Part 30 (1/2)
”Too far right and short,” Paul said.
Mike loaded the slingshot again and let his second shot fly. It went straight, but too long. It hit the side of the building behind the police cars and made a loud cracking sound that ripped through the quiet night air like a shotgun blast.
Collins snickered and said, ”Oh s.h.i.+t. That was loud.”
”Do it again,” Wes said. The small gap between his round eyes was creased with laugh lines. ”One more time.”
But they didn't get the chance. Before any of them could get back into position, they were interrupted by Barris' panicked voice on the radio.
”44-50,” he said, and didn't wait for the dispatcher to respond. ”I got shots fired. Shots fired! Eighteen hundred block of Court Street. Unknown direction.”
Collins and Mike looked at each other, then back at Mike. Mike just stood there, his mouth hanging open.
”Oh that f.u.c.king idiot,” Mike said. ”I can't believe he did-”
The dispatcher set off a city-wide emergency tone that drowned out the rest of Mike's sentence. Then her calm, businesslike voice came over the radio. ”I have 44-50 out with shots fired in the eighteen hundred block of Court. Cover is Code Three. 44-60, 44-70, 44-40, start that way.”
Before any of them could answer, Garwin got on the radio. He sounded strangely calm. ”44-100, I'm ten-six with 44-50.”
They all looked at Mike, who was staring at the two police cars below them and shaking his head.
”Mike?” Wes said.
Mike said, ”One of you get on the radio and tell them that-”
But he was cut off by a second emergency tone. Their dispatcher came on the radio again and said, ”9217 Lincoln for a robbery of an individual. 9217 Lincoln in 44-70's district, clearing all but East.” There was a pause as the dispatcher switched from the all-route citywide channel to the dedicated East Patrol channel. When she spoke again, her voice was as calm as ever, almost bored. ”44-80, I know you're on break but you're all I've got. Start that way, Code Three. I'll get you some cover as soon as I can.”
”10-4,” said a rather irritated-sounding officer. ”Coming from a long ways off.”
Paul looked at Mike for guidance. Lincoln ran right through their little heroin town off of F.M. 78. Lots of dope, lots of guns, lots of messy calls.
”Mike?” he said.
Mike turned away from Seles, Barris, and Garwin's cars. To Wes, he said, ”Tell them a bunch of kids did it. The robbery's in our square. Paul and I will take that.”
Wes looked doubtful, but he cleared his throat and keyed up his radio anyway.
”44-60,” he said.
Looking at Mike with an okay, here it goes expression, he said, ”44-60, tell 44-50 and 44-100 no shots fired. Repeat, no shots fired. It's just some kids with a water balloon shooter. I saw them running east of Court towards Mittman.”
The pause that followed seemed to go on forever. Finally, the dispatcher spoke. ”44-100, do you copy that, sir?”
”10-4,” Garwin answered.
Another long uncomfortable silence followed.
”44-70,” Mike said.
”Go ahead, 44-70,” the dispatcher said.
”44-70, if that's gonna be a bogus call, we'll be on the way to 9217 Lincoln for that robbery of an individual.”
”10-4,” the dispatcher said. ”44-100, do you copy?”
”I copy, 44-100,” said Garwin. ”Have 44-70 divert. And ask 44-60 if they've still got those kids in sight.”
Wes looked at Mike. Mike shook his head.
”Uh, negative, 44-60,” Wes said. ”We lost them.”
”Okay,” Mike said. ”We're outta here. Paul, get in the car. I'm driving.”
Paul didn't argue. He got in the pa.s.senger seat and a moment later he was holding onto the dashboard for dear life as Mike gunned the Crown Victoria down the steep slope of the drive and out onto the street.
Over the howling of the Ford's engine, Paul heard Garwin's voice on the radio.
”44-100, have 44-60 make my location.”
”s.h.i.+t,” Mike said.
”10-4,” the dispatcher said. ”44-60?”
There was a long pause before Wes answered. ”44-60, 10-4. Can you ask 44-100 for his twenty, ma'am?”
”44-100?”
Garwin said, ”44-100, tell him to get down here now! He doesn't need my twenty because he knows exactly where I'm at.”
”Oh s.h.i.+t,” Mike said.
”44-60, you copy?” the dispatcher asked.
”10-4,” Wes answered, and when he spoke again he sounded like a condemned man being led to the gallows. ”We're on the way.”
Two hours later, the four of them were together again, sitting at an open-air picnic table behind an all-night grease pit called The Cave. It served burgers, fries, and fried chicken, and, according to Mike at least, was just about the only place in the whole 44 section where they could go to eat and be reasonably sure the cooks weren't doing something obscene to their food before they served it.
But, like everything else on the east side, the Cave was an eyesore. Gra.s.s grew up through cracks in the concrete. Graffiti was scrawled all over the fence that circled the lot. Burglar bars sealed every window and door in sight. And he was pretty sure he'd seen rats or mice running around behind the Dumpster not twenty feet from them.
Paul looked around the table. Wes was smiling that creepy smile of his at him. Collins was p.i.s.sed off, as usual, and pus.h.i.+ng his French fries around in a puddle of ketchup. Mike was eating a hamburger that oozed mustard and wilted lettuce and seemed as happy doing it as a goat munching clover.
Paul watched them, listened to them, and he thought about Collins. Mike he was beginning to understand. Wes, too, in a way. But not Collins. He was a contradiction in so many ways. He loved being a policeman, but he obviously felt like he deserved something better. He thought policemen were the only members of the human species worth bearing the name human, and yet he hated most of the cops he worked with-like Barris and Seles and Garwin. He was constantly complaining about how bad the Department sucked, and yet his b.i.t.c.hing and moaning provided an outlet for the others and in the process, and ironically, Paul realized, raised everybody's morale.
”44-70,” said the dispatcher.
Mike was holding some fries in one hand, his radio on the table in front of him. ”Go ahead, 44-70,” he said.