“Get out of the car, you bitches!” he shouted.
Another man, a Latino with extravagant tattoos on both arms, was on the other side of the car, yanking open the driver’s side door, while a third man, his skin gleaming black against a white T-shirt, brandished an Uzi machine pistol. I think a car honked. The light changed and the rest of the traffic sped away. Peralta had his gun out.
Peralta walked deliberately to the Benz and cracked the Anglo in the back of the head, dropping him unconscious onto the pavement. He aimed the automatic at the two men on the other side of the car and said, in a conversational voice, “Die, assholes.” It wasn’t exactly the way they teach you at the academy to identify yourself as a peace officer, but what the hell. With his left hand, Peralta produced a pair of handcuffs that I applied to the guy on the ground. The other two men watched us with the eyes of animals caught in a trap. The guy with the Uzi squinted toward Peralta. Tattoo cursed in Spanish. My knees felt noodley.
“How progressive,” Peralta said. “A multicultural gang.”
“Sheriff’s deputies! Lay down your weapon!” It was Lindsey, off to my right. She was in a combat crouch, gripping the baby Glock 9mm she always carried in her backpack. I had never seen Lindsey draw down on anyone before. This was the same woman who had spent yesterday morning lying next to me in bed, legs entangled in mine, quietly reading my dog-eared copy of Dante while I went through the Sunday Times. Now she chambered a round with a decisive snap of metal on metal. “Put down your weapon!” Her voice was a tense half-octave above normal.
“Shit,” the black guy hissed, shook his head and slowly lowered the Uzi to the pavement. We all relaxed just a notch and instantly the two men bolted across the street, running south.
I ran after them, kicking in the adrenaline that had been gathering over this very long three minutes. I wished I hadn’t eaten that second chili relleno. I wished I had a firearm. I could hear Peralta yell “get help” to Sharon and then his heavy tread catching up behind me. Lindsey quickly passed me, she was so agile, and about half a block down the street she caught one of the scumbags and leaped on his back. He growled and twisted, throwing her into a wall. I was just about there but he took off. I stopped to make sure she was all right, but she was already up and we were both running again. We quickly left behind the nice real estate around the arena. The streets became darker, the pavement broken, the buildings forlorn and abandoned.
They ran west on Jackson, then dashed across the railroad tracks and zigged to the north again, past the old warehouses around Union Station. The two suspects weren’t very fast, otherwise I never could have kept up. I lost them past the cone of light of a streetlight half a block ahead. A heavy, metal door slammed. Lindsey grabbed my arm and we slowed to a walk. She nodded toward an old multistory brick building. I gave a little start as Peralta caught up and the three of us stood for a moment in silence under the streetlight. Lindsey silently mouthed “there” to Peralta and he nodded toward the building. “I wish we could still shoot fleeing suspects,” he whispered in a wheeze.
Lindsey pulled a little flashlight out of her backpack. We walked cautiously into an entrance set back from the street. An ancient fire door gave against Peralta’s grip and we stepped inside.
The air wasn’t as stale and close as in an Egyptian tomb. The blackness wasn’t as total as on the dark side of the moon. Peralta started to take the flashlight but was apparently satisfied that Lindsey was holding it correctly, away from her body so it wouldn’t attract a bullet. We tracked carefully down a hall framed by crumbling plaster and bricks to another door, wood this time, half ajar. Out onto a wood floor in a larger room. The flashlight leaped out onto old cartons, broken loading pallets, a fair-sized rat ambled lazily away from us, we avoided a black widow web. We all stopped and listened. Somewhere water was dripping. I wondered why the hell we didn’t wait for the city cops, but Peralta and Lindsey went ahead.
Just then something heavy fell on me and the momentum drove me toward what looked like a wooden fence, but then I realized it was a gate to an old freight elevator and I crashed through it painfully and there was no elevator. Behind me, I heard a gunshot, high-pitched, and then several more, deeper blasts. And I had a man on me and we were falling. I smelled his sweat and rancid breath. We dove into the empty darkness and the floor came up suddenly and hard.
Maybe he broke my fall, or maybe I broke his, but we both lay there for a moment, stunned and gasping for breath on what felt like damp concrete. My knee was throbbing and my ankle felt like it was sprained. I swear something slithered across my forearm. I fought panic. I couldn’t see.
Suddenly I felt the air rush of his fist, searching for me. He swung again, so hard I could hear him grunt, and his fist glanced painfully off my shoulder. I jabbed in his direction and connected with cartilage. He cursed-hijo de puta!-and spat. With my other hand I followed my fist and grabbed onto some hair. He screamed and smashed me in the eye. Instantly, my face was a hot gob of pain. But I didn’t let go. At six-foot-two and two hundred pounds, I was bigger than he was, but he was strong as hell and I was out of shape and scared. We wrestled around ineffectually, stirring up dust and cobwebs, bumping into a wooden barrier. Bumped it harder, harder again, and it collapsed into something beyond with a loud crash.
He broke away and I was alone in the blackest dark I could ever imagine. I was desperate to see him, hear him, even smell him. Nothing but darkness. I kicked behind me into the empty air. I knelt down-God, that knee hurt-and ran my hand in an imaginary circle around me. Stepped right. Stepped left.
Just then I touched his rough forearm and involuntarily drew back. He grunted angrily and I sensed his bulk coming toward me. Strong hands found my throat and pushed me back. I gagged and drove my fists upward, breaking his grip. Then I found his eye sockets and fought dirty. He screamed and shuddered. I drove the fleshy heel of my hand toward his head, did it again, and we lay still in the darkness.
2
An hour later, we were outside on the street, scattered like debris that had been deposited by an explosion.
Peralta sat on the bumper of a Phoenix Police squad car, bent over and holding a bandage against his arm. His bulk strained at the fabric of his shirt. Six feet away, Lindsey sprawled out on concrete steps, staring up toward stars hidden by the city glow. I sat next to her, holding a cold-pack to my face and examining the damage in a compact mirror borrowed from Sharon. The skin around my left eye was beginning to show red and black swatches and that whole side of my face felt like it was inflated with air. I handed back the mirror. I never had rock-star looks. Old ladies said I was handsome-what did that tell you? Dark hair, regular features. Lindsey said I had great eyes.
Right at the moment, I looked like I’d been dragged through a coal mine; a sixty-dollar pair of corduroy pants ruined and it wasn’t as if I were still married to a millionaire’s daughter. Only Sharon Peralta still looked reasonably put together, preppy and professional in chinos and white blouse, with her black hair pulled back and a flush of exasperation in her fine cheekbones. She regarded us as one would a curious and potentially dangerous tribe.
“I was thinking about hockey as a complex adaptive system for controlled violence, but then I stepped out on the street with the Mod Squad.” She turned to Lindsey. “That’s a baby boomer pop-culture reference.” Lindsey ignored her.
“It’s Mapstone,” Peralta groaned, waving his hand at me. “He spent fifteen years teaching college and now he just can’t get enough action.”