I checked the chamber on the gun. Sure enough, he had a round in it. The maniac could have blown my head off. I pumped the round out and into the gutter.
I leaned over and grabbed a handful of Hawaiian shirt. I pulled him to his feet and shoved him up against my car. As I did, I felt something under his shirt, so I gave him a quick frisking.
I came up with a large bronze medallion on a chain around his neck.
His pockets were empty, except for a wallet and a set of keys on a large ring. There was a small silver sword hanging from the keychain. On the blade were some tiny characters. As near as I could make out they said, Is Thusa Mo Thua Chatha.
I opened the wallet. He had a driver’s license in the name of Phillip Moss, and an Orange County address. “I think you’re in the wrong neighborhood,” I told him as he grunted and shook his head to clear it.
He glared at me. “Who are you?” he demanded, with a very tight-lipped snarl.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. You had your chance. Now it’s my turn.” I held up the gun in front of him. “It’s not polite to stick your gun in a stranger’s ear. But I’ve got your Q-tip now. So why don’t you tell me what you’re doing wandering around with a cannon?
“It’s my weapon,” he said.
“I’m sure it is. So what was it doing in my ear?”
“You have no right to take that weapon.”
I sighed. “You don’t get it, do you? It’s not about the weapon anymore. It’s about you, Phil. Who are you and what are you doing here?”
His eyes narrowed, and he nodded slightly as if something finally made sense. “Zog,” he said, in a tone of voice like he was saying Eureka.
“Well, you’ve got me there, pal,” I told him.
“Z-O-G,” he said. Maybe he figured that anybody who moved fast enough to get the drop on him couldn’t spell.
“I’ll need a receipt for the pistol,” he said.
I gave up. L.A. was the kind of town where any damned fool could show up and put a gun in your ear, and this was getting me nowhere.
“Here,” I said, sliding the clip out of the handle. “Take the damn thing,” I told him, and put the pistol in his hands. “Go play with your acorns.”
He just looked at the gun in his hands, then looked up at me again. His eyes narrowed. “What the hell is this?” he asked.
“It’s a Glock nine-millimeter,” I told him. “I’m keeping the clip.”
“Just like that, huh?” he said. I could see now that he had the gun back he thought he was going to get tough again. “I don’t think so—” And he raised the gun up, pointed it at my nose, and pulled the trigger.
He had obviously not seen me jack the round out of the chamber, but I was still shocked. Neighborhood Watch was getting damned unfriendly.
“I don’t think so, either,” I told him. I slapped him hard and fast on the face. His head rocked to the side and met my left hand coming across for another slap on the other side of the face. His head swung the other way and I gave him one more.
“I don’t like guns in my nose, or my ear, or any other body cavity. If I ever see you again I’m going to pull your head off and shove it so far up your ass you’ll be looking out your own neck. Now get moving.”
He put a hand up to his face. It was the hand with the gun. It looked like it hurt. “Your day is coming, you filthy—”
I held up my hand again like I was going to hit him. He tried to step back and ran into the car. So he slid along the car and scrambled onto the sidewalk, grabbing for his dignity.
“You haven’t heard the last of this, mud-boy,” he said. And then he turned and marched off, disappearing around the corner without looking back.
I climbed back into my car. I suddenly had a lot to think about.
Chapter Twenty-One
“He called you mud-boy?” Ed asked me, his inverted V eyebrows climbing up until they were almost lost on top of his head.
“And Zog,” I said. “He called me Zog twice. He even spelled it for me.”