Max Collins - Target Lancer

The blond guy, in a plaid shirt unbuttoned over a T-shirt, reminded me of Vallee, but with a narrower, fox-like face; he was chewing a toothpick and frowning, not irritated, just trying to think. His black-haired associate, in a well-worn gray U.S. Army sweatshirt, was listening, chewing gum, as the Cubans spoke to them in Spanish.

That impressed me. These two white-trash ex-GIs had picked up a second language, and here I was barely functional in English. I gulped some Coke from the room-temperature bottle I’d been served, while the two Cubans-the older, fright-wig character doing most of the talking-continued with what might have been a briefing.

The confab hadn’t gone on long before the two white guys gave knowing nods to their booth mates, slid out, and headed back around the counter.

Had I been made?

Casually as possible, I unzipped the Windbreaker.

But they weren’t getting behind that counter to better deal with yours truly-they did not seem to have noticed me. No, they were going out, through the kitchen, letting no grass grow. An alley was back there, and I was about to lose them.

Moments later, the two Cubans exited their booth quickly, tossing a couple of bucks on the tabletop for their own soft drinks. As they hurried out onto the street, I kept my back to them, perched on my counter stool.

Not wanting to be too damn obvious, I finished my Coke, tossed a quarter on the counter, and went outside. Looking diagonally across to Milwaukee Avenue, I could see the two Cubans getting into their Pontiac. They had hustled.

I jaywalked over to the Chrysler, where Eben sat in the passenger seat. That was good surveillance technique: stay in the driver’s seat and other cars’ll pull up and wait, thinking you’re vacating your parking space.

Getting behind the wheel, I said, “The two white guys were in there.”

“All right, ” Eben said, and then he was pointing. “Subjects are heading north on Milwaukee again.”

The Pontiac indeed was on the move. But not moving fast-interesting, considering the Cubans had all but run out of the restaurant.

Then I put it together.

“They’re gonna pull into the alley behind the restaurant,” I said, waiting for an opening in traffic.

“Why?”

“The Caucasian Twins are back in that alley. My hunch is, it’s a weapons delivery.”

“Damn, I bet you’re right!” Eben sat forward. “The rifles the landlady saw in that flat are in their trunk now! I better call this in.…”

The Negro agent got on the radio, and by the time I had taken the left on Milwaukee, he was saying into the hand mike, “Tell Chief Martineau we have located all four subjects, repeat, all four subjects. More information as things develop. Ten-four.”

Just like Broderick Crawford on Highway Patrol .

Turning through the intersection, I saw no sign of the Pontiac.

“They’ve already pulled in,” I said.

I was driving faster than I should when I swung into the alley-narrowly missing the iron pillar supporting the Elevated tracks above-and had to slam on the brakes not to bump headlights with the Pontiac parked back there.

Gonzales was again at the wheel and he reared back as our vehicles almost kissed snouts. The Bonneville trunk was up, with just the top of a bushy-haired head visible over it; then the trunk slammed shut, and revealed Rodriguez, gaping in annoyed surprise.

That lowered trunk also provided us a better view down the alley, as another car-a light-blue Ford Falcon (couldn’t catch the damn plate)-was waving its ass and taillights at us from down at the other end of the alley, making a right turn and then out of sight.

The white boys.

From behind the wheel, I offered Gonzales a goofy grin, and shrugged in a way that proclaimed myself the dumb ass at fault here. The alarm left the Cuban’s expression and he nodded, reluctantly polite. Why call attention?

That was when the damn police radio squawked: “ This is Chief Martineau. What is your location, Agent Boldt? ”

Eben lurched forward to turn down the volume, but far too late.

The message had been heard by the two Cubans-it had frozen them, in fact. But they’d thaw soon enough.

Fuck it.

I leaned out my window. “Secret Service! Exit the vehicle with your hands up!”

That sounded like something a real G-man would say, right? Who wouldn’t wilt under that kind of verbal assault?

Well, the Cubans didn’t. The bushy-haired guy yanked open the Pontiac’s rear left door and threw himself inside the car, slamming that door just as Gonzales threw the vehicle into reverse, hitting the gas and backing up, fast.

I hit the gas, too, rocketing down the alley after them-they could never outrun us in reverse, though I could hardly blame them for trying.

But we would never know the outcome of such a chase, because as they neared the alley exit, another car backed in, pausing, apparently to turn around, and we were on top of the Pontiac again, headlights getting reacquainted. I threw it in Park, leapt from my side of the vehicle as Eben did the same from his, both of us with guns in hand.

Gonzales gave up immediately, getting out to stand with his hands up and his chin down, even assuming the position against a brick wall, making it easier on Eben cuffing the guy’s hands behind him.

But Rodriguez wasn’t so cooperative. While Eben was making his collar, the big bushy-haired bastard scrambled out of the backseat on the other side and came charging at me, like an offensive tackle rushing the line, and despite my having the Browning in hand, he practically ran me down, shoving me aside and against a brick alley wall, jarring me, overwhelming my ancient ass.

Still, I recovered quickly and picked up pursuit.

He dashed out of the alley and across the street, several cars slamming on brakes and swerving to miss him, getting himself sworn at in various languages, and I was right behind him, taking advantage of the path he’d cleared. Where the alley picked back up, he went down it. For a big man, both broad-shouldered and bulky, he was fast, or at least adrenaline was making him so.

We ran down the alley, footsteps echoing, the Elevated tracks visible above, a train rumbling by, its shadow racing across the buildings at left whose backs provided a collective wall. As the chase continued, the El started its roller-coaster dip into the subway, enclosed now by a short cement barrier topped by a wire-mesh fence on either side of the double tracks.

Huffing and puffing like a Big Bad Wolf with no house to blow down, I somehow managed to cut the distance between us. Rodriguez was younger, but also fatter, and his sprint was losing steam into distance running. The tracks were right next to us now, behind their fence, as the El continued its descent.

The nine-mil was still in my right fist-I could have shot the bastard, and maybe I should have and spared myself the aches and pains that the aftermath of all this running would bring, not to mention the burning gut-ache that was already starting. A leg shot might have brought him down, though you can kill a guy with a leg shot-there’s an important artery hiding inside.

But Rodriguez didn’t seem to be armed, and if this was all just some kind of royal FUBAR, and these subjects turned out not to be a paramilitary hit squad, then I’d be shooting down an unarmed Cuban exile, which would make me popular with nobody, myself included.

And if Rodriguez was part of such a hit squad-the two white-boy members of which were currently in the wind, maybe now carting high-powered rifles with scopes in their Falcon trunk-there might be information in that mangy-haired Cuban skull that could save the President’s life.