Bulldog's Plight (standard:action, 5881 words)
Author: hvysmker	Added: Apr 10 2004	Views/Reads: 4108/2861	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A Detective story in the 40's A kleptomanic detective. One who likes Hitler. Lots of action.

“What the hell you doin' here, white boy?”  One of three rather large
negros stepped forward.  The other two, leaning against the building, 
looked relaxed.  Sam could see, however, that their weight was shifted 
forward, ready if needed. 

“What the fuck is it to you, nigger?”  Sam asked, not even slowing down
as he walked through the alley, in the south side  ‘Nigertown' section 
of 1938 Chicago.  “Outa' my fuckin' way, boy.” 

The two men against the wall smiled at his attitude.  They appeared
middle age, and were waiting to see their buddy's response.  The large 
black braced his feet and growled at Sam, who was about the same age, 
and slightly under six feet tall.  At 175 lbs, he seemed a poor 
opponent for the larger man. 

Sam tried to walk around the other man, who shuffled his feet to
confront the white man, not letting him pass.  The white Detective 
reached out and shoved the other man in the chest.  The two grappled, 
to the amusement of the two onlookers. 

That is they were amused until they saw their friend drop to the dirty
pavement.  The other two started forward, to be stopped by the sight of 
an Army .45 in the white man's hand. 

“Jackson, you're coming with me.  You,” he nodded at the other one,
“take your buddy and get your black ass out of here, Now.”  Sam waited 
while the third  man left, half supporting his friend.  “Now turn 
around, Jackson.  You're under arrest.” 

Cuffing his prisoner, Sam ‘Bulldog' Jeffers, walked him to the plain
police car.  Sam kept a close watch on th alley as he put the prisoner 
in the passenger seat, he went around and started the car.  It started 
all right, but wouldn't move, just making a kind of whirring sound. 

“God, Damn it.”  He muttered.  “You fucking stay right there, you hear
me?”  He told the prisoner, pausing to cuff the man's ankles with a 
spare set of hand-irons he found under the seat.  Sam got out and 
looked at the tires, or actually where the tires should be.  All four 
were gone, and the car up on concrete blocks.  He had only been gone 
fifteen or twenty minutes. 

“We better be going,” he told the prisoner, “come on, and don't make any
fuckin' trouble.” 

“You'll never get me out of here.  My friends will stop you.  Not your
part of town, man.” 

“We'll just have to see, now won't we?  Lets go” They started walking
down the almost deserted sidewalk.  An old lady passed them shaking her 
head, at the sight of Jackson hobbling along, a few inches at a time, 
with Sam steadying him.  There was a police box around the corner on 
Halstead.  Only a long two blocks away. 

About a  block away, four men appeared out of a doorway, and spread
across the sidewalk, waiting. “Now don't get nervous, Asshole.  I won't 
let those bad guy hurt you.”  He told his, now grinning, prisoner. 

“Oh, no.  I feel fine, Officer.  You getting a little nervous, are you?”
 Jackson hurried up, the cuffs were digging into his wrists.  The 
sooner he got them off the better. 

At the time, before police radios were in vogue, if an officer needed
help, he would blow his whistle.  Sam disdained whistles, and never 
carried one.  He had read a lot of old Westerns though.  He pulled his 
backup .38 revolver, the cartridges were a lot cheaper and he had to 
buy them himself, and fired three warning shots. 

It was not permissible to actually shoot people with warning shots, but
nothing in the book precluded shooting close.  So he shot three times 
close to the brigands.  One shot shaved a few hairs off an ear, another 
put an extra hole in the toe of a new oxford dress shoe, causing a 
great deal of pain, and causing the man to bump into two others.  The 
third shot clipped the ring on another's finger, causing the targeted 
hand to slam sideways into another miscreant's balls. 



Click here to read the rest of this story (644 more lines)