The Sourdough Wars

western.
    I was horrified, and spoke before I thought. “Rob, don’t!” Larson turned to look at me for a split second, and Rob turned around and started running. He was out the door and going for his car before Larson recovered, and then Larson was standing in the door, arm raised and taking aim.

Chapter Twelve
    Rob was a jerk for running out at a time like that, but he was my man and he was in hip-deep trouble. Before Larson knew what hit him, I was on his back like a monkey on a junkie’s. He slammed into the left side of the doorsill just as the gun went off, and I made a grab for it. I might have got it, too, if I hadn’t been sneaking a sidewise glance to see whether my sweetie was alive or dead.
    Alive! Alive and nearly safe in his car.
    I didn’t get the gun, but the sight of Rob on his pegs was enough to give me courage to go on. I tried a karate chop on Larson’s forearm, but it didn’t seem to have much effect. He just looked at me, apparently trying to figure out what species I was.
    Hell! Homo sapiens female, that was what. So I didn’t know karate. Big deal. I could pull hair with the best of them. Right away, I started on that, and also I got Larson’s glasses off and crunching under my feet, which I liked quite a lot, and I thought maybe a kick in the shin would be nice for a follow-up. But suddenly Larson remembered he was bigger than I was and had a gun. He grabbed my hair-pulling arm just as I was delivering the kick, so I had to give up on his head and torso. But I still had my legs.
    I got ready for another kick, but I never got to give it. That schmuck—you’re not going to believe this—kicked me first. Me, Rebecca Schwartz. A lady.
    So of course there was nothing to do but nail him again, and I still had one free hand. But so did he, and it had a gun in it. Which he smacked up against my face.
    I dropped like a rose petal. Not like a lead weight or a rock. Like a petal. I just sort of floated in the breeze until the nice warm ground came up underneath, all supportive and cozy.
    Now, Larson, he dropped more like a rock. Right to his knees. He set the gun down and started shaking me. “Miss Schwartz! Wake up! Miss Schwartz, are you all right? I’m not a violent man, really. I don’t know what got into me. Please, Miss Schwartz, don’t be dead.”
    I wasn’t even unconscious, but I was going to let the big schlemiel suffer awhile. So I kept my eyes closed. It was a little like having that childhood revenge everyone dreams about—the one in which you die and
then
they’re sorry. I just lay there with my cheek throbbing, listening to Larson, and it was music to my ears. It was soon joined by the sound of a siren.
    I flicked my eyes open. “Get up, you big oaf.”
    And then I was sorry I’d said it. Larson was actually crying. “Oh, Miss Schwartz, thank God. I’m a family man. I’ve never done anything like this.”
    “Just let me up.”
    Fear came back into his eyes. “Now, wait a minute there. I’ll decide when you get up.” He picked up the gun and stood up.
    “I thought you were glad I’m alive.”
    “I still don’t know if you’re who you say you are. I never heard of a lawyer jumping up on somebody’s back and attacking.”
    I hollered. I couldn’t help it. “You were trying to shoot my boyfriend!” I leaped up, not even caring that he had the gun and he was threatening me. I just got up and yelled, “You goddam killer! You societal menace!” And I went for his throat.
    Red lights flashed and someone spoke loudly: “Hold it right there!” Someone else said, “Drop it!”
    It was the cops, of course. It was sort of disappointing to learn that in real-life dramas, their dialogue is the same as it is on TV. However, what they said was brief and to the point. I held it right there, and Larson dropped it. Both of us even put our hands up, the result, no doubt, of brain rot caused by the tube.
    I never go anywhere—even burglar-hunting—without my trusty Sportsac shoulder bag (genuine synthetic and indestructible), so I had some ID and of course Larson had his uniform. But even so we had a lot of explaining to do. Each of us, naturally, felt his or her own side of the story was the more important, and neither would shut his or her mouth and let the other one talk.
    I was trying to explain that Larson had falsely imprisoned my friend and me and tried to kill my friend—who was a respectable member of the community—by discharging a firearm, and that