Robert Tanenbaum - Reversible Error

"Well?" Maus spoke again irritably. "How are we?"

Art Dugman looked up from the building plans he was studying. He had reading glasses on, which made him look disconcertingly professorial. "When I figure it, you be the first to know," he said. He resumed his study. The plans showed that the building had three working floors. The ground floor was essentially a huge open bay, largely devoted to vehicular traffic and the reception and handling of baggage and cargo. The rear of this area had been assigned to customs. The second floor was a reception area for passengers; first class, second class, third class all had their separate entranceways, lounges, bars. The top floor was offices.

That was the plan. What the interior of the building looked like now, fifteen years after the last liner had docked, was anyone's guess. If this had been a normal police operation, Dugman would have covered all the doors and sent a squad down through the roof, clearing the building from above, by the book. Going into a monster like this was an impossible task for three men, especially on no better information than Karp's hunch. Dugman folded the plans neatly and climbed back into the van. He looked into the ice chest and found a soda and half a roast-beef sandwich that Maus had bought the previous day.

He drank some soda against the oppressive heat and took a bite of the sandwich. It was dry and gristly. He thought of searching for one of the plastic sacks of catsup or mayo that were usually to be found scattered on the floor of the van, but decided not to bother. He put the rest of the sandwich into his coat pocket and closed his burning eyes.

Jeffers was stretched out full length on the carpet covering the rear, a Post draped over his face. Gentle snores came from beneath the paper, fluttering it. Dugman turned around and looked at him with irritation. He said in an unnecessarily loud voice, "Hey, Jeffers! You on the job? You protecting the public?"

Jeffers grunted and said sleepily, "I'm thinkin about it. I'm getting my courage up to face them miserable mean streets once again. Anything goin on?"

"Yeah, we sittin with our knittin out on the street. I can't think of a way to get into that damn pier without a fuckin strike team."

"We could just go up to the door and say, 'Open up! This the po-lice.' It work for me."

"Yeah, and they'll cut the Loo's throat between the po and the -lice."

"So what're we doing here?"

"We waiting, son," said Dugman. "Either for a inspiration from the Lord or for that radio to light up and tell us that they found the Loo. Or for something. We might as well wait here as anywhere."

"Fine with me," answered Jeffers, readjusting the paper over his face. "Wake me up if something happen."

The sun moved across Manhattan and began its slow descent toward its home in New Jersey. The front of the pier was thrown into ocher shadow. Dugman sat in the passenger seat of the van listening to the irrelevant crackle of the police radio, dozing fitfully. Maus lurked behind a highway pillar watching the pier building, whistling "I Heard It Through the Grapevine." In the back of the van Jeffers snored more deeply.

Dugman was just thinking about walking down 47th Street to hustle a takeout dinner when he heard the sound of quick footsteps.

"Hey!" said Maus when he reached the van. "There's somebody coming out of the pier."

Dugman slipped out of the van and went to look. One of the small doors on the side of the pier had opened and a slender black man had emerged from its shadows. He locked the door from the outside, walked toward a black late-model Chevrolet parked in front of the pier, opened its door, and started the engine.

He stood outside for a minute, allowing the air conditioning to blow the day's heat out of the interior, then entered the car and drove off.

"Let's go get him," Dugman snapped, dashing around to the passenger side.

Maus jumped into the driver's seat, gunned the van's engine, and took off south on Twelfth Avenue. He kept the van half a block behind the Chevy for several streets. There were no other cars moving on the avenue, which was lined on both sides with idle semi-trailers.

Maus moved the van up to within two car lengths of the Chevy, then trod heavily on the gas. The van leapt forward, ran up alongside the car, and swerved in front of it. Dugman had a glimpse of the driver's panicked face before the van drove the Chevy into the side of a parked semi with a screech of metal and brakes.

It was a perfect pinch. The rear of the van pinned the driver's door shut and the other door was crushed against the side of the trailer. The driver was trapped. Dugman got out and stood in front of the Chevy with his arms crossed, wreathed by escaping steam from the car's broken radiator. Jeffers grabbed his shotgun and went around to the rear of the trapped car. When he was in position, he whistled, and Maus rolled the van ahead enough to free the driver's door.

Jeffers popped it open and yanked the shaken man out. He spun him around, placed the muzzle of the twelve-gauge against the base of his skull, braced him against his own car, hands on the hood, and patted him down one-handed, coming up with a 9mm automatic pistol and a four-inch butterfly knife. He pulled the man's hands behind him and snapped on handcuffs.

Dugman approached and looked the man in the face. He was a young man, not more than twenty, and Dugman did not recognize him-one more of the street's unlimited supply of apprentices to the drug trade.

"You got a license for this gun, son?" Dugman asked politely, holding up the weapon.

"Fuck you, asshole!" the kid yelled. "I din do shit, an you fucked up my car. Who gonna pay for it, nigger?"

Jeffers said, "He must not be local, talkin' like that."

Dugman shoved the pistol into his belt and nodded. "I don't guess. Where you from, son? Brooklyn?"

"What the fuck you care? You gonna bust me, go ahead!"

"Take him around behind the trailer," said Dugman.

Jeffers grabbed the kid's arm and started to lead him away. The kid did not expect this. He looked around wildly, took a deep breath, and started to shout, "Hey! Help! Police brutality! Hey!" It was the kind of thing that often worked to advantage on the crowded streets of Bed-Stuy.

Not pausing in his stride, Jeffers tossed up his shotgun, grabbed it five inches from the end of the barrel, and jammed its front end neatly into the kid's open mouth. He jammed it upward until most of the kid's weight was hanging from his soft palate. A high whistle of agony came from the kid's throat.

Behind the trailer, Jeffers kicked the kid's feet out from under him and threw him facedown on the pavement. Then he sat down heavily on the kid's back.

Dugman squatted on his haunches near the kid's face. He said in a conversational tone, "Now, you ain't from around here, so we got to make some allowances. Up in Harlem we let a lot of shit go by, but one thing we don't let go by is snatching no New York City Police Department detective lieutenants. You think you been in trouble before. You been to Youth Hall. You maybe been to Rikers a time or two. But now you're in Harlem trouble, son. It's another world. What we got here is way, way beyond police brutality. Am I getting through to you?"

"Breathe…" the kid gasped.

Dugman motioned to Jeffers, who leaned forward and took some of his weight onto his feet. Air sucked into the kid's lungs in a rush. A trickle of blood leaked from his mouth and spotted the pavement.

"Now," Dugman continued, "you could be a big help to us. We need to know exactly where they got the lieutenant, and where Manning is, and how many guys are in there, and where they are. And the layout inside. Can you do that?"

The kid gasped, "Fuck you, cop!"

"We don't have time for this shit," said Dugman. He leaned forward until his face was only a few inches from the kid's staring eye. "You ever eat your own flesh, kid?" he asked softly.