The cop raised his pistol, giving warning, going by the book.
“Drop it or I’ll–”
He never got to finish the sentence. The big guy barely blinked as he pulled the trigger.
The left side of the cop’s face and neck exploded red. His pistol flew from his hand as he was spun to his left to land face down on the hood of the unit. He left a wet, red smear as he slid across the hood. He rolled over the grille and landed on the asphalt in front of the bumper, flat on his back, twitching.
The big black guy’s face changed as soon as the cop went down. The snarl melted into a smile, but the rage remained, hiding behind the teeth he showed. Casually laying the shotgun across his shoulder, he approached the cop like a gardener strolling toward a cabbage patch with his hoe.
“Well, Mr. Man in Blue,” he said, standing over the moaning cop. “How’s it feel to bleed?”
The cop couldn’t speak. Even from down the street Jack could see the blood pumping from his neck. Another sixty seconds and he’d be history.
Jack found himself on the move before he knew it, his sneakers whispering along the pavement as he raced down the sidewalk in a crouch, watching the scene through the windows of the parked cars he kept between himself and the other side of the street.
A voice inside urged him the other way. Cops were the enemy, a threat to his own existence.
This isn’t your fight – butt out.
But another, deeper part of him overruled the voice and made him pull the Semmerling from his ankle holster. Still in a crouch, he started across the street.
“You know,” the big black was saying, “I could let you bleed some more and make a bigger puddle, and pretty soon you’d be just as dead as if I blowed your head off.” He grinned as he worked the pump on the sawed-off. A red-and-brass cartridge arced into the street. “But somehow that wouldn’t be the same.”
He leveled the truncated barrel into the cop’s face.
“Forget it,” Jack said as he came up behind him. He had the Semmerling pointed at the back of the guy’s head. “You’ve done enough for one night.”
The guy glanced over his shoulder. When his eyes lit on the Semmerling, he smiled.
“Ain’t never been threatened with a pop gun before.”
“Just drop the hog and take off.”
“You mean you ain’t gonna arrest me?”
Jack had acted on impulse. At the moment, the best course seemed to be get rid of the shooter and call an ambulance for the cop. Then disappear.
“One more time. Drop it and go.”
The guy’s voice jumped. “You kiddin’ me, man? I could take a couple from that pop gun and sit down for breakfast.”
“It’s a Semmerling L-4,” Jack said. “World’s smallest forty-five.”
The gunman paused.
“Oh. Well, in that case–”
The guy ducked to his right as he made a hard swing with the shotgun, trying to bring it to bear on Jack. Jack corrected his aim and pulled the trigger. The Semmerling boomed and bucked in his hand. The gunman’s right eye socket became a black hole and his leather cap spun away like a Frisbee. Red mist haloed his head as it jerked back with enough force to yank his feet off the pavement. The sawed-off tumbled from his hand and skittered along the sidewalk as he sprawled back on the sidewalk and flopped around until his body got the message that what little remained of the brain was mush. Then he lay still.
Jack knelt beside the fallen cop. He looked like hell. The mercury light further blanched the deathly pallor of his face. Eyes glazing, going fast. Where the hell was old man Costin? Where was the cop’s partner? Why wasn’t anyone around to call an ambulance? Jack felt naked and exposed out here on the street, but he couldn’t take off now.
He switched the Semmerling to his left hand, located the spot in the fallen cop’s throat that was doing the most pumping, and jammed his thumb into it. The flesh was wet and hot and sticky. He’d read novel after novel that mentioned the coppery smell of blood. He didn’t get it. He’d never known copper to have an odor worth mentioning, and if it did, it sure as hell didn’t smell like this.
Jack was about to look around again for help when he heard footsteps behind him.
“All right! Hold it right there, you fucker!”
Jack turned his head and saw a uniformed cop crouched on his right, taking two-handed aim at his head with a Glock. Another blue-and-white blocked the street behind him.
Jack’s gut looped into a knot and pulled tight.
“I’m holding it.”
“Drop the gun and put your hands up!”
Jack dropped the Semmerling and raised his left hand.
“C’mon!” The cop said. “Both of them!”
“This guy’s already half dead,” Jack said. “If I take my hand off this pumper, he’ll go the rest of the way in no time.”
“Christ!” the cop said, then shouted: “Gerry – you make the call?”
“Ambulance and back-up on the way,” said a voice from the unit.
“All right. See who’s down.”
Another uniform dashed out of the darkness behind the first cop and stopped within half a dozen feet of Jack. He squinted at the ruined face above Jack’s hand.
“Oh, Jeez, it’s Carella!”
“Shit!” said the first cop. He spoke through clenched teeth as he glared at Jack. “You dirty–”
“Hey-hey!” Jack said. “Let’s get something straight here. I didn’t shoot your pal.”
“Just shut the fuck up! You think I’m stupid?”
Jack bit back an affirmative and jerked his head toward the guy on the sidewalk.
“He did it.”
Apparently the cop hadn’t seen the other body until now. He jumped to his feet.
“Oh, great. Just great.”
The second cop, the one called Gerry, eased around to the sidewalk and checked out the body.
“This one’s cooling,” he said. “Head wound.” He whistled. “Looks like a hot load.”
“And I suppose you had nothing to do with that, either?” the first cop said.
“No. Him I did. But there was another cop. He went into Costin’s. I heard a shot, and then this guy–”
“Jeez!” Gerry said. “The kid was with Carella!”
“See if he’s all right!” the first cop said.
Gerry dashed up the stairs and grabbed the door handle. As he pulled it open, a voice screamed from within.
“Stay back! I got your buddy and the owner in here! Stay back or I’ll kill ‘em both!”
Gerry scuttled back down the steps.
“We got a hostage situation here, Fred.”
“He’s got the kid!” Fred said. “God damn! Call the hostage team. Now!”
As Gerry ran off, an emergency rig howled down the street and screeched to a halt. Jack explained to the EMTs what had happened and why he had his thumb sunk an inch into the wounded man’s neck. One of the techs pulled on a rubber glove and substituted his finger for Jack’s. He held it there as the wounded cop was lifted onto a stretcher.
Jack watched for a second, then began to edge backward, preparing to slide between two parked cars.
“No, you don’t!” Fred the cop said, jerking his pistol up level with Jack’s head. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere! Hands on the car and spread ‘em!”
Desperation gnawed on Jack’s spine as his eyes hunted for an escape route. The street crawled with uniforms, and they all seemed to be watching him. Slowly he forced his lead-filled limbs to move, slapping his hands against the hood of the patrol car, spreading his feet. He held up okay during the frisk, but he almost lost it when his hands were yanked behind his back and the cuffs squeezed around his wrists.
Cops, arrest, cuffs, interrogation, investigation, fingerprinting, exposure, court, lawyers, judges, jail – a recurrent nightmare for most of his adult life.