Gregg Hurwitz - The Tower

"So did you get him?"

Tony smiled. "That's not all."

"That's not all?"

Tony shook his head. "Jade says to get him in there first thing in the morning so the guy doesn't have a clear head, not thinking straight. I have someone pick him up at six in the morning."

"You let him stay out on the streets for another week?"

Tony waved him off. "We had an eye on him. We picked him up at 6:00 A.M. What time do you think Jade shows up at the station to get ready?"

Robert shrugged, his eyes riveted on Tony.

"Two o'clock in the fuckin' morning. I get in at 5:00 A.M. He's yanking folders off the shelves and stacking them on the desk. Papers are flying everywhere. I think he's gone fuckin' nuts. He's made copies of all the newspaper headlines about the robberies and he's taping 'em on these files and writing the guy's name under 'em with a big black marker. He even puts the original articles all over the walls."

"What's in the files?"

"I don't know. Traffic-ticket records. Blank memo paper. My dry-cleaning list. Whatever."

"Holy shit," Robert said. He ordered two more Strauders.

"So this poor miserable fuck comes in and he has no idea what's in store for him. He's scared, he's tired, it's fucking early, it's his mom's birthday. He sees these files with the headlines all over them and about shits his pants. He thinks we have the whole National Guard on his ass. He starts fingering this cross around his neck like crazy. He's sweating and he keeps glancing at this one file labeled 'Seven-Eleven Shooting' in huge black letters, laying on the table all the way to his left."

"He's turning to look at the file?"

Tony demonstrated, swinging around his beer gut in exaggerated fashion and gawking behind him. He turned back to his beer and took a long swig.

When he continued, his voice was much softer. His index finger waved in the air as he spoke. "And Jade notices this guy's holding on to the cross around his neck like it's gonna come to life and carry him off to heaven. So he starts talking really biblical."

"Talking biblical?"

Tony nodded. "Yeah, like, 'Who could have committed such an egregious sin? Perhaps someone who feels cast out, who needs help and forgiveness.'" He waved his arms over his head as he imitated Jade.

"Giving the guy an out."

"Giving the guy an out," Tony repeated, nodding his head. "And when this guy's right on the edge, Jade circles the desk, walks over to him and 'accidentally' bumps a videotape off the desk where he hid it. It's got a Seven-Eleven security cover, it's got the date of the shooting on it, and the guy's name across the front in huge red letters."

"No."

"I shit you not. He practically knocks it into the guy's lap and then grabs it back real quick, all embarrassed-like, and acts like the guy wasn't supposed to see it."

"And he spills?"

"Like a glass of milk," Tony said grandly. "He starts crying about how he didn't mean to shoot him and it was an accident and it's his mother's birthday and he wants to see a priest and on and on."

"No shit?"

"None." The men drank their beers in silence for a few minutes.

Robert took a long final drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out. "What was the videotape?" he asked.

"Blondes Back on Top. He got it outta my top desk drawer."

Settling into the seat of his '81 banged-up black 320i, Jade rolled the radio tuning knob through a cacophony of static. Giving up, he reached into his glove compartment, pulled out a CD, and slipped it in. Miles Davis, Kind of Blue.

The green lights floated overhead, one after another, as Jade swerved from lane to lane, darting between cars. He drove along the streets with his left arm extended out the broken window, his hand tapping the car roof furiously to the tune: "Du nu nu nu nu nu nu na. So what. Du nu nu nu nu nu nu na. So what."

The music was turned up so loud that even with the window down, Jade was sealed away in his own vessel of sound. It flowed over him, clearing his mind. Screeching down one-way streets and alleyways, he cut off cars, arriving first in line at red lights. Or he circumvented stoplights altogether by turning right, then zooming back to the street through corner gas stations and parking lots.

Du nu nu nu. His tires flew through puddles, spraying water into the air, reflecting the headlights of oncoming traffic and soaking the left sleeve of his shirt. Nu nu nu na. He rolled the wheel with one finger, bringing his steering hand down near his crotch to hold the turn as his car whipped around corners. And the movement he saw through his dirty windshield-the cars passing and the flare of the water and the pedestrians walking on the sidewalk-were all choreographed pieces of his dance, of his song, and he watched as they moved to the beat he pounded on the roof of his car. So what.

As he cruised, he focused on a green station wagon three cars back in the left lane. It had been with him for some time. Jade brought his arm back inside the car, and he hummed the music more softly as he tapped on the steering wheel. His eyes were glued now to the rearview mirror.

He made three consecutive lefts, which the station wagon followed, then he threw on a false signal. The station wagon imitated it, then also drove past the turn, just as he had.

"Rookies. Don't send me that," Jade muttered, smiling crookedly.

He jerked off the road suddenly, into the gravel parking lot of a small bar. The building was low-roofed, with flashing neon signs and an eternally pouring Strauders bottle in the window.

The two men in the station wagon had been baffled for some time.

"What the fuck is he doing?" Andrew asked, running his fingers through his greasy brown hair.

He wore a buttoned-up shirt with dark stains under his armpits; sweat dotted his forehead and cheeks as well. "You think he spotted us?"

"How the hell would I know any more than you? Maybe he's just drunk. He was in that last bar forever," his friend Kyle replied, scratching his neatly trimmed beard.

They both watched in horror as Jade's car skidded into the parking lot of the bar. They slowed, watching him as he got out of his car and headed inside.

"Keep going, keep going," Andrew hissed. "Speed up. Let's circle the block so he doesn't notice us."

Jade watched the car's reflection in the front window of the bar. He saw it slow to a halt, then accelerate rapidly, pulling out of view. Two men. Mid-thirties.

He pulled open the door, disappearing into the smoky haze. All right, you fucks, he thought, I'll wait for you.

He went up to the bar and signaled the bartender. A robust Greek man came toward him, grinning widely.

"Ahh. Mr. Jade. How are you, my friend? Would you like a black and tan? Your favorite, eh?"

"Actually, Nick, I'm okay right now. Just wanted to warn you I've got a tail. Might be a bit of trouble."

Nick's face darkened. Obviously, he had seen this drill before. "Fine. You keep it to the pool-table area." He started to go, then turned back, raising a finger. "And no guns. Mr. Jade. Not like last time."

"Don't worry," Jade smiled. "I'll behave."

Nick turned to go, but Jade touched him on the shoulder. "Hey, Nick, mind if I wait on your side of the bar?"

Nick hesitated for a moment, then shook his head.

The two men walked into the bar. Andrew whistled nonchalantly, then whispered to Kyle. They pretended to talk to each other as they peered around, surveying the room. Jade watched them through the ordering window of the kitchen, noticing the bulge in Andrew's jacket.

Walking over to the bar with a forced stride, Andrew casually leaned one elbow on the counter, right into an ashtray. He lifted his arm up and shook loose a cigarette that had stuck to his sleeve. The woman sitting one stool over looked at him, slightly perplexed, then bit her lip to keep from smiling.