The rest of Green's boys scattered without command. The radio car pulling up from the west side of Breton Drive boxed them in. The nervous officers drew their weapons, the scene uncertain, radioing for more back-up. They shot panicked, disbelieving glares at one another before settling on focusing on the straggling – and equally confused – soldiers. The equation of portending violence amounted to four officers (and thus four guns) against two street soldiers and Green, in-between them.
Green stood tall.
One of his soldiers ducked behind the row of cars along the front parking lot. The other ran back and forth between the sheltering presence of Green and the presumed safety of being taken into police custody. His body, if not quite his conscious mind deciding between having Green's back by facing down the officers (he had skidded to a halt mid-jetting out as they slammed their brakes) and darting between the rowhouses in the better course of valor, or turning himself in to be hauled far away from the entire scene. Such decisions were better made without having a gun drawn.
As he doubled back toward the cars, the first soldier popped his head up, gun clearly visible through the car's windshield. Lee fired the first shot. Dropping his gun in reflex, the second soldier hit the ground, spread-eagled before the officers nearest him could fire. He held his hands up, deliberately and quite visibly away from the gun, but kept his head ducked. The former soldier opened fire, heedless to Green being in the way. One of Lee's rounds hit Green in the shoulder. Green staggered backward, wavered for a moment, then toppled over the bridge railing. A heavy splash soon followed.
Lee eyed the side of the bridge, preparing for Green to sneak up the embankment. The ambling mass never arrived. Distracted by the thought of being taken unawares – from all that he'd learned, Green never backed down from anything, no matter the odds against him – Lee stepped out from the shield of his car door. Due to more luck than skill, the shooter caught him in his leg. Collapsing in a hail of profanities, Lee's world had been reduced to pain. He didn't know from where, couldn't even tell which leg though his body knew, and he clutched the wound. He only knew pain.
Octavia darted out from behind her door, presenting herself as a more immediate threat. The soldier turned to draw a bead on her. Too nervous and untrained, his aim faltered. Hers did not. She hit him twice in the arm and shoulder. The gun fell from his hand.
"Lee, you all right?" she yelled in his direction but didn't take her eyes from the perp. She eased over to him and kicked the gun away. With a nod, she had the uniform officers secure him.
"I'm all right. You get him?"
"He's down. Don't you move, motherfucker." As one of the officers pulled the first soldier's arms behind him, locking him down in cuffs, she began stomping him in his side with a flurry of kicks. "What. The fuck. Were you thinking? Shooting at police?"
The flashing lights of the radio cars tinted their faces red. The blood on the pavement looked like spilt red Kool Aid. Plastic number placards dotted the scene like a game of connect the shell casings. Whispers coalesced into a dull susurrus of background chatter: "… could he have been set up?" "… came out blasting… " "… don't know what to think…" "… Glock 17…"
"Losing blood here," Lee whined. "I think I'm gonna pass out."
"How is he?" Octavia asked to the ambulance driver.
"I've seen worse paper cuts," the attending paramedic joked. The bullet had passed through the fleshy part of Lee's spindly leg, missing any vital arteries.
"Any sign of Green?" Lee asked, struggling to sit up in the gurney even as the paramedic tried to load him into their wagon.
"Nothing. He went over the side and then vanished," Octavia said.
"He looked bad. Not quite…" he wanted to say "human" but his mind still wouldn't let his thoughts go there.
"Like Death eating a soda cracker."
"What?"
"Something my grandmother used to say."
"We've got to go," the paramedic said.
"I'm B+, if anyone needs to know," Lee started up again. "Get me to Community North. Don't try and drop me off at Wishard. Wishard's for homeless people and welfare cheats."
"Get him out of here," Octavia said, her smile a matter of relief that her partner would be OK more than any actual affection for him. It would be a long day and she feared they hadn't seen the last of it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The sun bled on the horizon with night quickly stanching the wound. Tavon anxiously rubbed his hands together, blowing into them only to see his breath pour though his fingers before shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He needed a new jacket. Eyeing the house from down the block, it drew him in, a black hole of guilt. The hunger brought him home, he'd abandoned his friends. His hands trembled. His skin itched as if centipedes scurried beneath it. The desire threatened to consume him and he needed to get well. Soon.
Li'l Nam was jumping tonight.
The occasional scream distracted him, but as soon as he turned to find the source's direction, gunfire erupted. Deciding to mind his own business, he lowered his head and marched to his spot. No, the ambulances or police had shown up. Wherever they were, they weren't in Li'l Nam. He could almost hear Knowledge Allah go on about no one caring about the plight of the black man, and it exhausted him.
More automatic gun bursts.
Leaning against a tree, its bare branches stretching toward the night sky, Tavon wondered if it was worth going in. Nausea snaked through his system. His palms itched. He felt fingernails scrape along the back of his skull. Only when the wave of sickness ebbed did he notice the door ajar. He cautiously lumbered up the steps, pebbles scattering with each footfall. The slow creak of the heavy door shattered the still of the house. The street light filled more of the room – boards had been ripped from the windows – though the night still left deep pockets of shadow. The room smelled of stale sweat, piss, and unwiped ass. And spoiled meat.
He vomited, wiping the vestiges with his cuff. From what he could make out, the house appeared as if a frenzied work crew had gutted it. Holes dotted the wood slats that lined the walls, like a fist punched through a rib cage. Creeping through the debris, he noticed that many of the walls thrown up to divide the house had been torn down, leaving only exposed wiring (much of it cloth wiring patched into newer) and plumbing (smashed PVC). A staircase, much of the original woodwork intact, stood revealed like a body in mid-autopsy. He feared what the basement might look like.
Tavon staggered back out of the mess. A hand landed on his shoulder. He whirled only to be greeted by Dollar.
"Damn, you trying to give a nigga a heart attack?"
"Could say the same about you," Dollar said, his heavy-lidded eyes studying the scene. He pulled in more in a couple of months than a cop in a year. Only spending money on clothes, he wasn't too flashy, not like his boys. For a young lieutenant, he primped worse than a woman, taking a razor to his head every morning.
"I know I don't look well. I'm sick. Could you hook me up with a blast, just to get right?" Tavon asked.
"How sick are you?"