Tod Goldberg - The Giveaway

The motorcycle cop was still behind me and by that point was probably actively working the radio. If it was a slow crime day, they’d probably scramble a helicopter, which would then get the news helicopters in the air, which would then get all of this on the news.

This could work to my advantage, so I gunned the Charger through the school zone, my own horn honking, my own lights blinking, trying to get as much attention as possible.

“Bruce is either dead or hiding somewhere near my mother’s, so I need you to drag the Banshees there.”

“I’m not sure if the rental van can outrun a bunch of hogs,” Sam said.

In my rearview mirror, I could see the motorcycle cop gaining on me. He wasn’t close enough to see my plate and we hadn’t traveled far enough for this to be considered a high-speed chase, because a reasonable lawyer could conjecture that while the cop was on my tail, I was driving so recklessly as to not notice. Plus, I was driving fairly conservatively, if incredibly fast. Safety first and all that.

“You have to try,” I said. “How close are you to the weed house?”

“I can be there in five minutes,” he said.

“When you get there,” I said, “shoot it up. Maybe take out the SUV, make a big bang, big enough that they’ll follow you quick.”

“You sure Fiona got all the C-4?” Sam asked. “I’d rather not add a meteor crater to the list of Miami’s attractions.”

I turned to Fiona-she was quietly sharpening a knife against a mortarboard, as calm and detached as if she were doing her nails (while driving ninety-five miles per hour with the cops on her tail). “All of the C-4 is out of the SUV, right?”

Fiona lifted one shoulder.

“Yes or no, Fi, because Sam is going to blow it up in about three minutes.”

“I guess he’ll know when he blows it up,” she said. “I’d advise him to stand at least one foot from any open flame.”

“Sam,” I said, “do the drive-by like the kids do these days. No stopping to admire. But hang back enough for the Banshees to see you. We need to draw them out right now and get them heading toward my mother’s.”

“On it,” he said and hung up.

As soon as the phone was off, it rang.

Nate.

I handed the phone to Fiona. “Would you mind taking a message?” I said. “I need to not accidentally kill anyone.”

“You really need to get a Bluetooth,” Fiona said. “It’s very dangerous to talk on the phone while driving.”

We flew through an intersection just as another motorcycle cop came peeling into view.

We were now being chased.

This would take some explaining, but that was fine. I’d be happy to explain that I was coming to help my mother, who apparently was being held hostage by a brimming motorcycle gang turf war.

Provided I could get to the house before shots started getting fired.

Fiona answered the phone, said a few words, and then dropped it in my lap. “It’s your brother,” she said.

Sometimes Fiona is difficult just to be difficult. It suits her, but it’s not always an enjoyable aspect of her personality.

“Nate,” I said, just as we passed a Starbucks that used to be a coin-op laundry Nate and I used to steal quarters from (a knife, a paper clip and a can of WD- 40 were all you needed to pry open the coin depository on the old washers). “I can’t really talk. I’m being chased by the police.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I hear a bunch of sirens. That you?”

“I’m about half a mile away,” I said, “coming from the east. That where the sound is coming from?”

“Actually, it’s coming from all over. In stereo, pretty much.”

“Good,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Is there something you wanted to talk about, Nate, or can this wait until after I’m done evading capture?”

“I just wanted to apologize,” he said. “I think these guys found the house because of me.”

“Why is that, Nate?”

I turned left, which was technically away from the house, but I wanted to get a sense of how many police were potentially following me. I knew of two at least, but hadn’t seen any air support.

I used my blinker.

My seat belt was on, and apart from the cache of guns in the car, I was really only guilty of speeding at this point.

And failure to yield.

And some red light problems.

But I was thinking of killing my brother.

“I dropped Zadie off and ran a couple of errands. When I got back she said she had a really nice conversation with a young lady in leather pants about me. Zadie points her out in the parking lot, so I go over and drop a little game on her.”

“Drop a little game on her?”

“I talked her up, told her I was staying out at Mom’s, and, you know, to call me there. Maybe we’d get together and watch religious television together and hand-knit bedspreads. Couple hours later, I realized, you know, maybe that she was a plant.”

“Maybe.”

“And, well, now there’s about fifteen bikers circling the house. I’m really sorry, Michael.”

“How about instead of apologizing, maybe load a couple of guns?”

“Mom is on that,” Nate said. “And Maria is pretty handy around a nine. Zadie’s boiling water in case they break the perimeter. She said that’s how we won World War One.”

I looked into the rearview mirror and saw… nothing. I looked to my right: nothing. I looked to my left: nothing. I looked at Fiona. She’d put away all of her weapons and was now texting with someone.

And I didn’t hear any sirens.

“Nate,” I said, “I’ll be there in two minutes. Don’t let anyone into the house. And if the cops come, stay indoors.”

I pulled over at an intersection only a few blocks from my mother’s.

“What are we doing?” Fi asked.

“Waiting,” I said.

“Is that the best idea?”

“Do you see any police?”

Fiona did the same compass pass I’d just performed. “Where are they?” she asked.

“Listen,” I said.

In the distance I could make out the faint sound of about a hundred sirens humming alongside the growling of motorcycles. There was a good chance the cop following me was called off pursuit for a larger, more dangerous issue-namely, a horde of thugs speeding through residential Miami.

I called Sam.

“ETA?” I said.

“I’ll be there in about five minutes,” he said. “I’ve got a posse on my back that you wouldn’t believe.”

“Any shots fired?”

“Not yet,” Sam said.

“If you pass an open field, bury a bullet.”

“I like that idea,” Sam said.

“Tell me what street you’re on,” I said. He did and then I hung up with him and called 911.

“Yes, thank you, I’d like to report a very serious situation. There are approximately two hundred men on motorcycles chasing a man in a white van down Reston Avenue. One of the motorcycle people just fired a gun. Yes. Very frightening. My name?” I paused for one moment and thought it through. “Clifford Gluck,” I said and then hung up.

“This is exactly how you planned it, right?” Fiona said.

“This is all contingency training, Fi,” I said. “Textbook stuff.”

“Funny,” she said. “Oh, yes, the old pit-two-enemies-together-to-k ill-each-other-off-so-a-third-party-can-prosper textbook. I heard about it on Twitter. The kids love it. Always such a winning plan.”

“Vietnam?” I said.

“Yes, that ended up particularly well.”

“Iraq?”

“Another solid victory for the good guys,” she said.

I kept thinking and watching the intersection, waiting for the inevitable flurry of action. Two or three minutes later, it flashed by: a hunk of white followed by what looked liked a swarm of giant flies. The police were not yet on the scene, but I could already feel the ionic change in the air-a helicopter was nearby, but it was also the release of anxiety and breath and sweat by the people on the street.