As I did the woman from across the street sped toward us.

Late thirties, blond ponytail, shapely in tight black pedal pushers and a sea-green tank top. Grace Kelly facial definition. Sydney Weider in a younger, happier time.

She looked furious; let’s hear it for Neighborhood Watch.

As she got closer, Milo said, “Ma’am— ”

“Good for you!” she said. “That bitch screams at all the children and terrifies them! She makes everyone’s lives miserable! What’d she do to finally get you to take some action?”

Sydney Weider spat in her direction. The gob landed on the sidewalk. The woman said, “You’re disgusting. As always.”

Before Weider could respond, Milo pressed down on her head, managed to get her into the car, and slammed the door. His face was flushed.

“What’d she finally do?” the woman repeated. “You people said there was nothing you could— ”

“Can’t discuss that, ma’am. Now if you’d please— ”

Thump thump thump as Weider kicked the window.

The ponytailed woman said, “See? She’s insane. I’ve got a list for you. Give me your fax number.”

“She’s been that big of a problem?” I said.

“Everyone will rejoice when she’s gone. We’ll have a frickin’ block party. A child touches her lawn, she steps out and screams at the top of her lungs. Last month, she threw a kitchen knife at Poppy and Poppy’s not one of those aggressive shar-peis, he’s sweet as can be, ask anyone, they’ll tell you. She runs up and down the street, talks like a banshee— she’s insane, believe me, totally insane. I’m sure everyone on the block will be happy to give you a report or a deposition or whatever.”

Milo said, “Appreciate it, ma’am.”

“Good riddance,” said the woman, glaring through the window. Sydney Weider lay on her back, feet up. She began kicking the window again. Barefoot, but hard enough to make the glass shudder.

The woman said, “You should hog-tie her. Like on Cops.”

* * *

As we drove away, other doors opened but no one emerged.

Sydney Weider screamed wordlessly and resumed kicking the window. Milo stopped the car, parked, retrieved a set of plastic ties from the trunk, and defended himself against Weider’s gnashing jaws and vicious feet as he fought to bind her ankles. I got out and held Weider’s heels. Yet another divergence from accepted psychological practice.

Finally, he managed to flip her on her stomach, pull the ties snug. She writhed and foamed at the mouth and butted her head against the door as the car pulled away. Potty-mouth tirade; all those years in law school spent parsing and composing elegant phrases wasted.

I felt sorry for her.

* * *

When Milo reached Sunset, she turned silent. Panting, then snuffling, filled the car. I glanced back. Still flat on her belly. Eyes closed, inert.