Hound Dog & Bean by B.G. Thomas Read Free Book Online Page A

well, someone, he didn’t know who, and then heard Mara say, “Relax, oh fearless leader. Your nose is bleeding. H.D. is taking care of it. Don’t you move.”
    “My node?” he said, and didn’t say. He was talking funny.
    “You’re probably going to have you a good shiner there too, dude.”
    He looked back at Cute Guy, and this time the world didn’t swim as much.
    “Let me see your eyes, man,” said Cute Guy.
    He was reaching out and touching Bean around the eyes, opening them wide and o h, that didn’t feel good at all!
    “Your pupils look okay, but I wouldn’t try sleeping for a while. I think you’re okay, but you might be concussed. Maybe you should go to the hospital?”
    God! What was all this jibber-jabber? Pupils and concussions and hospitals? And oh, it was hard to breathe. There was a big towel on his face and part of it was stuffed in his nose and how did this happen?
    The man! The man with the fist .
    “The mand wid the fid,” he said aloud.
    “The what?” asked Cute Guy.
    “Don’t worry, he’s gone, oh fearless leader,” said Poindexter. “Damnation. You should have seen it! H.D. was like some kind of kung-fu-dancing guy!” She made chopping motions in the air. “He was spinning about and throwing his legs up higher than my head and ka-wham —”
    Bean flinched. That “ka-wham” was like KA-WHAM! in his head.
    “—down big man went. We already called the cops.”
    “Cobs?” Bean said and tried to sit up.
    “Whoa, dude,” Cute Guy said. What had Poindexter called him? H.D.? “Let me help you. Slow and easy….”
    Bean sat up, gazed around him. This time the world didn’t tilt and slide quite as badly. He saw a few customers looking on, one with wide eyes and a hand over her mouth. And Cute Guy (H.D?) was still fussing with his face. He tasted copper and something running down his throat. God. I am bleeding . He reached to help with the towel. His stomach flipped and for a moment threatened to revolt. No. Can’t throw up .
    “H.D.,” Poindexter said. “Think we can get Bean to the office so he can sit down and lean his head back?”
    “Yeah. Sure. No problem.”
    Sound was muffled there for a moment, like there was cotton in his ears. Then he could hear Tracy Chapman singing about a fast car and her plans to get away. God. Tracy Chapman? How coffee-shop stereotype is that? Need to take that off the system and …
    And then he was being helped to his feet and guided to the back room. But he forced himself to a stop, at least the best he could, and look around. The big burly man who had caused all the trouble was nowhere to be seen. And shit. Bean quite suddenly, even through the fog, remembered who the guy was. It was the flirter from the other day. Bean shook his head, and damn, that was a mistake. The tingling on the side of his head was worse and— oh! oh! oh! —his nose hurt!
    That’s when the cops walked in the front door. Of course, today they showed up fast.

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
     
    D ETECTIVES B ROOKHART and Townsend handled things surprisingly quickly. Brookhart was a handsome woman—with short dark hair and equally dark-brown eyes—and Poindexter couldn’t help but wonder if she was a “sister.” Her gaydar (lesdar?) was tingling like crazy. The police officer was polite and efficient and allowed Poindexter to do a lot of the talking since Bean wasn’t in all that good a shape to do so. He sat in his office chair, bloody towel against his face ( he needs a new towel! ), and nodded and commented now and again as Poindexter explained.
    If Brookhart was the good cop, Townsend was the bad one. He seemed unhappy and uncomfortable to even be there, and what was the big deal about that? It was just a coffee shop, after all. Was it the whole gay thing?
    And really, what could the cops do? As beat to shit as the attacker was, he had still fled. They had no idea who he was. Sure, he’d used his credit card the last time he was here, but how would the cops sort