all around, through a poisonous yellow L.A. haze, I could see that the SWAT team was already deployed. They lay or kneeled motionless in their positions, already sited in and hoping for a quick shot.
The SWAT guys always want to shoot fast. Not because they think they’re so good, although most of them do. Not because they want any glory or excitement or because they are ravening beasts consumed by bloodlust. They want to shoot to get the job done and go home. They want to sit in their easy chairs with a can of beer and watch game shows. The dullest, most unimaginative guys in the world are the hired killers. Maybe they have to be.
Below the SWAT team on the sidewalk, on both sides of the street, a line of blue uniforms straggled across the street in an arc in front of the place, behind their cars or whatever other impromptu cover they could find. They all had weapons out, too, but very few of them were as nerveless about it as the SWAT team. So far I didn’t see any press.
The place everybody was paying attention to was one of the old flops that are all around the area. For twenty bucks you got a week in a room with no door and a mattress so flimsy you could feel the fleas moving inside it. You generally find a family of eight or ten in each room, working in the sweatshops and saving up for a green card. This place was called the Rossmore, according to the faded spidery red letters above the door.
My precinct commanding officer was already striding toward me. His name was Captain Spaulding, and nobody kidded him about it. He had a flat nose and a big mustache. He was a hard guy, even for a downtown cop. About fifty years old, he’d run the PAL boxing program for fifteen years and would still go three rounds with anybody stupid enough to offer. In his younger days some wise guys had coshed him and thrown him in the trunk of a Cadillac. Captain Spaulding punched his way out of the trunk, bending the sheet metal into a piece of abstract art, and killed two of the wise guys with blows from his bare hands. The other one ran for his life.
“Billy,” he said, and that was a bad sign. Like a high-school football coach, Captain Spaulding never used first names. I could see beads of sweat rolling into his thick black mustache. The day was hot and smelled like hell was leaking up through the pavement.
“Captain?” I was starting to feel a cold trickle of sweat myself. Since this morning, when I got the working-over in court, reality had been about fifteen degrees off. Now, seeing the captain’s face, it turned a little further, and even though I had no idea what he was about to tell me, I knew now it wouldn’t be on my wish list for Christmas.
“Billy,” he repeated, and put a hand on my shoulder. I could feel his stone-hard fingers through my jacket. He jerked his head at the Rossmore. “Your wife and kid are in there.”
Just like that. That was the captain’s style.
I blinked. I didn’t know if I was going to throw up or laugh. What he had said was so wildly improbable I couldn’t take it at face value. There had to be something else, some strange metaphor he was trying to make.
“Excuse me, sir?”
He nodded and looked even grimmer, never breaking eye contact with me. “They came down to the station to see you. You were in court and they left.” He ground his teeth. “We’re not real sure of what happened. We think the perps were hanging around outside the station. Maybe they figured they’d grab a cop. Maybe figured your wife and kid would work better.”
I found myself shaking my head, as if I could keep it from being true. “What do they want?”
“They want a trade. Your wife and daughter for a buddy of theirs.”
I heard myself breathing. I was panting, on the verge of fainting from hyperventilation. Everything was flip-flopping between horrible slow motion and fast-forward. I felt like Wile E. Coyote. I opened my mouth; Captain Spaulding was already shaking his head.
“We can’t do it,
The SWAT guys always want to shoot fast. Not because they think they’re so good, although most of them do. Not because they want any glory or excitement or because they are ravening beasts consumed by bloodlust. They want to shoot to get the job done and go home. They want to sit in their easy chairs with a can of beer and watch game shows. The dullest, most unimaginative guys in the world are the hired killers. Maybe they have to be.
Below the SWAT team on the sidewalk, on both sides of the street, a line of blue uniforms straggled across the street in an arc in front of the place, behind their cars or whatever other impromptu cover they could find. They all had weapons out, too, but very few of them were as nerveless about it as the SWAT team. So far I didn’t see any press.
The place everybody was paying attention to was one of the old flops that are all around the area. For twenty bucks you got a week in a room with no door and a mattress so flimsy you could feel the fleas moving inside it. You generally find a family of eight or ten in each room, working in the sweatshops and saving up for a green card. This place was called the Rossmore, according to the faded spidery red letters above the door.
My precinct commanding officer was already striding toward me. His name was Captain Spaulding, and nobody kidded him about it. He had a flat nose and a big mustache. He was a hard guy, even for a downtown cop. About fifty years old, he’d run the PAL boxing program for fifteen years and would still go three rounds with anybody stupid enough to offer. In his younger days some wise guys had coshed him and thrown him in the trunk of a Cadillac. Captain Spaulding punched his way out of the trunk, bending the sheet metal into a piece of abstract art, and killed two of the wise guys with blows from his bare hands. The other one ran for his life.
“Billy,” he said, and that was a bad sign. Like a high-school football coach, Captain Spaulding never used first names. I could see beads of sweat rolling into his thick black mustache. The day was hot and smelled like hell was leaking up through the pavement.
“Captain?” I was starting to feel a cold trickle of sweat myself. Since this morning, when I got the working-over in court, reality had been about fifteen degrees off. Now, seeing the captain’s face, it turned a little further, and even though I had no idea what he was about to tell me, I knew now it wouldn’t be on my wish list for Christmas.
“Billy,” he repeated, and put a hand on my shoulder. I could feel his stone-hard fingers through my jacket. He jerked his head at the Rossmore. “Your wife and kid are in there.”
Just like that. That was the captain’s style.
I blinked. I didn’t know if I was going to throw up or laugh. What he had said was so wildly improbable I couldn’t take it at face value. There had to be something else, some strange metaphor he was trying to make.
“Excuse me, sir?”
He nodded and looked even grimmer, never breaking eye contact with me. “They came down to the station to see you. You were in court and they left.” He ground his teeth. “We’re not real sure of what happened. We think the perps were hanging around outside the station. Maybe they figured they’d grab a cop. Maybe figured your wife and kid would work better.”
I found myself shaking my head, as if I could keep it from being true. “What do they want?”
“They want a trade. Your wife and daughter for a buddy of theirs.”
I heard myself breathing. I was panting, on the verge of fainting from hyperventilation. Everything was flip-flopping between horrible slow motion and fast-forward. I felt like Wile E. Coyote. I opened my mouth; Captain Spaulding was already shaking his head.
“We can’t do it,
Similar Books
The Humans
Matt Haig
The Legend
Kathryn Le Veque
The Summer Invitation
Charlotte Silver
Cold Case
Kate Wilhelm
Captcha Thief (Amy Lane Mysteries)
Rosie Claverton
Unseen
Nancy Bush
The Listening Walls
Margaret Millar
Ghost Aria
Jeffe Kennedy
Nights of Villjamur
Mark Charan Newton
Flesh for Fantasy
Kelex