The adrenaline crash was always worse than the fight. In his twenties, it had been a mild jittery exhaustion easily cured by a cold beer and a hot shower. Now at seventy-two, it felt like a mild heart attack. Victor sat entirely still. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead, slicking the thin gray hair beneath his flat cap. His heart beat in a regular frantic rhythm against his sternum. He focused on his breathing. He forced the air deep into his belly, holding it for a three count and releasing it through his teeth. Slowly, the erratic hammering in his chest settled back into a heavy rhythmic thump. Ten minutes passed. The park remained quiet. The scattered pigeons had returned, oblivious to the violence that had just occurred over their breakfast, greedily pecking at the dirt. Then came the slow crunching sound of tires on gravel. Victor didn’t turn his head. He recognized the heavy idling rumble of a Crown Victoria. The police cruiser rolled up the maintenance path, its tires flattening the dead grass, and came to a stop twenty yards from Victor’s bench. The light bar wasn’t flashing. A heavy car door slammed shut. Heavy footsteps approached on the concrete. Victor kept his eyes on the pigeons. He felt a deep weary resignation. He didn’t have the energy for a precinct interrogation room. He didn’t have the patience for paperwork. The footsteps stopped. A shadow fell over the crushed bread. “Morning,” a voice said. Victor looked up. It was a beat cop, mid-fifties, carrying an extra thirty pounds around his duty belt, with a face that looked like it had been carved out of a tired potato. His uniform shirt was tight across the chest and his eyes carried the distinct glazed cynicism of a man who had spent thirty years watching people make terrible decisions. His name tag read Donovan. Victor offered a slow, deliberate nod. “Officer.”
Donovan didn’t immediately ask questions. He hooked his thumbs into his duty belt and surveyed the scene. He looked at the kicked-over trash can down the path. He looked at the scuff marks on the concrete directly in front of Victor. He looked at the crushed sourdough bread in the mud. Then he looked at Victor’s hands resting on the handle of the leather cane. Victor knew what Donovan saw. He saw the red, swollen knuckles on the right hand. He saw the slight trembling in the fingers. “Got a call from a city landscaper over by the maintenance shed,” Donovan said. His voice was a flat, uninflected drawl. “Said three kids were harassing an old man on a bench. Said they got physical.” “Is that so?” Victor said, his voice equally flat. “Yeah.” Donovan scratched his jaw. “Said the old man didn’t take too kindly to it. Said the old man put one of them to sleep and folded the fat one in half like a cheap lawn chair. Said the third one almost wet his pants.” Victor stared at the patch of dead grass. He didn’t confirm. He didn’t deny. Silence was the best defense lawyer a poor man could afford. Donovan sighed, a heavy rattling sound in his chest. He pulled a small, spiral-bound notepad from his breast pocket, clicking a cheap ballpoint pen. “Now, the way I see it,” Donovan said, looking down at his blank notepad, “if an assault occurred, I need a victim to press charges. I drove around the block before I came up the path. Saw three kids matching the description walking down Fourth Street. One of them had a jaw the size of a grapefruit. Looked like he didn’t know what year it was. The big one was holding his ribs and crying.” Donovan paused. He looked directly at Victor. “I asked them if they wanted to report an assault,” Donovan continued. “You know what they told me?” Victor finally met the cop’s eyes. “No.” “They told me they fell down,” Donovan said, a faint, grim smile touching the corner of his mouth. “Tripped over a root, they said. Very clumsy kids.” Victor didn’t smile back. He just gave another slow nod. Donovan clicked his pen shut and slid the blank notepad back into his pocket. He looked at Victor’s right hand again. “You turn the hip over on that right hand?” Donovan asked quietly. Victor looked at his knuckles. “You have to. Otherwise, it’s just arm punches. Arm punches don’t stop a fight.” “Orthodox stance?” “Yes.” Donovan nodded slowly. “My old man boxed out of a gym in South Philly, middleweight. Never made it big, but he knew how to throw leather. He always said the most dangerous guy in the room isn’t the one yelling. It’s the one looking at your collarbones.” “Your father was a smart man,” Victor said softly. “He was a mechanic,” Donovan corrected. “Just like you, I’m guessing. Different kind of engines, though.”