Part 31 (1/2)

The rookie's heavier, more jaded partner answered. ”Naw, but we got cars covering the alley and street at both ends of the block. He's probably lying under a car or squatting in the bushes somewhere along here. We'll get him when it gets light. Or maybe we'll get a dog.”

Spiderman wandered up, warming his hands in his armpits, and Ferris joined them. Then patrol announced over the radio that they'd flushed Ocampo. ”We're heading him back your way.”

They tracked the chase by the transmissions. The first team was joined by other cars. When they'd herded Ocampo into the alley behind his own building, just west of the detectives' location, Ferris, Spiderman, and the rookie joined Thinnes trying to head him off. They tore down the gangway between the buildings, their flashlight beams raising weird shapes from the trash. Suddenly, the rookie tripped and slid-swearing-into the shadowy debris. Following too close, Spiderman went down on top of him. Thinnes had to jump over both to avoid joining the pileup, and the cramping in his gut reminded him he wasn't yet fit enough for such maneuvers.

When he got to the end of the gangway, he stopped. He saw Ferris skid to a halt, midalley, and crouch in a fighting stance. Thinnes took out his .38 and aimed as Ocampo charged up just ahead of a blue-and-white with its lights blazing. Ocampo feinted toward Ferris's left, then charged right and bowled him over, high stepping to avoid tripping on him. He was so busy, he didn't see Ryan fly down the apartment steps. She caught him off balance and shouldered him into the overhead door of a garage facing the alley.

Ocampo bounced off the door and swung at her. She deflected the punch, then landed a solid kick to the side of his thigh. Thinnes could see his jaw drop. Ryan spun Ocampo around and slammed him back against the door.

”GRAB THE WALL,” she shouted. ”SPREAD YOUR FEET.”

Spiderman and the rookie cop swarmed up, guns drawn, and took positions to either side of her. Thinnes put his own weapon away.

Ocampo screamed, ”f.u.c.k!”

”For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge,” Ryan said. ”Are you confessing? a.s.sUME THE POSITION!” When he tried to turn, she shouted, ”DON'T LOOK AT ME!” She lunged forward and slammed him against the door again. ”HANDS ON THE DOOR! SPREAD YOUR FEET! SPREAD 'EM OR I'LL SPREAD 'EM FOR YOU!” She swung her left foot against the inside of his right, nearly causing him to do the splits. She got her cuffs out and snapped one on his right wrist, then let go of the cuff and grabbed his fingers.

”f.u.c.k YOU!” he screamed.

”That your alma mater? Or the last inst.i.tution you attended?” She swung his right arm in a big circle that ended with the arm behind his back. She kept hold of his fingers, bending them back just enough to hurt if he struggled.

He offered only token resistance. ”b.i.t.c.h!”

”Best In Throwing, Catching, and Hitting,” she agreed. She patted his lower back. ”Bring your other hand around here.” When he'd complied, she grabbed his fingers and pulled the wrist straight, then snapped the second cuff on.

”f.u.c.kin' pig,” he said.

Ryan patted down his jacket and pockets. ”Pride, Integrity, and Guts. You got that right. You also got a name?”

”c.u.n.t!”

”That's a funny name. I'd change it.” Ignoring the guffaws of the men enjoying the show with Thinnes, she told Ocampo, ”You have the right to remain silent, and I strongly suggest you exercise that right. If you give up the right to remain silent...”

When she'd finished reciting Miranda, she looked around at the others and said, ”One of you gentlemen can search him.”

Sixty.

Rick said he had to make an early night of it, so they met for dinner at Orly's, on South Hyde Park Boulevard, near the U of C campus and Rick's apartment. The restaurant was a small, comforting place with dark, wood-paneled walls and furniture, hanging plants, and a red, patterned carpet. The evening's specials were listed on a chalkboard near the entry.

When they were seated, and the waitress had vanished with their drink orders, Rick said, ”How's Manny?”

”The same.”

Rick nodded and looked around the room as if he'd exhausted his line of small talk. He was working up to something. Out of habit, Caleb let the silence be, let it draw out what was on Rick's mind.

”You going to your family's for Christmas?” he said, finally. His body language confirmed Caleb's suspicion that he really didn't care.

”I have a standing invitation from friends.” Caleb looked around the room. In the darkest corner, a man and woman were locked in an ardent embrace. At another table, a dark woman in a sari conversed with a man resembling Rasputin. And further down the room, two young men and a woman hung on the every word of an older man, U of C students and their professor, Caleb surmised. At the table nearest Rick and Caleb's, two men under-dressed for the venue sat with their backs to the wall and watched the door, the waitress, and the other patrons. Caleb recognized the breed: policemen-tactical officers or undercover cops. They chatted amiably with the waitress but kept their eyes moving. Caleb looked back at Rick, who was also studying the room. His drink was half-gone. A s.n.a.t.c.h of an old '60s song ran through Caleb's head-”The Dangling Conversation,” by Simon and Garfunkel.

The waitress came by, and Rick said, ”Why don't you give us five minutes and another round?” She gave him a nice smile.

Rick said, ”I'd like you to look at something.”

”Surely.”

Rick took a sheaf of paper rolled into a cylinder from inside his jacket pocket and handed it to Caleb. ”I'm not Bob Greene but...” He shrugged. ”I'd like your opinion.”

Caleb unrolled the paper, t.i.tled, ”A Ribbon for Your Easter Bonnet.” He read: This started out to be a ho-hum human-interest piece-the obligatory heart tugger about an AIDS hospice-but in the course of researching the story, I met someone who taught me that a hospice is just a place without human interest. What makes human-interest stories is human beings. People, individuals like Manny...

The waitress reappeared with their drinks. Rick asked Caleb, ”Are you still hungry?”

”No.”

”Just a check,” Rick told the woman.

Caleb kept reading.

I reject the idea that there has to be suffering involved for something to be pure or true or n.o.ble. Bulls.h.i.+t! If someone's suffering, it means there's been a f.u.c.kup. The continued rapid spread of AIDS is the ultimate f.u.c.kup...

Caleb was nearly through when Rick interrupted. ”It's good enough so it won't embarra.s.s me-my editor's accepted it-but I'll never stick my neck out like this again.”

Caleb understood. The article notwithstanding, Rick couldn't or wouldn't talk about deeper issues. He was intelligent and sensitive-or sharply perceptive-in his writing, but it was obvious he wasn't comfortable with emotion or introspection.

...As we come together to celebrate the resurrection, maybe we could resurrect some hope...

When Caleb finished reading, he studied Rick's face. They thought in different metaphors-as irreconcilable as opera and hockey. Caleb was like a cat, emotionally cautious and reserved; the writer was a dog man, superficially uncomplicated and instantly affectionate.

”Well?” Rick said, figuratively holding his breath.

He wasn't Bob Greene, but the article was-”Very effective.”

Rick relaxed. ”Thanks.”

”May I keep it? For Manny.”

”Sure. I was going to send him a copy.”

There was silence while they sipped their drinks. Caleb felt a twinge of guilt for being sn.o.bbish, but he was becoming tired of Rick's preoccupation with the trivial, his effusiveness, and his instant a.s.sumption of familiarity. And he taxed Caleb's tolerance for talk of sports and weather.

”We're not working out, are we?” Rick asked. A mind reader.

”To be honest, no.”