into the radio as a popping sound erupted in the background. “3910!”
The radio hissed for half a beat.
“Shots fired!” Flannagan said loudly as the radio began to hiss and crackle again.
“3910, your location!” the dispatcher said. “3910!”
“3910, they’re . . .” There was another popping noise, then a loud crashing sound in the radio, followed by a tortured scream and an abrupt end to the transmission.
“Cars, stand by,” the dispatcher said, flicking the switches that would allow her transmission to go out over every division. “Henry and Roberts, assist the officer, police by radio. Henry and Roberts, assist the officer, police by radio!”
Every car within ten miles of 3910’s last location, except the ones that were still at the house at Park and Pike, started toward Henry and Roberts. It seemed like a hundred sirens went off at once.
Leroy knew what the sirens meant. Every cop in Philadelphia would be looking for them now. They would know what they were driving and how many people were in the car, all because Rock had shot at that cop and made him crash.
In his rearview mirror, Leroy could still see the flames from the police car shooting ominously toward the sky. If the cop hadn’t made it out of the car, he was either dead or so burnt up he would wish for death. Leroy knew what that meant, too. If he didn’t get that gun from Rock before he killed somebody else, and if he didn’t figure out a way to get out of Philadelphia before first light, they’d all be dead by daybreak.
Cop killers don’t live long in Philadelphia.
Chapter 3
W hen Black was sure that the men weren’t coming back, he crept out the back door carrying a band saw, the microwave, a jigsaw, and a power drill. There was a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire that separated the backyard from the alley, so he had to put the stuff in a plastic trash can cushioned with wrinkled newspapers, hoist it over the fence, and hope the mud in the alley would soften the fall and keep the stuff from breaking. He climbed over the fence after it, then carried the can to the wooden gate at the end of the alley and hoisted it up and over again, this time hoping a little harder that it wouldn’t break, since there was only a concrete sidewalk to cushion the fall. When it hit the ground, he picked up the can and set off for Tone’s house, looking over his shoulder once or twice to make sure no one was watching him.
Tone, of course, was the dope man. With him, Black could sell the stuff for caps, get straight cash, or get half and half. That, and the fact that Tone had the best dope, made him option number one. Pop Squaly, the other dope man, would pay in caps, no cash, so he was option number two. Option three was Mr. Paulem. He would pay in straight cash, but he was cheap. He would try to get the microwave, the band saw, the jigsaw, and the power drill for thirty dollars. Paulem was definitely a last resort.
Having worked out his options, Black started toward Broad Street, heading for Tone’s. He was counting up how much the stuff would be worth when he turned the corner of 15th and hit Butler Street. That’s when he heard the sirens. There were dozens of them, twenty or thirty maybe, coming from every direction. For an instant he thought they might be coming for him, but he knew that if they were trying to catch a burglar, they would come maybe three or four cars deep, lights out and sirens off. There wouldn’t be twenty cars. And they certainly wouldn’t be coming from every direction. To be on the safe side, though, he carried the trash can to the curb, like it was garbage, and walked away from it. Anybody who hadn’t seen him climb over the fence would have thought he was taking out the trash—he hoped.
After Black tucked the trash can safely behind a tree, he started walking toward Broad Street, trying hard not to look over his shoulder and get a clue as to what the hell was going on. Within five seconds a
The radio hissed for half a beat.
“Shots fired!” Flannagan said loudly as the radio began to hiss and crackle again.
“3910, your location!” the dispatcher said. “3910!”
“3910, they’re . . .” There was another popping noise, then a loud crashing sound in the radio, followed by a tortured scream and an abrupt end to the transmission.
“Cars, stand by,” the dispatcher said, flicking the switches that would allow her transmission to go out over every division. “Henry and Roberts, assist the officer, police by radio. Henry and Roberts, assist the officer, police by radio!”
Every car within ten miles of 3910’s last location, except the ones that were still at the house at Park and Pike, started toward Henry and Roberts. It seemed like a hundred sirens went off at once.
Leroy knew what the sirens meant. Every cop in Philadelphia would be looking for them now. They would know what they were driving and how many people were in the car, all because Rock had shot at that cop and made him crash.
In his rearview mirror, Leroy could still see the flames from the police car shooting ominously toward the sky. If the cop hadn’t made it out of the car, he was either dead or so burnt up he would wish for death. Leroy knew what that meant, too. If he didn’t get that gun from Rock before he killed somebody else, and if he didn’t figure out a way to get out of Philadelphia before first light, they’d all be dead by daybreak.
Cop killers don’t live long in Philadelphia.
Chapter 3
W hen Black was sure that the men weren’t coming back, he crept out the back door carrying a band saw, the microwave, a jigsaw, and a power drill. There was a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire that separated the backyard from the alley, so he had to put the stuff in a plastic trash can cushioned with wrinkled newspapers, hoist it over the fence, and hope the mud in the alley would soften the fall and keep the stuff from breaking. He climbed over the fence after it, then carried the can to the wooden gate at the end of the alley and hoisted it up and over again, this time hoping a little harder that it wouldn’t break, since there was only a concrete sidewalk to cushion the fall. When it hit the ground, he picked up the can and set off for Tone’s house, looking over his shoulder once or twice to make sure no one was watching him.
Tone, of course, was the dope man. With him, Black could sell the stuff for caps, get straight cash, or get half and half. That, and the fact that Tone had the best dope, made him option number one. Pop Squaly, the other dope man, would pay in caps, no cash, so he was option number two. Option three was Mr. Paulem. He would pay in straight cash, but he was cheap. He would try to get the microwave, the band saw, the jigsaw, and the power drill for thirty dollars. Paulem was definitely a last resort.
Having worked out his options, Black started toward Broad Street, heading for Tone’s. He was counting up how much the stuff would be worth when he turned the corner of 15th and hit Butler Street. That’s when he heard the sirens. There were dozens of them, twenty or thirty maybe, coming from every direction. For an instant he thought they might be coming for him, but he knew that if they were trying to catch a burglar, they would come maybe three or four cars deep, lights out and sirens off. There wouldn’t be twenty cars. And they certainly wouldn’t be coming from every direction. To be on the safe side, though, he carried the trash can to the curb, like it was garbage, and walked away from it. Anybody who hadn’t seen him climb over the fence would have thought he was taking out the trash—he hoped.
After Black tucked the trash can safely behind a tree, he started walking toward Broad Street, trying hard not to look over his shoulder and get a clue as to what the hell was going on. Within five seconds a