Right to Die

it, huh?”
    The cops were trying to get to Gun, the rest of the audience trying to retreat, but Rick and the other skinheads had moved toward the aisle to act as a barrier. No weapons I could see.
    Jurick said over the microphone, “Officers, if you would please—”
    “Fuck all, bitch, you got your goddamn nigger cops and your goddamn kike judges, but you can’t silence the real Americans, and we’re going to take back what we never should have lost in the first place.”
    Two skinheads began scuffling with each cop but not throwing any punches. The crowd got really nervous now and started scrambling out of the confining rows and into the surging aisles.
    I said to Bacall, “Save my seat, will you?”
    Going over the tops of chairs, I grabbed Gun’s right ear, my fingers wrapping around the cartilage like a pistol grip. I squeezed until he bent forward at the waist and started squeaking.
    I yelled, “Enough.”
    There was a momentary pause in everything, a video frame of uniforms and skinheads.
    “Gun, tell your friends to let go of the cops.”
    Rick the skinhead said, “Shit, Gun, knock his hand away.”
    I said, “He knocks my hand away, his ear comes with it.”
    Gun squeaked some more. “Do it, Rick.... Let them go-”
    Rick released the white cop and said “Shit” again just as he got whirled onto the floor.
    Security guards from the library upstairs appeared, and I maneuvered Gun over to the black cop. As I walked back to my seat, Jurick was saying,...” and I want to thank our speakers and all of you once more and remind you of the book signing that will...”
    Alec Bacall said, “And how did you enjoy the debate, John?”
    “It was all right. Kind of a cold crowd, though.”
    Del Wonsley said, “Oh, I don’t know. I thought that many were appalled, but few were frozen.”
    Bacall grinned. “That’s why I love him so.”

= 10 =

    Plato’s Bookshop occupied a double-wide retail space on Newbury Street , three blocks from the lecture hall. I was delayed at the Rabb, giving the cops and the units that responded to their call the details as I saw them. By the time I got to the store, the signing was in full progress.
    The window next to the door held a poster with information about the debate and the signing to follow. Under the poster and inside the shop was a display table. Around an eight-by-ten black-and-white glossy portrait of Maisy Andrus were maybe a hundred copies of her book. Some lay on their sides in irregular piles while others stood up in little wire holders. A dozen copies of Paul Eisenberg’s book were shunted to one corner. There was no photo of Eisenberg and nothing at all about the Reverend Givens.
    Two lines of people trailed back from signing tables in the rear of the shop. Eisenberg’s line was a lot shorter than the one in front of Andrus, and many of the Eisenberg hopefuls also carried a copy of her book under their arms. I saw Olivia Jurick smiling and shaking hands in a regular-customer way as she moved down the aisle created by the two lines. On side counters were wine and punch, cheese and crackers, grapes and pretzels. I could see Inés Roja standing beside the sitting Andrus, opening the next copy of the book to a given page for the professor to sign. Manolo stood a step behind Andrus, glowering at each fan.
    Alec Bacall and Del Wonsley were holding wineglasses and watching Tucker Hebert entertain several fashionable women with what appeared to be hilarious stories. I spotted the blonde I took to be Kimberly and then, when she turned, Walter Strock, which surprised me. He wasn’t carrying a copy of Andrus’s book, which didn’t surprise me. I didn’t see the Reverend Givens nor, if skin color was a gauge, many of her flock.
    Bacall saw me and beckoned to cut through the Andrus line. Eisenberg was shaking the hand of his last fan and looking around, rather awkwardly, presumably for Olivia Jurick to tell him what to do next. In front of Andrus, a matronly woman had just handed her copy of Our Right to Die to Inés for prepping. Roja opened it, turned a page, and then dropped the book like a picnic plate with a bee on it.
    I pushed through the line as politely as possible. Andrus had picked up the book and was apologizing to the matron when Andrus saw Roja’s facial expression. Manolo saw it, too, and edged forward, eyes mainly on the matron.
    I said, “What’s the matter?”
    Andrus replied, “I don’t know.”
    Inés had one hand to her mouth and