Paul Levine - Illegal

"James Payne! You in there?"

Payne quickly did the calculations. Even with his bum leg, he might be able to outrun a couple older cops stuffed with Krispy Kremes. But his glance out the window revealed these two to be of the young linebacker type. Pumped on steroid cocktails with a human growth hormone chaser. In any event, he probably couldn't fit out the window.

"Are you a fast runner?" Payne whispered.

"Like the wind," the kid boasted.

"Crawl out the window. Make some noise and run like hell. They'll chase you."

"They'll shoot me."

"No. But if they catch you, they might smack you around."

"Payne! We've got a warrant. Open up or we break down the door!"

"Go, kid. Now!"

The boy seemed to think it over. Then a sly smile dimpled his face. "They're looking for you, chuco. Not me. Why should I risk it?"

"I'll give you a hundred bucks."

"Two hundred."

"Jeez, what happened to that crying kid who was here a minute ago?"

"That's it, Payne! We're coming in." A clang as the battering ram pounded the old wooden door.

"Two hundred," the kid repeated.

"Okay. Half now. Half when I get out of here and pick you up." Payne peeled off a hundred and gave it to the kid. "Take a left out of the parking lot. Cross the street, duck behind the houses, and come out on the next block. Hang a right and get to Van Nuys Boulevard as fast as you can. I'll pick you up at the corner of Van Nuys and Tiara."

Payne helped the boy hoist himself up to the windowsill. Then the kid tumbled out, shouting, "Hey cop.?Chinga tu madre! "

Foul-mouthed brat.

The boy took off, the cops yelling for him to stop. Payne edged close to the window. The kid could run. But only one cop followed him. The other resumed banging on the door.

Shit.

Payne headed down the corridor and ducked into the rest room, closing the door behind him. He had to pee, but that's not why he was here. When the cop passed the rest room, Payne could duck out of the office and run.

The rear door splintered and flew off its hinges. "Payne! Show yourself."

The office lights switched on. A thud on the bare carpet, the cop dropping the battering ram. Payne heard footsteps come closer. He pictured Officer Muscles with his gun drawn, walking cautiously along the corridor, just a few feet from the rest room.

"Mr. Payne. You okay?"

Good question, Payne thought. The cop had just seen a burglar flee the office. Maybe Mr. Payne was lying in a pool of blood. The cop wanted to rescue him; then he'd arrest him.

"You hurt?"

The voice more distant. Good. The cop must have passed the rest room and turned the corner. He'd be near the desk by now, looking around, moving slowly. Payne opened the door a crack, sneaked his hand toward the wall, and flicked off the light switch. The room went black.

"Hey! Who's there?" The cop yelling, fumbling for his flashlight.

Payne dashed into the corridor, toppling the water cooler behind him. The glass jar shattered, and a flood splashed his ankles as he raced out the back door. He heard the cop shout "Sh-it" as he slipped and fell.

Payne jumped into his Lexus and jammed the key into the ignition. He tore out of the parking lot, rounded a corner, and headed for Van Nuys Boulevard. In less than a minute he was at the corner of Tiara and Van Nuys. But where was the kid?

Probably ran off.

Looking for a pocket to pick.

Good story, though, searching for his mother. With proper schooling, the kid could make a helluva con man. Or even a lawyer.

Then Payne spotted him on the sidewalk. Walking half a step behind a family of four. Blending in, perfectly inconspicuous. Payne pulled to the curb. Before he came to a stop, the kid ran for the car and hopped into the passenger seat. Payne burned rubber pulling out, heading for the anonymity of the 101 freeway.

"My name's Tino, Mr. Payne," the boy said.

"Call me Jimmy."

Tino rapped knuckles with him. "Him-my," he said, "we make a good team."

"Yeah, great."

"Where's my other hundred?"

Payne reached into his pocket and gave the kid his money.

"Thanks, vato."

Before Payne could say he wasn't the kid's buddy, his cell phone rang. Sharon's number in the window.

"Rigney just called," she said. "Dammit, Jimmy, you're in big trouble."

"That's why I need you."

"For what?"

"That road trip I was talking about."

"No, Jimmy."

"Leaving tonight, and I need your help."

"No!"

"I'll be at your place in fifteen minutes."

"There are warrants out. Grand larceny. Contempt of court. Fleeing custody. If stupidity were a crime, there'd be another count."

"Fifteen minutes," he repeated. "Front door."

"I'll bust you."

"No, you won't," Payne said, feeling a sense of deja vu. They'd had a similar conversation before. What was it?

Oh, that.

When she'd told him she was divorcing him. He hadn't believed her then, either.

"Road trip."

Sharon hated the phrase. Jimmy had said it before, when he planned to go to Mexico and find Manuel Garcia. Not just find him. Kill him.

Hanging up the phone, she decided that the only way to help Jimmy was to protect him from himself. She would do what she had just promised. Arrest her ex-husband and take him downtown.

She knew the source of his problems. Jimmy had never come to grips with Adam's death. He either wallowed in his own pain or pretended their son was still alive. His mood swung from raging anger to mute alienation.

In her grief, Sharon had turned to Catholicism, while he embraced nihilism.

Not giving a hoot about anything or anyone, least of all himself.

Always reckless in the courtroom, after Adam's death he had become unhinged. He'd attacked an insurance company lawyer in a personal injury trial. Called the man a "lying, scumbag whore"-as if that were some startling revelation-and tossed him over the railing into the lap of juror number three. The judge ordered anger management counseling, which Payne said really pissed him off.

And now this. Stealing five thousand dollars in sting money. Then fleeing a holding cell in the courthouse and resisting arrest. What would he do, Sharon wondered, when she took him downtown?

She could hear him now.

"That's what I get for marrying an Irish cop."

He'd said it whenever she tried to keep him from crossing the hazy line between vigorous advocacy and downright illegality. Sharon's father, Daniel Lacy, was a Philadelphia cop. So were two of her uncles, three cousins, and both brothers. Born rebellious, Sharon was sixteen when she announced at Christmas dinner that she would never join the "family business," as the Lacys called police work.

She exhibited a wanderlust not commonplace in the Lacy brood. While her folks begged her to stay home and go to St. Joe's, she accepted a volleyball scholarship at U.C.L.A. She played the demanding libero position, which showcased her defensive skills. Diving. Digging. Scraping knees and elbows. She loved the no-frills nature of the job. Appealing, too, for a free spirit, the libero wore a different color jersey than the rest of the team.

She majored in English but transferred into Administration of Justice after one too many L.A. juries acquitted a celebrity who killed his wife. Degree in hand, she was accepted into the Police Academy, and a dozen people named Lacy traveled from Philadelphia for her graduation.

Sharon continued playing beach volleyball, which is where she met Jimmy Payne. He still claimed he was jogging in the gray sand of Will Rogers Beach when he picked up an errant ball and she started flirting with him. As she remembered it, Jimmy was passing out business cards to a crew of paramedics resuscitating a swimmer when he spotted her, then planted himself like a palm tree in the sand. Two hours later, he was still there, sunburned and shaggy-haired, waiting to meet her.