Snapshot

“Maybe,” Davis said, then settled down on a bench near the corner to wait.

It didn’t take long. Six of them came together: the kid they’d been speaking to, four older teens, and one man in his thirties. That would be the narco—the head drug dealer for this little area. Not the head of the gang, but leader to a couple dozen kids on the street here. Half boss, half parent.

Davis stood and held his hands to the sides in a nonthreatening way, and smothered his nervousness. The narco was a tall man, lighter skinned than Chaz or Davis, with buzzed hair. Davis could almost imagine him wearing a polo shirt and slacks on business-casual day at the office, rather than jeans and combat boots.

Davis and Chaz followed the group into an alleyway, and the narco pointed. Two of his men hopped up to Davis and Chaz, probably to search them.

“I’ve got a gun in my right pocket,” Davis said. “My friend has one in the under-arm holster beneath his jacket. We’ll want them back. Don’t touch our wallets, or there will be trouble.”

The gang members took the guns, to Chaz’s obvious annoyance, then searched them for other weapons. But they left the wallets alone. Davis suffered it, eyes closed, trying to calm himself. Finally, the two cops were allowed to approach farther down the alleyway, which smelled of trash and stagnant water. Chaz looked back toward the street longingly and patted at his holster, already missing his gun.

“We should talk in private,” Davis said to the narco.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Because you won’t want what we tell you to spread,” Davis said, meeting his eyes, trying to project a confidence he didn’t feel.

The narco weighed him. An autocab passed on the street behind them with a quiet hum. Finally the narco nodded, and led the two of them farther into the alley. The rest of the gang members stayed put, one sighting on Davis with his own gun, as if in warning.

“You scared Pepe really well,” the narco said. “He thinks you’re feds. It was a cute trick, palming a hit of stiff in front of him. Tell me why I shouldn’t just have you shot.”

“If we were feds,” Chaz noted, “you think that offing us would somehow be a good idea?”

Davis calmly reached to his pocket and took out his wallet, then opened it, revealing his reality badge.

The narco’s eyes caught on it. They widened, mesmerized, almost like he had taken a hit of some drug. He whispered a soft prayer, then reached out with reverent fingers, touching the badge.

“You . . .” The narco swallowed. “You said you weren’t cops.”

“I never said that,” Davis said, not putting the badge away. “I said we were willing to pay for some information. About the person renting a specific apartment building from you.”

“You’ve gotten yourself into something bad, friend,” Chaz said. He pulled out a cigarette and put it in his mouth, but didn’t light it. He’d been trying to stop. “This guy who has been paying you? He’s been murdering people. Prostitutes. Children. Anyone he can find who won’t make waves.”

The narco cursed softly.

Davis raised his phone, set to display his entire savings. A number larger than most cops would have been able to save. But he didn’t have many expenses—just child support, really. He slept in a saferoom provided by the precinct, on the outskirts of the city, so he was less likely to run into himself while in a Snapshot.

“Tell us about this guy renting the apartment building,” Davis said. “You knew there was something off about him, didn’t you? Wipe that conscience clean, and you can take every penny of this. My payment to you.”

“It’s fake, isn’t it?” the narco said, running his hand across his buzzed scalp. He swore something fierce. “It’s all fake.”

“Sure, sure,” Davis said. “Completely fake. But you’re the only one who knows it, friend.”

“Take the money,” Chaz suggested, leaning one shoulder against the wall. “Live it up for a day. They’ll turn this Snapshot off sometime in the evening. You’re going to vanish then. Might as well enjoy the time you have left.”

Davis dangled the phone. The narco looked at it, then sank down beside the wall of the alleyway.

And started crying.

Chaz rolled his eyes. Davis looked at the street thug and felt a wrenching inside of him. Something about the Snapshot really must have made dupes realize they weren’t real, once they saw the badge. The bean counters outside denied it, but they didn’t live in here. Didn’t see men like this, hardened criminals, crack and turn into children before the inevitable truth that their entire world was doomed.

Davis sank down and sat next to the man. He waved for Chaz to hand him the pack of cigarettes, then offered one to the narco.

“Mama always said those would kill me,” the man said, then laughed. Davis figured he’d been wrong about the narco’s age. He wasn’t in his thirties; he just looked older compared to the others.

The narco took a cigarette. Davis lit it up, then lit one for himself.

“I feel like the reaper sometimes,” Davis said. “You know. Showing up, informing people that they’re going to die in a few hours?”

The narco breathed in smoke, then exhaled it. He rested his head back against the wall, tears still streaming down his cheeks.

“What’s your name?” Davis asked.

“Does it matter?”

“I’m real, kid,” Davis said. “I’ll remember your name.”

“Horace,” the kid said. “Name’s Horace.”

“Horace. You don’t want the money, do you?”

Horace shook his head. “Won’t make me forget, ese.”

“Go home then. Hug your mom. But before you go, do some good. Tell me about this guy who has been renting that building from you.”

“What does it matter?”

“He’s killing kids,” Davis said. “Sure, your life is over. That’s tough. But hell, why not help us stop this monster before you go?”