This change of heart on Patsy’s part put three people on top of skinny Danny Terrant, and he could feel himself growing lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. I’ll be the only underweight person, he thought, ever to die from not shedding enough fat...
But then the pepper spray found his hand and he was spritzing it everywhere he could. If his partner caught some, well, that was tuff-ski shit-ski...
As if by magic, the bodies atop him tumbled away in various directions. Nucci and the Gruners were yelling and flailing and rubbing their eyes as they rolled around on the tile.
After sucking down two deep breaths, blessed oxygen once again coursing through his lungs, a triumphant Terrant rose, his Glock drawn.
Amid the screaming, Lloyd blindly lumbered toward Danny, yelling, “You mother fuh—”
That was as far as the big man got before Danny sidestepped him and brought the pistol down on the back of a neck rolling with fat. Despite the padding, Lloyd sagged to his knees, paused in what appeared to be buggy-eyed prayer, then flopped to the floor, unconscious. With some difficulty, Danny managed to handcuff the man, wrists behind him.
Nearby her tubby hubby, Patsy writhed, feverishly rubbing her eyes and screaming incoherently.
“Stop rubbing,” Danny advised the woman. “You’re only making things worse.”
“Go screw yourself!” she shouted, still rubbing away.
Ah, he thought. To serve and protect...
“You got it, Mrs. Gruner,” he said.
“You sprayed me,” Nucci moaned, as his partner helped him up. “I can’t believe you sprayed me.”
“I didn’t spray you. I just sprayed. I was getting my ass crushed.”
Nucci had nothing more to say, too busy trying to keep from rubbing his own peppered eyes. Danny knew what kind of agony Nucci was in — their training included getting similarly sprayed — and felt bad for his partner. But he would have done it again.
With the cuffs from Nucci’s belt, Danny returned to Patsy and restrained her, as well, while she shrieked about “suing you and your goddamn department.”
This and other obscene threats were hurled by the woman who had summoned them via 911 as Danny helped navigate the tap at a sink full of dirty dishes so his partner could flush his eyes.
They got the Gruners off to jail without further incident. The unhappy couple would face an impressive list of complaints, but other than a possible court appearance, Danny figured that was the end of it.
Not hardly.
Once the story got around the station, embellished vigorously by the red-eyed Nucci, Danny took a merciless ribbing from fellow officers the rest of the day. Danny pepper-sprayed his own partner, high-lar-ious! This, even though everybody agreed he’d done the right thing, even Nucci himself, when his eyes gradually cleared.
In fact, Bobby had said in the locker room, “You know, Danny boy, you probably saved both our asses. Those two mighta killed each other and made collateral damage out of us along the way.”
Bobby was a good guy, but Danny didn’t hang out with him off-duty much. Single, living in a lowrent apartment on Twenty-eighth Street, Danny Terrant didn’t often socialize with his brother officers. Most were family men, and the few single guys hung out at meat-market-type clubs, trying to look as cool as the drug dealers they busted.
Danny Terrant wanted none of it. Just wasn’t his style. Instead, he would go to Reseda, by himself, at least once every couple of weeks, to the Prairie Lights Bar. There, he could be somebody else, not an off-duty cop, just a nice single guy with an interest in something that was really fun, real fun... but something his coworkers would likely have made a laughingstock out of him over, had they known.
Line dancing.
Yes, Danny Terrant was into line dancing, into it all the way, and he didn’t care to expose himself and his wholesome hobby to the ridicule of his “cool” brother cops.
That evening, having grabbed a fast-food supper on the way home, Danny outfitted himself in black western shirt (snaps not buttons), black chinos, his favorite cowboy boots, and a black cowboy hat. Finishing touch was the black belt with audaciously large silver belt buckle he’d won a couple of years ago in a mechanical bull riding contest.
In apparel like this, his lanky frame looked good. Looked real good. Checking out the effect in the mirror, he pronounced himself ready for fun, and hit the trail. Driving his new Mustang, he took off north from Santa Monica on the 405 headed for Reseda, listening to a Clint Black CD.
Before long, within the barn-wood walls of Prairie Lights, dancing to the blasting of Brooks & Dunn’s “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” Danny saw his day change from crapola into possibly the best night ever...
She was a tall drink of water with curly red hair that framed green eyes, high cheekbones, and lush, red-glossed lips. Though she was slender, she had curves complemented by her tight jeans and a spaghetti-strap green top that contrasted nicely with the creamy white of her shoulders and glimpse of bosom. All this was set off by hand-tooled leather green-and-brown cowboy boots that must have cost a small fortune.
She sidled up next to Danny and gave him an easy smile, which he was happy to return. They danced next to each other through another fast song, then another, and another. Finally, when a ballad began, they left the dance floor together, old friends.
At the bar, Danny introduced himself and asked if he could buy the lady a drink.
She nodded, but the blaring music, ballad or not, made it tough to be heard without shouting.
When bottles of beer arrived, she took hers, smiled, and leaning close said, “Gail Preston!”
“Nice to meet you, Gail!” he said, and they clinked bottles together in a tentative toast.
Funny thing was, she wasn’t his type. She was tall and slender and so was he, and he preferred short, shapely little things who frankly made him feel big.
But something about her, something magnetic, even charismatic, drew him to her. And it wasn’t like she was skinny — she had a nice full rack, and that bottom was sweet. Hell, Gail was a babe, a four-alarm fox.
Small talk at the bar was followed by what qualified as a quiet corner in Prairie Lights, where they ordered another round. Never a heavy drinker, Danny might have three or four beers over the course of an evening here. That might add up to a beer an hour, and he felt he danced ‘em off.
Still, trips to the john at the Prairie Lights were hardly a rarity for him. He was a little surprised, however, to find his sea legs wobbly on his third trip or so.
When he got back to the tiny table, he found another bottle waiting for him. He knew he had to slow down. But he hoisted the beer and said, “Thanks.”
She smiled and took a swig from her latest bottle.
“You know,” Danny said, “most women don’t come here alone. It’s not a rough bar or anything, but... people tend to show up in groups.”
Her smile was playful. “You’re not a group.”
“No. We could be a group. Our own group.”
“There’s an idea.”
They clinked bottles again, not so tentatively.
“Achy Breaky Heart” was playing. Such an old corny song, and playing so loud. But it lent itself to line dancing, and the bunch out there was having a great time.
He thought about taking Gail back out onto the floor, but he didn’t quite feel up to it. Anyway, he liked this quiet time with her.