the amendments,” Schecky said.
“You got the right as long as you assemble somewhere else.”
“Says who?”
“Says me and about fifty other guys that would love to skin you alive and feed you to the dogs. And believe me, we know how to do it.”
Schecky swallowed hard but held his ground. “I ain’t going nowhere.”
Arnold fidgeted, now ten yards behind Schecky and still backing away. “Schecky, maybe we should go back to Stan’s.”
“Your name’s Schecky?” Chuck sniggered.
“What’s it to you.”
“Nothing, except maybe you shouldn’t try to act like a big man with such a pansy-ass name.”
“Well at least may name’s not baby-killer.”
That’s all Chuck could take. He grabbed Schecky by the shoulders, wheeled him around and shoved him into the hoard of vets that had settled in behind him. Schecky went into the throng like a rag doll. Two veterans cuffed their arms around his shoulders and held him fast. Chuck moved in, balling his hands into two stones. His first blow landed in Schecky’s solar plexus, knocking the wind from him. Schecky doubled forward, fighting to regain air. The two Vets righted him. Chuck landed three more blows, two left jabs and a right cross, all to Schecky’s face.
Dan trotted up to Chuck’s side. “Let him go; we don’t need this kind of trouble.”
“I didn’t start it. It was this little asshole and his asshole friends.” Schecky’s little pack of friends receded a few more steps, collective fear on their faces.
The young mother shot Chuck a scowl and wrenched her five-year-old son into the crowd of spectators, away from the parade line. Against protests from her little boy, she took him home, a decision that she would later thank the Lord she had made.
“Just let it go,” Dan said.
Chuck landed a solid uppercut into Schecky’s face. He felt the cartilage snap under his fist and knew that the hippie would never look exactly the same after the day he had decided to taunt a group of Vietnam War veterans.
The two vets let Schecky go. Surrounded by angry G.I.s, all of them jeering and laughing, Schecky crumpled into a fetus on the pavement. Soldiers took turns landing well-placed kicks to Schecky’s legs and flanks. They slapped high fives, laughing and joking.
Schecky remembered the wood, slated door on the front of his father’s tool shed. He remembered the Master lock that kept that door shut tight. There had been only one key, the one his father kept on his jumbo janitorial work belt. He remembered what he had found in the shed on the day he had cut his way inside. He began to laugh as the Vietnam veterans continued to beat him. He loved his father, oh, how he loved his daddy. Someone kicked him in the ribs, causing a fresh wave of laughter to erupt from deep inside him.
Chapter 12
Sergeant Bixbie sat in his cruiser, working a crossword puzzle. An old captain back in the academy had once told him that, to stay sharp, he completed at least one crossword puzzle a week. The man had been over sixty and, though partially retired, took Bixbie down regularly to the matt every time they sparred. Seven across, a seven-letter word for devastating storm, starting with T. He thought for a few seconds then smiled and licked the tip of his chewed up number 2 pencil. He filled in the seven squares with the word tsunami.
Something caught his eye out the windshield of his cruiser. He pushed his moon-shaped glasses down around the tip of his nose and squinted to get a better look. A half-dozen men, hippies, moved from the sidewalk towards the middle of the street. Those damn hippies were making trouble again. They had been chanting their idiot slogans for the past few minutes but Bixbie had tuned them out. Hippies were usually all bark, no bite. They had the soothing effects of that loco weed they smoked to keep them docile.
One of the group, a kid wearing a pair of pants made out of an American flag, shouted something at the Nam veterans. Bixbie couldn’t make out the words. The aging Sergeant hissed to himself. Pretty soon those kids would be burning old glory right in front of everyone on the street, just like those damn Arabs.
Just as Bixbie went back to his crossword puzzle, a spat broke out between the hippie and some of the Nam vets. Bixbie swore to himself, a series of words he would never dream of repeating in front of his wife or grand kids. He dropped the crossword puzzle on the seat next to him. He folded his moon-shaped specs and put them into his breast pocket protector. He pushed open his cruiser door and worked his bulky frame out of the car. He squashed his eight-point hat down to his brow and watched the little scrap in the distance escalate as other veterans jumped into the fight.
Bixbie spotted Smash and Fern leaning against their squad car. Fern lay back, the top two buttons of his uniform undone, catching rays from the sun. “Williams, Lenoy!” Bixbie shouted. The two officers snapped to attention. Fern hurriedly buttoned up his uniform. “Get down there and see if you can break up that little brouhaha those hippies have pitched up.”
The two officers glanced down the parade route and spotted the altercation. Both their faces cracked into grins. “Sure thing, Serge,” Smash said. The two officers began to trot away.
“And Williams,” Bixbie shouted.
Smash turned back toward sergeant Bixbie.
“Do not, under any circumstances, draw your side arms. Last thing we need is another officer Greer on our hands.”
“Roger that,” Smash said.
Smash and Fern headed down route, loping at a good clip. As they made their way, Smash shouted at the parade spectators, “To one side; please, to one side; we have a situation; to one side please.” The parade spectators, mostly comprised of good American families, backed away to let the policemen run by.
Fern smiled to himself as he ran behind his partner. There was nothing like a little tussle to spice up the day. Now he would have the chance to be a hero; he liked that. Only the price he would pay for that heroism far outweighed anything he could have expected.
Chapter 13
By the time Smash, Fern, and four other officers made it to the ruckus, Schecky lay on the ground, his nose broken and bloody. A lot of pent up frustration had come to effervescence in the Nam veteran ranks. Soldiers took turns kicking the poor kid, laughing and jeering the whole time. The beating didn’t stop the kid from unraveling a thread of insults and insidious protestor slogans, all tied together by gales of insane laughter. His taunting only fueled the Vets’ penchants for violence.
Smash felt virtually helpless. On one side, a crew of unruly veterans rocked, pumping fists and shouting profanities; on the other side, a gigantic throng of hippie NRPL protestors stirred, the beginnings of a fire broiling in their guts as they watched their star-spangled friend get beaten to a pulp. “Okay, gentlemen,” Smash said, resting one hand on the butt of his retractable baton. “Lets break it up now. We got families here.” Smash’s words peeled away unheard through the back and forth insults shouted by the Veterans and NRPL protestors.
Fern watched the hippie kid