The cover officer holsters his weapon and climbs the fence, and just as he’s getting over and dropping to the other side, I see a black male in nothing but his boxer shorts start to scale the fence to get out. The cover officer leaps for him and grabs a leg. The guy in the boxers kicks at him with his bare foot.
Two shots ring out from the backyard, and the officer lets go of the guy’s leg, draws his weapon, and turns. I’m thinking it’s about the time I should jump out and assist, but I see the flash from the cover officer’s muzzle as he fires two times, and then the boxer-shorts boy getting over the fence and running in my direction. No one is paying attention because of the shooting, and maybe they’re still fighting, ’cause I don’t see the cover officer anymore.
The running boy in the boxers is Playboy. He’s approaching fast, about to run past me toward the cut that leads to Euclid.
I step out of the car just before he’s about to pass. He doesn’t get a chance to outmaneuver me. I send him one solid punch, square on the left side of his jaw, and he can do nothin’ but drop to the ground.
I look around, thinking some of the officers will be running my way, but they’re too busy both inside and outside the house. I grab Playboy by the hand, drag him to the rear of my vehicle, and roll him onto his stomach. I look back up and toward the house, but there are still no cops approaching me. I’m sure it’s a clusterfuck back in there.
I look at Playboy. He’s starting to groan. I look around, trying to see if anyone is looking out windows. No one that I can see, but then again it really wouldn’t matter, because they’ll just think I’m a cop.
I open the rear door of my car and grab zip ties out of my pack. I use them on Playboy’s hands and feet, so he’s hogtied like we used to do to fighting prisoners. I grab him from under his armpits and hoist him up. He’s limp as shit, but starting to come to. I half drag him to the back of the car and drop him face-first on the backseat. I have to bend up his legs to shut the door.
I hop in the driver’s side, grab my pack from the backseat near Playboy’s feet, and place it on the front seat.
I sit and wait for Playboy to wake up and Luna to call. Last thing I’m gonna do is walk him over there now.
Seventy-five
The unmarked cruisers are blocking the entrance to the alley from University Place, so the ambulance has to park in the middle of the street. The EMTs squeeze by the parked cars, carrying a portable stretcher. They run to the rear of the house. A couple of firemen run to the scene shortly thereafter. One of them is carrying a Halligan bar and the other one has bolt cutters.
I look back at Playboy. I had to duct-tape his mouth so he’d shut up. He’s conscious and obviously scared. He’s positioned so he’s sideways and his back is against the backseat. He’s got a nice knot where I punched him, and the soles of his feet were cut up from the run, but it shouldn’t be much of a cleanup.
“Shouldn’t be that much longer, Playboy.”
He mumbles something unintelligible.
“And shut the fuck up.”
It looks like they had to snip a lock that secured the gate to the backyard.
They carry out a body secured to the stretcher with straps. I can’t make out if it’s a cop. They run him back to the ambulance, and seconds later they pull out with lights and sirens.
It’s been almost two hours, and I’m wondering when Luna will call. I’m actually thinking I should call him and tell him I got his runaway in the backseat of my car. More than that, I need to know if he has Miriam.
I call him.
He answers on the fourth ring with “It’s really fucked up in here, Frank. Gotta call you back.”
“Just tell me if you have the girl.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
“I’m sorry, partner. She’s not here.”
“Fuck!”
“I’ll call you back. I promise. Just stand by.”
I disconnect.
“Fuck,” I say again. “Why’d I get involved with this fuckin’ shit? Fuckin’…”
I wanna hit something—the dashboard, or bust out my window with my fist.
“Fuck.”
I look back at Playboy.
“It looks like you might be Miriam’s last hope, and for your sake, she’d better be alive.”
He’s blinking tears out of his eyes and mumbling something I could care less about.
Seventy-six
I know the spot, and it’s not far from here.
It’s still early, with only a little traffic.
That’s what I love about DC. You can find a pocket spot like this when you need one. It’s an alley with a dead end that stretches one block. It’s nice and secluded. There’s an old working car garage along the north side and a large abandoned warehouse on the south. The warehouse is boarded up, so I don’t have to worry about waking up whoever might be calling it home. And it’s too early for the crackhead prostitutes, junkies, and all the other filth to be hanging there doing their shit.
I drive to the far end of the street and park alongside the warehouse.