Then Palmer hit Scarface in a rushing tackle, his shoulder driving hard into the man's gut, the guy gasping, gun flying wide, Palmer pushing like a linebacker on a tackling dummy, driving him back ten feet to the river's edge. They hit the railing, and for a second Galway's flashlight held them both in its beam, Palmer jumping back as the gunman flipped over the railing, arms pinwheeling like he was trying to swim upward through the light.
The drop to the river was only about five feet, but it seemed to take a long time for the splash.
The beam of light swerved crazily, spinning off of them, and Cruz wondered why that would be. Then the answer occurred to her, Galway probably reaching for his MP5 with both hands. She couldn't believe he would shoot her, that her partner and friend would fire on them, but didn't want to find out. She started running, yanking at Palmer's arm. He turned away from the water, and she could smell his panic, feel the tension in the muscles of his arms, and then they were sprinting, her leading the way and him fast behind, pounding up the bike path toward the Michigan Avenue Bridge.
There was a cluster of explosions behind them, like firecrackers.
Jesus Christ.
No pain. Her breathing came hard, pulse slamming in her wrists and neck, skin tingling. Her footsteps fell firm and true, and she heard Palmer's echoing behind her. Another set of firecrackers, but the bike path was good footing, and ahead of them loomed a stairwell up to the bridge. She took the stairs three at a time, one hand on the railing yanking herself up, knowing they were safe now. That there was no way their pursuers had been able to get around the fence fast enough to chase them. Michigan Avenue lay two flights up, and even at midnight, there would be people on the street, cabs prowling. She didn't slow, kept pushing, and from behind she heard Jason Palmer, his footfalls heavier, and above the ringing of the breath in her own ears, she heard him laugh, the guy somehow enjoying this.
"I guess," he said, panting, "you won't be arresting me tonight."
September 23, 2003
"So these three kids, Mexicans, they get it in their head to start robbing nail salons." Tom Galway sips his beer and shakes his head. "Fucking nail salons. They come in waving shotguns, clear the register, grab jewelry, purses, cell phones from the customers. In and out. Smart. No security, no cameras, and it's all women, so they scare easy – right, Cruz?"
There's laughter, but there's more when she tells her partner to check out her manicure and flips him the bird, so it's all good, just cops on their sixth pitcher of Budweiser laughing at the whole goddamn world.
"Anyway, these innovators, they're hitting two places a week, but it's Chicago, so no telling how long that could roll. Except they have the bad luck to pick the salon where the wife of the state congressman gets her mani-pedi, poor bastards. She wasn't even there at the time, but word comes from on high, these three have got to go down, top priority, bar none. I'm not kidding. Whole area is on the lookout for the goddamn Pedicure Bandits." That breaks them up, and Galway pauses to drain half his beer in a go. "So one evening we get a tip that they'll be in a bar down the West Lawn. We roll in, but we don't know what these guys look like, right? They've been wearing masks. So my partner and I, we're in this dump Mex bar, and we're thinking what, we're supposed to search all these steroided cholos? No thank you."
"Pansy," she says, and the table erupts in laughter, and Galway flashes her bird back.
"So my partner, he asks the bartender, can we borrow the phone. He takes out a list of the numbers of the cell phones stolen that afternoon and starts dialing. And I'm standing there trying not to crack up at the sheer brilliance of the Chicago Police Department, when lo and behold," Galway's voice getting louder, coming to the punchline, "but the guy I'm standing behind, I mean right behind, his pocket rings." The table breaks into laughter. "And you know what this guy does?" Galway spreads his arms as if measuring stupidity by the foot. "He fucking answers!"
The laughter is an explosion, an upswell of love, love of the job, love of each other, love of the sheer lunacy of the world, and as she joins in, as loud and hard as all the rest, Cruz thinks to herself that this is it, this is all she wants, just to run with these men and chase idiot criminals and wear a star, and at the end of the day to drink Budweiser and tell stories, and then get up the next day and do it all again.
CHAPTER 26
Cheap paneling ran between a carpet dotted with stains she chose not to look too hard at and a ceiling smoked beige. Cigarette ghosts soured the air. The smell tugged at Cruz; right now, she'd have dug butts out of a bar ashtray. "Classy place."
"It'll do." Jason closed the door, flipped the deadbolt, and slid the chain across. Pulled the blinds, concealing the rusting Dumpster and mismatched junkers in the motel parking lot. He moved with an economy of purpose, and she found herself watching him with appreciation. The emotion of someone far away. Adrift from the real.
She wandered to the bed, looking at the grungy pillowcases with distaste. Above the fake headboard hung a print of a lily painted by someone who'd once heard flowers described. She brushed at the mattress, sat on the very corner. "You ever listen to Tom Waits?"
"Huh?" He looked away from the break in the curtains.
"This place reminds me of a song of his, I forget the name. 'The rooms smell like diesel, and you take on the dreams of the ones that have slept there.' "
He smiled. " '9th and Hennepin.' From Rain Dogs."
"You're a fan? Me too. I used to date a guy who got me into it. He'd fall asleep to it."
"Jesus." Jason laughed. "Must've made for some black-eyed dreams."
She nodded. "The guy was a waste of time, but at least he introduced me to Waits." There was dirt under her nails from laying on the ground. A memory hit, and she chuckled. "One time he played it while we were, you know, in the middle of things." A flash of rumpled sheets and the smell of bourbon. His tattoo, dice showing sixes and a ribbon that read Its all good, just like that, no apostrophe. "So we're going, and Waits sings 'I knew him when he was nothing, and he hasn't changed a bit,' and I burst out giggling. I mean one of those can't-stop, hurts-too-much fits. Right in the middle of things."
Palmer laughed through his nose, eyes alight. "Was he pissed?"
"What do you think? One minute he's king stud, the next I'm laughing so hard I can't breathe." She smiled to think of it, then shook her head. "Yeah, he was pissed."
A loud rumbling from outside caught both their attention, and they sat frozen and listening as it grew louder and passed, an anonymous semi headed for the freeway.
"You know the one I love? 'Christmas Card From a Hooker in Minneapolis.' It's got this line, 'I wish I had all the money that we used to spend on dope – '"
" 'I'd buy me a used car lot and I wouldn't sell any of them,' " Cruz said.
Jason smiled, stepped away from the curtain. Pulled a ladder-back chair with a broken slat and sat down. Facing forward, which she liked. She said, "How'd you get into him?"
"My brother."
The real world flooded in like they'd broken a levee. She winced, crossed her arms. Realized she still had her shoulder holster on, though her gun was back by the river. Shit. Her gun. "I guess we can't trade song lyrics all night."