Cozysweet Has an Accomplice – Episode #8

January 26, 2010 on 1:50 pm | In Mountain Biking | 2 Comments

I-5 was reduced to a skating rink, the landscape lit by flares and the flashing lights of emergency vehicles and tow trucks. We were crawling by the time we reached the 6th Avenue exit in Vancouver.

I decided we needed sustenance. On a whim, I veered over to By the Bottle on West Evergreen. It was 5 a.m., but, amazingly, the lights were on. A dude in a t-shirt that read “Rush Limbaugh: Celebrating Fat and Stupid Since 1988″ came to the door. He shook his head. Waved us away.

Muldoon showed him the Glock. The door opened.

“We’re doing inventory,” the beer man said.

“We’re thirsty,” Muldoon replied.

Recognition dawned, the sound of a cash register ringing linked to memories of our past visits. The beer man broke out a smile. “Oh, it’s you guys! You know Paul and Mel. C’mon in. We’ve got a special on Southern Tier this week.”

Lipton was mumbling incoherently, so Dave and I were the deciders. We went with Hale’s Super Goose IPA, Silver City Whoop Ass Double IPA, Left Hand Oak Imperial Stout, Stone Vertical Epic, and Northern Lights Crystal Bitter. Muldoon selected Southern Tier Old Man Winter.

“What about the PBR?” Dave said.

“They don’t carry PBR,” Muldoon said. “No worries. I’m an omnivore. I’ll drink anything.”

As we were checking out, Lipton went around behind the counter and stood next to the beer man.

“What’s done cannot be undone,” he said. The beer man looked frightened but didn’t reply.

“Don’t mind him,” I said. “He’s had a rough day.”

Lipton leaned in closer. “They have no disregard for human life.”

The beer man couldn’t wait to lock up behind us. When we got to the car, Muldoon said, “The guy seemed a little ill at ease. I guess I shouldn’t have pulled the Glock.”

“That wasn’t it,” I said. “What freaked him out was hearing Lipton quote Lady Macbeth and Dubya in the same conversation.”

Nancy Lou Cozysweet’s condominium near Esther Short Park turned out to be a run-down apartment located above a Thai restaurant. The iced-over streets were empty. Daylight was still an hour away. We sat in the car for 30 minutes, nursing our beers and watching for lights or some sign of activity at the Cozysweet residence. Nothing.

We were just getting ready to do some exploring when a short guy carrying a cup of corporate coffee appeared. He wore a dark leather jacket and a knit cap. It was difficult to strut while navigating an icy sidewalk but he was giving it his best shot.

He dug a key out of his pocket and let himself into a stairway adjacent to the restaurant.

“I’m gettin’ a bad vibe,” Dave said. “That guy looks familiar.”

Thirty seconds later, the lights went on in Cozysweet’s apartment.

“Time to make something happen,” Muldoon said. We carefully stashed our beers and climbed out.

“Hey, Lipton,” Muldoon said. “Do you have a tire iron in the trunk?”

“I don’t need a tire iron,” Lipton said. “I use a chain saw.”

“Fine, fine,” Muldoon said. “This is a weapon-of-your-choice situation, so suit yourself. I just need the tire iron to get us in that door.”

I popped the trunk. We went through our arsenals and decided on weapons. Dave had the Sig, Muldoon had the Glock, so I opted for the baseball bat and fileting knife. I realized that Lipton still had a 22-ounce Whoop Ass in his hand but decided it was a better choice for him than the chainsaw.

We slid across the sidewalk and huddled around Muldoon to provide cover while he jimmied the door. We crept up the stairs as quietly as four drunk people can creep. Someone had scrawled #74 on Cozysweet’s door. Across the hall was #73. They were the only apartments in the building. Go figure. I could hear Rod Serling saying, You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension.

Muldoon held the Glock behind him. He rapped gently on the door.

The little man opened it. He was in his early 30s. He wore blue sweat pants, a Jonas Brothers t-shirt, and a smart-ass smile.

Muldoon pasted a big, cheesey grin on his face. “Hi, there,” he said. “We’re selling encyclopedias.”

The little man was just about to tell us to fuck off when he realized we weren’t there about encyclopedias. He tried to slam the door shut, but Muldoon got his foot in the way and we shoved it open.

By the time we got inside, our friend was reaching under a couch cushion. Muldoon bounded across the room and whipped the Glock across the back of his head. The little man went down on the carpet. Muldoon lifted the cushion. Picked up a Smith & Wesson MP 40. Tucked it into his jacket. Muldoon used his foot to roll the guy over.

“I knew I recognized that piece of shit!” Dave said. “It’s that jackass from last year at Mountain Bike Oregon!”

The little man stirred. He got to his knees, lifted his head, and sneered defiantly.

“You assholes don’t know what you just bit off,” he said. “I’m a third-degree black belt. When I get off this floor, you’re going to be eating through straws.”

Dave kicked him across the nose. Bone snapped. Blood poured onto the carpet. The little man went down in the puddle.

“Good thing he warned us about that Bruce Lee shit,” Dave said.

“So you know this guy, Dave?” Muldoon said. “I know you had a conflict with the chick in the white shirt in 2008 but I didn’t realize you had a problem again last year.”

“Dave does not play well with others,” I said.

“The dipshit wouldn’t let me by on the Middle Fork,” Dave said. Every time we came to a hill he had to get off and walk, but he wouldn’t let the rest of us pass. It took four miles before I could elbow him out of the way on a creek crossing and got by. By then, the rest of you guys were back at the bus, drinking beer and listening to Paul tell stories about the Pew-yall-ups and Nut-sacks.”

The little man stirred. Dave kicked him in the ribs. “I’m still pissed off about it.”

“What’s he doing here?” Muldoon said.

“Don’t you see the big picture?” Dave said. “He and the bitch in the white shirt are cut from the same cloth. Is it any wonder they hooked up?”

“And maybe when they got together, they started talking about their experiences at MBO and decided they had something in common,” I said.

“Yeah,” Muldoon said. “They had Dave in common.”

“Somehow, they heard about the cups and decided this way the way they would get revenge,” I said. “Muldoon was just collateral damage.”

“You think you’ve seen collateral damage?” Muldoon said. “These assholes took my cup. The games are about to begin.’”