“That’s it,” he growls and slams his fist into Davy’s face. Hard.
After that, the whole thing is a mess. They’re on top of each other, both throwing punches that land God knows where. It’s not like a well-staged boxing match or a movie, it’s just chaotic and weird, and more grappling than anything else. They’re shouting and grunting and slugging each other in the ribs so hard, something’s going to break or get punctured.
This is a nightmare.
I’m terrified they’re actually going to kill each other. These aren’t wimpy kids on the playground, giving each other bloody noses. They’re rabid wolves, straining with muscle, teeth bared. And someone’s going down.
“Let me go,” I tell Fast Mike. I can’t let Porter do this. If he gets seriously hurt, I don’t know what I’ll do. But I can help somehow . . . can’t I? I look around for something to break up the fight. Maybe I can hit Davy on the head with something—
I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. Davy’s grabbing Porter’s hair—his hair! He has a fistful of Porter’s dark curls, and he’s wrenching his head back . . . is he going to bite his face? WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?
Porter’s lower body twists. He gives a powerful back kick to Davy’s bad knee.
A sickening crunch! echoes around the garage.
Davy drops to the floor.
He doesn’t get up. He’s clutching his knee, mouth open. Silent tears begin falling.
Porter’s chest heaves. All the veins stand out on his arms. A thick line of blood flows down his cheek and neck, disappearing into the black of his security guard uniform. “I’m calling your grandma, and I’m gonna tell her what you did today,” Porter says as he stands over his friend, looking down at him. “I’m also telling my folks. I’ve given you so many chances, and you’ve thrown them all in my face. I can’t ever trust you again. We’re done.”
“Love is the only thing that can save this poor creature.”
—Gene Wilder, Young Frankenstein (1974)
16
* * *
We load Baby in the back of Porter’s van. Except for the seat lock being popped, she seems to be in one piece. We found my helmet and all my stuff scattered behind the seat of Davy’s truck. We also found my scooter lock hanging off his tailgate; he’d removed it with industrial bolt cutters.
Turns out that one of the two people sitting with Davy when we first walked into the garage was a friend of Davy’s. Seeing how he was planning on helping Davy sell my scooter, I didn’t say anything to the guy, but Porter told him to drive Davy to the hospital. When they left, Davy could walk—barely—but he was going to need X-rays. And probably some pain medication, which was just lovely, considering what I now know about Davy’s history with drugs.
But after all that, Davy didn’t say one word to me. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye or acknowledge I was in the same room. Truth was, I couldn’t really face him, either. It was humiliating for both of us, I guess. And I’m pretty much in such a state of shock over the whole fight that I can barely speak.
When we’re ready to leave, Porter thanks Fast Mike, who advises me on a better-quality scooter lock. Turns out that his motorcycle garage isn’t a chop shop at all; he was seconds away from kicking Davy out before he got the phone call about Porter looking for my Vespa. So once again, my assumptions and I are completely off the mark. He says to Porter, “Tell your mama next time she wants to sell a bike like that, to come to me first. I’ll give her a good deal.”
“You got it,” Porter says, “We owe you big-time. You know anyone that needs a board, come by the shop.”
Fast Mike gives us a wave. We race through the rain and hop inside the van, and then we drive away. The windows are all fogging up, and I’m trying to help, looking for the switch to turn on the defrost, but my hands are shaking. I’m still freaked out. I can’t calm down. “The black button,” Porter says, and I finally find it. I turn the fan all the way up and try to concentrate on making the windshield clear instead of the fact that he’s still bleeding. It works until we come to the end of the dirt road.
“I think we should go see a doctor.”
“It’s fine.”
“You’re being ridiculous. Pull over at the first store you see and I’ll get something to clean your wound.”
He cranes his neck and appraises the damage in the rearview mirror. Yep. Listen to the smart person in the vehicle. Instead of turning right on the paved road to head back home, he turns left. Should he even be driving? Davy did punch him in the head a few times. Or maybe he knows something I don’t. Now the road is going uphill. We’re winding up some coastal cliffs, and the rain’s coming down. And I see a sign that says SCENIC OVERLOOK. He slows the van and turns into one of those pull-over areas for tourists to park. It’s got a couple of Monterey cypress trees and a redwood sign with a carving of the central coast of California and all the points of interest marked. It’s also got a jaw-dropping view of the Pacific, which we might enjoy if it weren’t overcast and drizzling, and he weren’t bleeding all over the seat.
“This doesn’t look like a store to me,” I say anxiously when he opens up his door.
“We don’t need no stinking store,” he says in a way that almost reminds me of a line from a Mel Brooks movie, Blazing Saddles. I never liked that one as much as Brooks’s other comedy classic Young Frankenstein, which I’ve watched online with Alex a couple of times. But it makes me a little guilty to think about that when I’m here with Porter.
Porter the animal. I’m still rattled over the insane amount of raw violence I just witnessed. And I’m not sure how I feel about it.
He jumps out, groaning, and heads around the van to a sliding side door, where he retrieves a small box. Then he comes back and slips back into the front seat and opens the treasure he’s collected: a plastic first-aid kit covered in stickers.
“Surfers always carry supplies,” he explains, rooting around the box with one finger. “We get banged up all the time.”
After several seconds of watching him struggle, I realize his other hand is too busted up to use, and pity overrides whatever lingering shock I’m still experiencing. I snatch the kit away from him. “Let me see that. You can’t nurse yourself, dummy.”
“Oh, good. I did all this as an excuse for you to put your hands on me.”
“Not funny.”
“A little funny.”