He hears the squad car stop, short of him. That seems odd, because there is nothing behind him that would draw their interest, no reason to stop. He doesn’t know how to respond. He listens a moment, slowing his pace. He hears another car drive by, on Bonnard Street north of the officers. That car, headed east, sounds like it’s moving quickly, which might normally catch the attention of police officers on a sleepy night. But he hears no response from the cops, which means something else-someone else-has their attention just now.
They are looking at him.
He tries to be casual as he turns and looks back at the squad car. He tries to catch a glimpse of the car he heard speeding by. He hopes it was Ronnie, just arriving and seeing a scene that would make his blood boil. The illumination of the street is decent, with the towering lights, and he sees two of them inside the car. The driver-it’s Miroballi. Miroballi and that partner of his. Miroballi is speaking into a radio.
Alex turns and continues walking, stifling the instinct to run. His heart is drumming now. Perspiration on his forehead, when it’s only ten degrees or so outside.
He hears car doors open, then close, one after the other.
He will not run, not yet. If nothing else, he will let them walk a sufficient distance from the vehicle, so that if Alex does run, it will take some time before they can return to the vehicle, if that is their choice. He assumes that only one of them will give chase-Miroballi-but he can’t know this.
He looks ahead of himself now. He is walking among high-rises, so there are few options. Buildings will be closed, or open only to the extent that he could approach a security guard. Wait-an alley, before the end of the block. His mind races as he taps his recall. The alley goes through to the next street. Yes. He can cross through the alley to the next street. Yes.
“Hey,” Miroballi calls out.
It has happened in a finger-snap. He has been identified and called out. Until now, it has been something of a game, Alex pretending not to notice Miroballi. Now a line has been drawn.
Alex tries to calculate the amount of time that has passed since he heard the car pass by to the north. He prays that it was Ronnie, that somehow Ronnie will come driving up the street now.
But he’s been called out, so Alex runs. He’s in the perfect outfit, sweats and court shoes, though a sixteen-year-old probably doesn’t need such advantages against a large man pushing forty. It takes him under thirty seconds to reach the alley. He hears the officer calling to his partner, something about the car, which means that the vehicle will be giving chase soon as well.
He looks down the alley. Bags of garbage next to full dumpsters, an old fire escape running up one wall. A parked car on the next street over. Something in the shadows, maybe his eyes playing tricks.
No. It’s Ronnie, lurking in the shadows, waving to him. An escape route. Ronnie has the car waiting on the next street over, he assumes. Alex turns and runs down the alley, his heart lifted now.
He hears Miroballi again, talking into the police radio as he gives chase.
“-in pursuit-”
He looks back for signs of the officer as he’s running. A mistake. He knows it before it happens. His foot catches something, a pipe, probably, and he falls. His gloves rip against the uneven pavement. Worse, his knee. His kneecap, even with the protection of the wool coat, has landed awkwardly onto the tattered concrete. He can’t diagnose the damage. It just hurts like hell.
“Shit,” he hears Ronnie say in a violent whisper.
Alex gathers his gym bag and manages to get to his feet. He is shrouded in the darkness of the alley, only indirect lighting from the street allowing him to see at all. He can’t run anymore, will probably need a moment before he can even put weight on his leg. He is not even midway between the two streets now. He couldn’t possibly escape.
“I just want to talk to you, kid. Relax.” Miroballi is standing at the threshold, casting an ominous figure with the light behind him. One hand on his police radio, the other extending forward. But not holding a gun. The officer shakes his head, even shows the palm of his open hand, as if to decelerate the threat. He is moving cautiously toward Alex, shuffling his feet as each one eyes the other.
“See those hands,” he calls out. “Lose the bag.”
Miroballi moves slowly, his gaze alternating between Alex and the gym bag. Alex shows the palm of his free hand as he moves backward. It actually hurts less to backpedal, but he still moves with a limp. His heartbeat drums, not from the physical exertion. He swallows hard and feels a hot, sickening taste in his mouth. He asks himself, in a flash of a moment, how it could have come to this.
Miroballi pulls his radio close to his mouth, speaks urgently but quietly. Then he moves closer to the boy, his index finger still extended. Do-not-move.
That’s smart, Alex thinks to himself. Miroballi has come forward without his weapon drawn, in peace, because he didn’t want Alex to run. He thinks he has fooled Alex, when the only reason Alex isn’t running is because he cannot.
“I said drop the bag,” he says to Alex. “Let’s just talk a minute.”
Alex drops the bag. Raises his hands to waist level. His fingers are spread out, his palm showing, but his hands remain there, at his waist. He continues to move backward, away from the streetlight’s faint illumination.
Miroballi’s right hand falls to his side, sweeping gently at his leather jacket, exposing for the first time the holster, his weapon. The boy waits another beat, looks into the eyes of the police officer.
“I haven’t said anything,” Alex says. “I won’t. I swear.”
The officer looks at him, seems to note for the first time Alex’s limp. Then he brings his radio close to his mouth. He mumbles something into the radio that Alex can’t make out.
But Alex hears him the second time.
“I repeat,” Miroballi says in a louder voice. “Suspect is armed.”
Then he clicks off the radio, moves toward Alex. Alex keeps his eyes on Miroballi’s right hand. He does it quickly, gracefully. Slides the gun out of his holster and holds it at his side.
“No, I know you won’t say anything, kid.” He closes the distance on Alex, again watching the gimp in his movements. He knows it now. Alex won’t run, can’t run. He slowly raises the gun so it is pointed at Alex. “I just wanted to tell you one thing, and that’s all. I wanted to tell you that your mother was one hell of a good fuck-”
A noise, a bottle smashing, to Miroballi’s right and slightly behind him, shattering into pieces on the pavement. Miroballi jerks to the right and behind him, points his gun in that direction as well.
It has happened just like that. That moment in which the officer turns, shifts his weight, to look. The moment he takes to redirect his weapon in that direction. The moment spent measuring the situation, realizing it was glass, then realizing that someone from behind Alex must have tossed it. Or-was it someone behind Miroballi? That momentary limbo, unsure of the who or how of that shattering glass. That moment spent readjusting, bringing the weapon back to the forward position and refocusing on a boy who has had time now to remove a weapon of his own from his coat pocket.