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“Yeah,” a quavering elderly voice said from behind her.
“Fuck you, too, bitch,” he said. “This stupid bitch wrecked my car.”
“You wrecked your own car. You’re drunk and ran into a parked car.”
She knew it was a losing effort; you couldn’t reason with a drunk. The problem was, the guy was just drunk enough to be aggressive and not drunk enough to be staggering. He shoved the young woman, and she stumbled backward, caught her heel on a protruding root of one of the big trees that lined the street, and sprawled on the sidewalk. She cried out, and her children screamed and began crying.
Jaine charged him, bulldozing into him from the side. The impact sent him staggering. He tried to regain his balance but instead fell on his butt, his feet in the air. He struggled up and with another lurid curse lunged for Jaine.
She dodged to the side and stuck out her foot. He stumbled, but this time managed to stay on his feet. This time when he turned, his chin was lowered, tucked close to his chest, and there was blood in his eyes. Oh, shit, she’d done it now.
She automatically fell into a boxing stance, learned from many fights with her brother. Those fights were years in the past, and she figured she was about to get stomped, but maybe she’d get in a few good punches.
She heard excited, alarmed voices around her, but they were oddly distant as she focused on staying alive.
“Somebody call nine-one-one.”
“Sadie’s getting Sam. He’ll handle it.”
“I’ve already called nine-one-one.” That was a little girl’s voice.
The drunk charged, and this time there was no evading him. She went down under his onslaught, kicking and punching and trying to block his punches all at the same time. One of his fists hit her in the rib cage, and t
he power behind it stunned her. Immediately they were surrounded by her neighbors, the few younger men trying to wrestle the drunk off her, the older guys helping by kicking him with their slippered feet. Jaine and the drunk rolled, and a few of the older guys were mowed down, collapsing on top of the heap.
Her head thudded against the ground, and a glancing blow stung her cheekbone. One arm was pinned by a fallen neighbor, but with her free hand she managed to grab a chunk of flesh at the guy’s waist and twist it, pinching as hard as she could. He bellowed like a wounded water buffalo.
Then abruptly he was gone, lifted from her as if he weighed no more than a pillow. Dazed, she saw him slam to the ground beside her, his face mashed into the dirt as his arms were wrenched behind him and handcuffs snapped around his wrists.
She struggled to a sitting position and found herself practically nose to nose with her neighbor the jerk. “Damn it, I might have known it was you,” he snarled. “I should arrest both of you on drunk and disorderly charges.”
“I’m not drunk!” she said indignantly.
“No, he’s drunk, and you’re disorderly!”
The unfairness of his charge made her choke with rage, which was a good thing, because the words that hung in her throat probably would have gotten her arrested for real.
Around her, anxious wives were helping doddering husbands to their feet, fussing over them and checking for scrapes or broken bones. No one seemed much the worse for the fracas, and she figured the excitement would keep their hearts beating for several more years, at least.
Several women were clustered around the young woman who had been shoved down, clucking and fussing. The back of the woman’s head was bleeding, and her kids were still crying. In sympathy, or maybe because they were feeling left out, a couple more kids began wailing. Sirens screeched in the distance, coming closer with every second.
Crouched beside the captive drunk, holding him down with one hand, Sam looked around in disbelief. “Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head.
The old lady from across the street, her gray hair in pin curls, leaned over Jaine. “Are you all right, dear? That was the bravest thing I ever saw! You should have been here, Sam. When that… that hoodlum shoved Amy down, this young lady knocked him flat on his butt. What’s your name, dear?” she asked, turning back to Jaine. “I’m Eleanor Holland; I live across the street from you.”
“Jaine,” she supplied, and glared at her next-door neighbor. “Yeah, Sam, you should have been here.”
“I was in the shower,” he growled. He paused. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She scrambled to her feet. She didn’t know if she was fine or not, but she didn’t seem to have any broken bones and she wasn’t dizzy, so there couldn’t be any major damage.
He was looking at her bare legs. “Your knee is bleeding.”
She looked down and noticed that the left pocket of her denim shorts was almost torn off. Blood trickled down her shin from a scrape on her right knee. She jerked the torn pocket the rest of the way off and pressed the cloth to her knee. “It’s just a scrape.”
The cavalry, in the form of two patrol cars and a fire medic truck, arrived with flashing lights. Uniformed officers began wading through the crowd, while neighbors directed the medics to the injured.
Thirty minutes later, it was all over. Wreckers had hauled the two damaged cars away, and the uniforms had hauled the drunk away. The injured young woman, kids in tow, had been taken to an emergency room to have the cut on the back of her head stitched. Minor scrapes had been cleaned and bandaged, and the elderly warriors shepherded home.
