Belzer isn't a cop; he just plays one on TV
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He raised his hand. "You are a good friend, Richard, and that is enough for right now. I need a bit more time to collect my thoughts, perhaps write a few things down to clear my head. We will talk more at the match tomorrow night."
I knew that was all I'd get out of him on that subject. As friendly as he was, when Rudy didn't want to discuss something, he'd draw his own Iron Curtain closed, and that was that. Instead, we ate and drank and talked about everything from boxing predictions to political ones. He'd been following the recent upheavals in his old homeland near Kiev and commented that he was afraid things would one day devolve to the way they used to be.
"It ain't New York," I said. "That's for sure."
I saw a sadness flicker across his eyes, so when he changed the subject back to boxing, I went along, figuring I'd let him decide if and when he wanted to bring up whatever it was that was bothering him. After a lengthy good-bye to Dimitri, we went outside and I waved to the cab he'd been kind enough to summon for me. All at once a guy popped up and a flash illuminated the night. Luckily, I was still wearing my sunglasses.
"You're Richard Belzer, the TV star, right?" the guy asked, and snapped another picture. "Who's your friend?"
"He's the guy who might do your autopsy if you don't knock it off with the camera," I said.
"Okay, sorry, man." He lowered his hands and retreated to a respectful distance, probably pondering the effects of a flash with a zoom lens.
"Who is he?" Rudy asked. "Paparazzi?"
"Probably," I said, giving the guy my best cold-eyed stare.
"Do you want me to drop you off?" he asked. "I have my car nearby."
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"And take you out of your way to Manhattan?" I shook my head. The cab pulled forward and stopped by the curb. I opened the rear door and saw the guy had his hand on his meter already. Rudy stepped over and gave me a sudden embrace. Once again, very Russian.
"Hey," I said, "you're not going to try to kiss me, are you? Like that guy did to Bogey in Casablanca." Then I kissed him.
He laughed and shook his head. "Tomorrow night, then? At the Garden?"
"I wouldn't miss it." As I started to get in, I noticed the lines in his face deepening. "You okay?"
"Yes, fine."
He didn't look fine. Once again he looked like a guy with a lot on his mind. I decided to try drawing him out one last time. "What about that matter you wanted advice about? When you mention the cops, that does kinda get my attention."
"Sir," the cabbie said. "I am going to start the meter at this time, please."
Even though I only had one foot inside. You gotta love New York.
I felt like telling him not to get his khakis in a knot, and I started to extricate my foot. If Rudy needed to talk, I'd send this dude scurrying for another fare. But Rudy reached out and laid his palm on my shoulder.
"We will discuss it another time," he said, glancing over at the impudent photographer. "Tomorrow, at the fight. In the street you never know who might be listening."
"Now you're sounding very Russian," I said.
He started to say something more, then his hand slowly slipped from my shoulder and he looked down. "Good-bye, Richard."
At the time I thought he'd mistaken "Good-bye" for "Good night." I watched him walk slowly away into the darkness. I got all the way into the cab and gave my address, but just as we pulled away from the curb, a movement caught my eye. I tapped on the screen and told the driver to slow down.
Three dark figures struggled in an alleyway, and one of them was Rudy. I yelled for the cabbie to stop and jumped out the door, leaving the driver behind screaming for his fare.
One guy had Rudy's arms pinned behind his back while the other one stood in front, delivering some mean body blows. Their voices were low and guttural, speaking in some foreign tongue I thought sounded like Russian. The puncher turned in the midst of throwing another gut shot, saw me, and pivoted around, throwing it my way instead. I let the punch sail past my face, then smacked his temple with the heel of my hand, using his momentum to push him down. The other guy tossed Rudy aside like a rag doll and reached into his pants pocket. Seconds later a flash of silver glinted with an accompanying snick.
A switchblade. It'd been a long time since I'd seen one of those. A real one, anyway.
He lunged forward with the knife, trying to slash my face. I pivoted and grabbed his hand with both of mine. I pulled the arm forward, down, and then up and back as I stepped inside, shifting my weight. He was bigger than I was, but the momentum was just right, and his feet skidded out from under him as I slammed him down hard, maintaining control of the wrist until I saw the knife skitter to the pavement.
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Something else flashed and I saw Mr. Paparazzi was back, snapping more pictures. I hoped the idiot had had the presence of mind to call 911 first.
The thugs saw the flashes too. They struggled to their feet and stumbled off in a half-assed run.
I stooped down and plucked the switchblade off the ground just as another damn flash seared my retina. "One more of those, dickhead, and I'll shove this up your ass," I said, holding up the knife. That was a mistake, because the guy called my bluff and the flash popped again.
"Man, that was awesome," he said. "You know karate or something?"
"Or something," I said, turning and helping Rudy to his feet. "Are you all right?"
"Ah, yes ... " His words came out in shallow gasps. "I am fine, thanks to you."
Another flash.
I turned. "Make yourself useful, and go call the cops, will you, butthead?"
"No," Rudy managed to say. "No police."
"What?" I said. "Those two guys tried to — "
"It is not important," he said, regaining his composure. "Just a couple of muggers. You dealt with them most effectively."
"Rudy — "
"No, Richard. Please." He finally managed to straighten himself all the way up, both hands pressing in on his stomach. "I am fine. Thanks to you." His voice sounded nervous and obviously strained. "I did not know you were so skilled. Was that sambo?"
"A kissing cousin." Sambo was the Russian martial art combining wrestling moves with joint locks. I'd never formally studied that one. "Sort of a hybrid combination of kung fu and hapkido, actually. Was that Russian those guys were speaking to you?"
Rudy shook his head. "Ukrainian."
Another flash illuminated the night. I glared at the guy, wondering if he'd gotten my good side, 'cause he was sure gonna see my bad one in about thirty seconds. I pulled out my cell phone but felt Rudy's hand on my arm.
"Richard, please. Let's leave."
I nodded and helped him to the still-waiting cab. "We'll give you a ride to your car," I said. I looked up and saw the driver with a relieved smile stretched across his swarthy features.
"I apologize for not recognizing you sooner, sir," he said. "You are Mr. Steven Seagal, are you not? I have seen all of your movies. Very nice disguise, sir."
Marvelous, I thought. But at least he wasn't commenting on my acting ability.
"Excerpted by "I Am Not a Cop" by Richard Belzer with Michael Black. Copyright © 2008 by McBelz Enterprises, Inc. Reprinted with permission from Simon & Schuster.
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