KnockOut

backed out of his driveway slowly because the neighborhood was always hopping, kids playing in the street, riding bikes. Didn’t matter if it was nearly seven o’clock in the evening, if it was still light there was action.
    He waved to a couple of teenage boys who looked like they were going to smoke dope the minute he was out of sight, and they waved back. He was a retired cop, seven years now, but still a cop, and they knew it. His fingers itched sometimes to grab the little yahoos by the scruffs of their necks and shake some sense into their buzzed teenage heads.
    He took a last look at his house, wondered how long it would be until he was home again. He knew he had no choice but to leave, with those crazy loons from the bank out for his hide—that young girl, Lissy, especially. Mr. Maitland had told him Lissy was probably sprung by the guy driving the getaway car, and confided that Dillon Savich would be taking over the case. Buzz liked him. Mr. Maitland treated Buzz like he was still a cop, even thanked him for saving Savich’s life.
    Buzz had been to the Caribbean only once, with Eloise, on a cruise they’d hated, what with all his fellow cruisers running like pigs to the trough and the threat of a hurricane, which, thankfully, hadn’t materialized.
    He figured if he got bored on Aruba, he could always island-hop— after all, he was on leave with pay. Island-hopping, that might be good, but not if it meant being stuck on a rocking boat for seven days.
    At least he’d get a break from his kids cluttering around him all the time, trying to feed him, siccing his grandkids on him. It had been a zoo with them since he’d nearly bought the big one in the bank robbery. Buzz hadn’t called any of them to tell them he was leaving. Nope, he’d sent a blanket e-mail, and hadn’t answered any phone calls. He’d send everybody postcards.
    The Sebring wasn’t running right. He had noticed some sputtering earlier, and now it was skipping, running rough. Whatever it was, it was getting worse. Maybe he shouldn’t drive the car to the airport. He had time to leave it at Jimmy’s—yeah, that’s what he’d do. He pulled out his cell phone and called Jimmy at home, told him he was going to leave it, and called a taxi.
    Buzz switched lanes and drove over to Pepper Street, down a couple of blocks, and pulled into his friend Jimmy Turly’s auto shop Honest Abe’s Repairs. Buzz once asked him if there really was an Abe, but Jimmy said his mom told him it had a good sound to it, trustworthy and all.
    Buzz left his convertible at the tail of a row of other broken-down cars, left the keys on top of the front driver’s-side tire, and climbed into the taxi that had pulled up sooner than he expected. They made it to Reagan Airport in under an hour. His plane wasn’t late—a miracle—and he checked his bag and made it through security without having to strip to his shorts or empty his carry-on. He boarded his 737 to Aruba, a flat island, he’d heard, with lots of casinos and white beaches. He didn’t like to gamble, but he did like to lie in the sun. No one could ever tell he had a tan, he was already so dark, but he liked the idea of just lying in the sand and listening to the waves break. He could still feel the mad rush of adrenaline and the pounding fear when that maniac stuck his .38 into his ear, and the leap of joy and excitement when he could finally fight back. And he’d made it, with Dillon Savich’s help, even managed to shoot that woman who was leading the gang. In thirty years as a cop he’d never come that close to dying, and had never had to kill someone. The Washington Post had called him a hero, run his picture with Savich standing next to him, looking like one mean dude, despite his grin. At least he was alive, and although Eloise was gone, it felt wonderful.
    He smiled. What an experience. It had changed something in him, he thought, made him feel more involved again in what people were doing around him, what they thought, how they felt. He liked it. He realized it felt vaguely familiar.
    Buzz sat in a window seat, glad the seat next to him was still unoccupied, and looked out into the dying day when he noticed a closed utility door next to their gate slowly open. A young man, dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt, stuck out his head. To Buzz’s experienced eye, he looked furtive, like he was somewhere he shouldn’t be, wanting to do something he shouldn’t be doing. What was this all about?