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gestured at the man, who was on all fours over the contents of his stomach. Blood dripped out of his nose into the puddle. Three other deputies walked up. One of them stood with his palm resting on the butt of his service revolver. He wore aviator-style sunglasses, even though the sun had gone down hours ago. He looked to be in his early twenties.
    The sheriff led me over to his vehicle. “Tell me what happened,” he said, looking past me at the other officers, who were talking to the spectators. The young cop was leaning down, speaking quietly to the man who was still on his hands and knees.
    “The guy was bothering these ladies. I told him to knock it off, and he shoved one of them to the ground and took a swing at me. I hit him a couple times and pushed him out into the parking lot.”
    “Looks like you beat the hell out of him.”
    “He had it coming.”
    “And you had no problem obliging, huh?”
    “It was self-defense, Sheriff. The guy was looking for trouble, and if I hadn’t shoved him outside, people might have been hurt.”
    “Sounds like you’re an A-number-one citizen. Let me see your ID, please.” I pulled my wallet out and was handing him my driver’s license when the cop in the sunglasses walked up and unclipped his cuffs from his belt.
    “Put your hands on the car and spread ’em,” he said.
    “No need, Fingsten,” the sheriff said. “Did you call the ambulance?”
    “No need, my butt,” the man named Fingsten said, and put his hand on my arm and tried to push me into position against the sheriff’s car. I leaned my weight against him and didn’t budge.
    Fingsten’s lips quivered and he sneered under a mustache that looked like an undernourished caterpillar. He continued trying to force me against the car, but he was giving away about fifty pounds, and I’d tussled with stronger women.
    “Move it, you son of a bitch,” he said, and unsnapped the steel button on his holster.
    “Goddammit, Fingsten,” the sheriff said, “I told you to call an ambulance. Now.”
    “You’re not gonna let this guy walk?”
    The sheriff’s eyes flashed, and he took a quick step toward Fingsten. “Move,” he ordered. Fingsten smirked and sauntered away slowly, his shoulders back and his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. “Stupid…” he muttered, and I swore I heard him say “nigger.” I looked at the sheriff, but he’d already gone to his car to radio in my ID.
    Fingsten bent down and put his hand on the injured man’s shoulder, as if reassuring him. I walked around and sat on the back bumper of the sheriff’s vehicle. Another deputy was taking a statement from the two gals, who were gesturing vigorously, waving their arms about and throwing punches in the air.
    “Then he says, ‘I wouldn’t mind giving an older broad like you the high hard one,’” said the redhead. “Yeah,” the blonde said, “and he asked me if I take it up the ass!”
    The redhead looked like she was doing a drunken imitation of a kung fu movie, when suddenly she ran over to the injured man, who was still on his knees, and hooked him in the nuts from behind, as if she were kicking a field goal. The dude jerked upright, screaming the way a man only does when his testicles are grievously injured, and fell over onto his side, knocking Fingsten’s legs out from under him.
    Fingsten swung his arms desperately, his clipboard in one hand and his pen in the other. But his weight was already committed, and he fell over the man into the steaming puddle of vomit. He dropped his clipboard and broke his fall with his hands, but the puke splashed into his face, and then his sunglasses and cap fell into the puddle.
    The crowd was stunned for a second, until a voice said, “Yo, nice moon glasses!” A couple of guys began laughing, then more joined in. The other two deputies started rousting folks, telling them to either go inside or split. A minute later the parking lot was empty, except for the cops, me, the two ladies, and the