Excerpt of The Night Watchman by Mark Mynheir

Just after I of my pickup truck, the two men stalking me
had emerged from the shadows and then trailed me though
the parking lot.

They lagged behind me about fifty feet. I slowed my pace,
not that I wasn’t as slow as a tree slug already, to see
if they would overtake me or hang back.

They hung back. Not good.

Any human at a normal pace should have passed me by now. I
could feel their eyes punching holes in me, waiting for
the right time to move.

Since I wasn’t up for dealing with any problems, I stepped
it out as best I could. With a new-and-improved plastic
pelvis and hip, along with tenmonths of physical therapy,
I should be able to hobble a little faster. No such
luck.The cane and gimpy leg would only go so fast. Grandma
Moses on a pogo stick could hop circles
around me.

Using the rearview mirrors on the cars parked along Lake
Avenue, I kept tabs on my new friends without being too
obvious, a little trick I picked up when I worked
undercover.No need to give them more of an advantage than
they already had.

The big one, a black kidmaybe twenty years old, wore a
white wife-beater muscle shirt and black jean shorts. Mini-
dreads jetted from his head like a frayed ball of yarn.The
other kid, probably the same age, was an anemic white with
a tattoo sprawled on his neck and a shaved head that
glistened under the streetlights.

With each glance I caught, they feigned like they were
talking to each other, but I could sense they were
planning to pounce. And why not? I was an easy mark—a
crippled guy negotiating the Orlando streets alone at
night. One more block to go until I was at work.

Eleven months ago I would have enjoyed this game of cat
and mouse. But then I would have been the cat, a big
hungry one ready to swallow those thugs like the rodents
they were. I hoped they were just playing a game.

I stole a furtive glance behind me, and my tails were
nowhere in sight. I stopped and shifted all the way
around.Gone.Must have headed up an alley.Maybe I was just
losingmy mind.Hadn’t been out much lately.

I used to love the Orlando nightlife, the clubs and things
to do; the pulse of the city at night energized me. It had
changed so much in a short amount of time. Faster, meaner,
a stranger to me. Like I was living on a different planet.
I had grown up here, not long after Mickey scurried in,
back when Orlando was more of a cowtown.
Now it’s a big city plagued with big-city problems.

As I approached the corner of Lake and East
Jackson,Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumber raced around the
corner right in front of me, both out of breath.They must
have sprinted down the alley behind the store to cut me
off just before I reached the intersection.

This wouldn’t end pretty.

“Hey, old man.”The ugly white kid checked up and down the
street, like felons do when they’re preparing to do
something monumentally stupid.

His buddy invaded my personal space on my left. “How about
some spare change?” he said with an accent, maybe Haitian.

“Don’t have any change.” I eyed possible escape routes,
though escape wasn’t likely in my condition. And I
couldn’t count on anyone to help me, or even to notice,
for that matter.On this corner, in a city of over two
hundred thousand people, I was on my own…as usual.

“Then give up your wallet, or I bust your head like your
leg is.”

The black kid pressed in on me.

“Okay.Okay.” I held upmy right hand while leaning more on
the cane with my left. “I’ll give you my wallet. Just
don’t hurt me.”

“Hurry up!”The white kid spit as he spoke, clenching his
fists at his sides. “I ain’t got all night.”He was the
alpha dog of the two.

If they were going to attack, he would lead.He needed to
be tamed.

I reached back with my right hand, brushed past my wallet
in my back pocket, and slipped my hand up into my
waistband. I let go of the cane.The brass handle clanked
as it bounced off the concrete, echoing around us.Huey and
Dewey beaded in on it, drawing their attention down for
the second I needed.

I unsnapped my Glock 9mm from its holster, then drew it to
eye level, settingmy night sights on the white kid’s
forehead. A stupefied look crossed his face, which must be
a regular event for him. He wasn’t so alpha dog now.

“The leg’s busted, scumbag, but my finger works fine.” I
gritted my teeth and leaned forward. “You wanna test it
out?”

Both raised their hands. “We’re just playin’
around,man.”The black kid glanced toward his partner, who
peered down the barrel of my pistol.

“I’m not. You got ten seconds to run before I call the
cops.Ten. Nine.” They were half a block away before I hit
five.

Retired cops can legally carry guns, even if they’re
medically retired. At least I had that going for me. If
not, I’d have been a quick lunch for those creeps. I
thought about calling Dispatch and reporting it, but
something told me my new friends would think twice for a
while before robbing someone again, and I didn’t relish
the idea of being listed as a victim again on an incident
report with my old department.

I slid the pistol into its holster at my back, then
snapped it in. I combed my fingers through my hair. The
May air was thick and still. The adrenaline surge from the
game with my buddies wasn’t all bad. For the first time in
a while, I felt alive, energized.Too bad it would die down
soon.

My cane lay on the sidewalk, which shouldn’t have been a
big deal. But everything was a big deal these days.

As I stood without support, I felt like I was balancing on
a dry, cracked twig ready to snap at any moment, sending
me crashing to the concrete.My own legs were under someone
else’s spell, because they certainly didn’t obey me
anymore. I used to be able to roundhouse kick a heavy bag
so hard it would bend in half. Now I had to mentally
prepare to bend over and pick up my cane so I wouldn’t
fall on my face like an idiot…or worse, a helpless child.

I shouldn’t have been too worried, though. Me and my
physical terrorist—Imean, therapist—Helga, had been
working on this. Her name really wasn’t Helga, but I liked
to call her that. A linebacker- sized woman with viselike
man hands, sweet Helga and I would rendezvous three times
a week—whether I wanted to or not.
(If I didn’t go tomy therapy and doctors’ appointments, I
didn’t get my medical retirement checks.) I imagine
Helga’s former job was as an interrogator in a Russian
gulag somewhere deep in Siberia, slapping, twisting, and
pounding confessions from the prisoners.

I’ve cried out for mercy more than once on her medieval
torture table.

I drew in a deep breath, then exhaled as we practiced. I
eased down, shifting all my weight onto my left foot while
rolling my right foot on its heel, stretching it out.
Throbbing bolts of pain fired up my leg then my spine,
like multiple shots from a Taser. I wobbled as my fingers
brushed the cane, as if I were petting the head of a
snake. My middle finger caught the lip of the hawk-bill
handle, then drew it into my hand. I stabbed the tip into
the concrete and pressed myself up.What a production.

As I righted myself, I took a second to compose, the nerve
endings in my lower half signaling their dismay and
rebellion. I checked my watch. If I was gonna make my
shift as the night watchman at Coral Bay Condominiums, I’d
have to hustle. I’d hate to lose my new job. But then
again, I didn’t have much respect for someone who’s never
lost anything.

My name is Ray Quinn. Eleven months ago, I lost
everything.