"Let him go," Belle cried.
Another man about the size of a refrigerator emerged from the snowy dark and grabbed Belle and hustled her down the steps into the circle.
"Hey, hey. What's going on?" Rick stared at the gun, more puzzled and angry than frightened. The man who held it wore a head scarf front teeth gleamed gold in the dim light.
"Whutchulookinat?" Head scarf jabbed Rick hard in the Adam's apple with the warm steel. Then his mouth opened and he grinned wider, showing off a ridge of gold. "Don't I know you?"
"No!" Belle cried.
The man laughed, jabbed Rick with the gun. He was small, inches shorter than Rick, and had a weak grip on Rick's arm. Rick figured he could take him, but the gun muzzle jabbed his windpipe, knocking his breath away. His knees buckled. He choked, then tried to straighten up.
Belle struggled to get near him. "Baby, you all right?"
"Let her go. I don't know her," Rick rasped.
The big man gave her a little shake, lifting her off her feet.
"I'm not leaving ma man behind. You hear me?" Belle's voice rose.
"Shut up, bitch. You wanna die wit him?"
"Now why talk like that? We didn't do nothin' to you," Belle whined.
"Fucker, you hear that. She says you didn't do nothin'." He laughed.
"Lady," Rick's voice was hard. "This ain't your show. Get out of here."
"No."
The fist came suddenly as the big man swung and connected with the side of Belle's head, knocking her down. In that split second Rick shook the smaller man's gun arm loose, pushing the gun sideways hard, out of his reach. He brought his knee up between the man's legs. The gun clattered to the pavement as the man pitched to his knees, groaning.
"Fucker!" The big man kicked Belle again as he turned his attention to Liberty. He pulled a long, thin knife out of his coat and held it underhanded as he advanced on Rick. Belle struggled to her feet.
"Gut him, gut him," screamed the man on the sidewalk.
"Oh, man. No." Belle staggered between Rick and the knife. "Oh, man. You can't do that. No."
Still writhing, the man on the ground reached for the gun he'd dropped. Rick ducked the knife and grabbed the gun. The knifer's arm caught Belle with a force that slammed her down onto the sidewalk again. Rick threw the gun out of reach and hurled himself at the man with the knife, taking him on with his bare hands.
Belle screamed as the knife sliced at Rick's parka, shredding the front of it. The knifer struck at him again. Then Belle's shrieks and more police sirens sent the two men stumbling off into the storm. The gun lay on the sidewalk forgotten.
40
April and Mike drove uptown to check in with the detective squads in the 33rd and the 30th precincts. It had started to snow, and both of them were deep in their own thoughts. Mike had moved into action mode. April was still distracted by his kiss.
The 33rd Precinct was pretty quiet for a Friday night. But the 30th had a number of special operations . going on and was a zoo. In spite of the weather, the number of arrests made that night was already so high there was no more room in the holding cells for prisoners. Opposite the front desk in the lobby area where roll was called, the folding screen had been pulled for privacy. Barely out of sight, seven bedraggled, angry-looking men were cuffed to chairs, to the wall, even the radiator pipe. Several were carrying on arguments with officers who were no longer in the room with them.
Upstairs in the squad room, only one detective was in. A tired-looking female African-American called Yolanda Brick was typing up a report. She told Mike and April she'd just gotten a call that a man fitting Liberty's general description had been spotted on 108th Street, accompanied by a firefighter.
"Anybody follow it up?" Mike asked.
The detective gave him a cold stare. "We had a couple dozen calls on this today. After the first twenty amounted to nothing, it got kind of busy around here."
"Well, thanks," April told her. This was a high priority. She was sure the commissioner would be pleased.
As Mike and April came down the stairs from the squad room, five uniforms were being pulled together for another operation. In the makeshift holding pen, a prisoner threatened to defecate in his pants if he wasn't immediately taken to the bathroom.
Snow was falling even more heavily as they came out of the building. "Great," April muttered. Now they wouldn't be able to see Liberty if he danced naked in front of the car. "I just hope I don't have to chase anybody. I've got my best boots on, and I'm really stuffed." She wanted him to kiss her again, but he didn't.
He switched on the wipers and pulled out into 151st Street. "I'd bet your chances for that are about nil."
For what? She'd forgotten what she said.
He drove west, plowing through the snow. At Broadway he turned downtown, heading to the location where the unidentified caller to the 30th claimed to have seen a man who looked like Liberty. Accompanied by a firefighter. Now that was a description. He drove slowly down the treacherous street. April scanned the sidewalks. People were heading home. It looked as if the Friday-night dealing game had been called for weather.
Mike switched on the police scanner, where several excited voices were cutting in over each other, calling in a shooting—man with a gun. Man with a knife. Shooting wasn't confirmed. It was confirmed. The victim was dead. He was alive, but seriously injured. Shooting was in the lobby of a three hundred building, in the basement. Request for backup at B-way and 138th Street.
"That's our location," Mike said excitedly.
He didn't have a gumball for the roof, but the Camaro was rigged with a siren. When he heard the address of the shooting, Mike hit the hammer. The Camaro's siren shot out a warning as he accelerated into traffic. The traffic around them had been moving cautiously through the snow. The two cars ahead parted for them at the first red light. The Camaro's tires spun for a moment at an incline in the middle of the cross street. April turned away from the headlights of the cars coming at her from the side street. The first car would slam into them at the passenger seat where she was sitting. And her mother always said she'd die before giving birth.
"Hang on," Mike ordered.
As if she had a choice. April braced her hands against the dashboard. The tires caught, the car shot forward, skidding sideways on the other side. Mike slammed the Camaro into low and regained control, then accelerated exactly the same way into the next changing light.
Take it easy, pal. 1 want to make it through the weekend, April didn't say. She knew enough not to tell Mike how to drive, particularly in bad weather. She also knew enough not to tell him this wasn't their party. He'd only say they were on duty. On duty, everything was their party. And most cops felt the same way, loved getting in on any operation—as long as they didn't have to make the actual arrest, fill out the damn arrest forms, follow the prisoner downtown. Lose days in the process.
Excited voices on the radio continued. Sirens sounded to the south of them, to the east. Even behind them in the north. Everybody was hot to join. The voice on the radio gave only one item of identification on the shooter. His head was covered with some kind of scarf. April snorted. It was snowing. Everybody's head was covered.
At 145th Street, Mike slowed the car to a crawl. He let the hammer have two final spurts of whine, then shut it off.
"What do you say, east, west?"
"Is it my call?" April asked, scanning the street.
"Yes. Yours."
"You want me to flip a coin?"
"No, I want you to make a call."
April shrugged. "Okay, he'd go west. Hang out under a stoop for a while. Too much activity east of B-way."