Ian Slater - Warshot

The steam was still rising, going this way and that like some living thing fuming but in confusion, a red and blue neon slashing the vaporous cloud every four seconds, infusing it with a surrealistic look, hard on the eyes.

“No need for all this palaver,” said one of the four-member squad, the short-barrel, pump-action shotgun in his right hand. “What’s the difference? With this new Emergency Powers thing, we could pick him up in the morning, right? We could be home getting sleep by now.”

“Johnny,” said a detached, in-charge voice from the backseat, “once these friggin’ lawyers hear Mayne’s speech, they’re gonna go ape and tip off every slimeball in the territory.”

“So where can they go?” asked the policeman with the shotgun. “We shut all the fucking airports to Canada and Mexico.”

“They don’t have to leave the country,” said the man from the back. “Just hide out till the emergency power’s repealed. Then we’ll be back to square—”

The radio crackled, its volume low. “Car forty-five. A code one-eight-seven on Jefferson one-four-eight-nine. Corner store—7-Eleven.” A 187 was a homicide, Jefferson, the other side of town. It was the “get ready” code to foil the smartasses who might be listening in on police radios.

“All right, Phil,” said the lieutenant in the backseat, patting the man in the front who had the shotgun. “You do the kick. I’ll be on your left, Marty to your right. José stays with the car. Got it?”

“Got it.”

The radio crackled again. “Ah, car forty-five, that one-eight-seven on Jefferson’s bein’ looked after.” It meant the alley behind the shooting gallery was now covered.

“Right! Remember,” said the lieutenant, “no one out to the back door or you’ll get your balls blown off. Drabinsky’s got a pump back there and he’s so fucking short he can’t aim any higher than your prick.”

“How the hell he get on the force?” whispered Phil, opening the front passenger door.

“Aerobics,” said the detective. “Stretches, Simmons tapes, ah-one and ah-two and all—”

As they slipped through the steam, the detective felt his stomach muscles tightening. Sometimes the kick didn’t work, then it was a shmoozle and you ended up having to either shoot the friggin’ lock off or use the ram log. By the time you got in, they’d all rushed for the back, and then it got really dangerous. Finding their way blocked, they turned and headed back, spaced out and wild, knowing they were trapped and that if they rushed you, most of them would probably get away. “At Duguid’s uptown,” said Phil quietly, “I’ll be they’ve got Jeeves answering the door.” He was nervous but he loved it. Tonight especially, ‘reasonable suspicion’ meant no announcement, no badge shit, no Miranda.

Entering the crumbling brownstone, they heard an odd scrabbling noise, and the gut-thumping beat of rock in the air. There was a candle halfway up the stairs — the power long disconnected.

Phil saw a soft light issuing from beneath the second floor door and heard the scrabbling noise again — a rat scurrying into the darkness over newspapers on the stairs. He could smell human excrement. They walked up slowly, the candle flickering, now only the slit of light beneath the door to see by, the stink becoming worse.

“Ready?” whispered Phil.

“Ready.”

When Phil hit the door, it was so rotten it caved in. He was on the floor looking up through a cloud of dust and crud, the air reeking of dirty bodies, maybe fifteen or more junkies, some astonished, cigarettes, bottles held motionless in their hands, stilled for a second before they broke for the rear door. There was movement on the left side of the hallway. Phil’s flashlight picked out a man, his pants down. The man’s right hand flashed to his pocket. Phil fired twice, the blast lifting the man off the floor, slamming him against a doorjamb. A woman, breasts flying, came running through the dust-filled gloom, screaming her head off, tried to touch the man but couldn’t — blood everywhere. Now they were all coming back from a rear door — a mad-eyed sprinter, dirty T-shirt and jeans, some red thing in his hair, a shooter in each hand. He got off two wild rounds before they took him out, too. The man behind dropped his gun and raised his hands but was knocked flat by a scrawny teenager, born to raise hell on his chest. Phil gave him the butt, full face, and he was down. Phil heard his left ear ringing like an express train as the lieutenant fired twice.

“Be cool! Be cool!” came a voice from the hysteria of candlelight and dust.

“Put her out!” yelled Phil. One of the crackheads — a Latin — was on fire, her blouse ablaze, but no one did anything. Phil stepped forward, knocked her down, covered her with his jacket and began stomping out flame, the dust rising like talc, the smell of singed hair joining the sickly sweet smell of “dude rube,” the local wino rotgut.

“Hey, man!” It was a white male, transvestite, early thirties, cadaverous, unshaven, wild-eyed. “Where’s your warrant?”

“Hey!” said another. “That’s right, brother. You ain’t got no right to bust in—”

“You know,” said Phil, standing up, resting his .38 on the white one’s nose, “I think this one’s a saboteur, Lieutenant.”

“Armed as well,” said Marty, extracting a switchblade from the man’s handbag.

“What the—”

“Shut your face, Greta!” Phil said. “Now all of you against the wall — move!” He and the lieutenant started kicking legs apart. The alley team came in looking disappointed. “You bastards have all the fun,” said Drabinsky. “All we got was tiddly-dick — some crackhead trying to hide in a friggin’ garbage can.”

“Well,” said Phil, clicking the cuffs on the last of the addicts, “I wouldn’t sweat it, Drab. Downtown says we can put in for all the overtime we need.” Drabinsky followed Phil out, helping to steer the last cracker down the spotlighted stairs past the other cops, the high, spitting crackle of walkie-talkies calling in the meat wagons through the hysteria of the crackers screaming, an arm shooter smiling, eyes glazed, not caring.

“Drabinsky,” said Phil, “for the first time in this country we’re gonna clean house.”

Drabinsky shifted the weight of the shotgun to the other hand. “Is it true? We can bring ‘em in, lock ‘em up for three months without—”

“No,” said Phil. “Six.”

“Six weeks or six months?”

“Months!” said Phil. “Six fucking months! Everybody’s gonna get well, Drab. Give us all the time we need. You think you’ve seen plea bargaining — it’ll be a buyer’s market for songbirds.” Taking off the flak jacket, he put on his police jacket and zipped it up. “How do you like them apples?”

“Christ,” said Drabinsky, the full implications washing over him. “What I wouldn’t give to be in Miami.”

“Greedy!” Phil said, smacking him on the shoulder. “That’s your trouble.”

“Damn right!”

When they got back to the precinct, they thought there was a party on. Bobby “Bad-Ass” Duguid, the tall black man in flamingo-pink suit, hat, and white mink coat, was in the cage with his lawyer and assorted entourage.

“His hair’s all wet,” said Phil. Duguid’s eyes were afire with rage, his lawyer, pale white, beside him.

“Yeah,” agreed the sergeant. “I’m very worried about that, Phil, because if Mr. Duguid gets a cold, we could be sued.”

“You motherfuckers aren’t gonna get away with this. You hear me, whitey?”

Another policeman, his Puerto Rican accent cutting through the hubbub, handed Phil a wax-paper package. “Guess what we found him doin’?”