Get you an arrest, let you look good on the paperwork.
They’re going into Building Six in north St. Nick’s to do a vertical.
The gang already knows the cops are there, and in four other buildings. The ten-year-old wannabes sounded the alarms with shouts and whistles. People flee the lobby like Malone’s crew has anthrax. The couple who stay just give them sullen eye-fucks, and Malone hears one of them mutter, “Michael Bennett.” He ignores it.
Levin walks toward the stairwell door.
“Where you going?” Russo asks him.
“I thought we’re going to check the stairs.”
“You’re going to walk up the stairs.”
“Yeah . . .”
“Fucking moron,” Russo says. “We take the elevator to the roof and then walk down the stairs. Save the legs and then we’re coming in above any problems instead of below them.”
“Oh.”
“NYU, huh?”
An old lady sitting on a metal folding chair just shakes her head at Levin.
They ride up to the fourteenth floor and get out.
The walls are graffiti, gang tags.
The crew walks down to the metal door that leads to the stairs, opens it, and it’s chaos as four Spades scatter like a covey of quail because one of them has a gun. They take off down the stairs.
More out of instinct than anything, Malone starts to chase them, but then Levin vaults the railing and drops ahead of him.
“Newbie, hold up!” Malone yells.
But Levin is gone, pounding down to thirteen, and then Malone hears the shot. Hears it, hell, it echoes through the stairway, bruising his eardrums, rendering him deaf, and as his ears ring he flies down the stairs expecting to see Levin bleeding out, except what he sees is Levin chasing the guy down the stairs, then leaping like a linebacker and tackling the shooter from behind. Slams him onto a landing just as Malone gets there.
The banger tries to throw the gun down the stairs but Russo has caught up and he grabs it.
Levin is hyped. “Secure that gun! The asshole shot at me!”
He’s jacked on fear and adrenaline but wrestles the shooter into cuffs. Monty puts the shooter on the floor and kneels on his neck. Levin sits on the landing with his back up against the wall, breathing hard as the adrenaline drops.
“You okay?” Malone asks.
Levin just nods, too freaked out to talk.
Malone gets it, knows from experience that “I just almost got killed” feeling. “Catch your breath, then you take him to the Three-Two. I want you to get the collar.”
When Malone gets to the precinct, Levin is waiting for him. “Odelle Jackson. He had a warrant on a ten-to-fifteen crack bust. Why he took a chance winging a shot at a cop.”
“Where is he now?”
“Squad room.”
Malone goes up to the detective squad and sees Jackson in the cage.
Levin is sitting in the locker room.
“What the fuck, Levin?” Malone asks. “Jackson looks like he just got out of church.”
“What should he look like?” Levin asks.
“Like he caught a serious beating.”
“I don’t do that,” Levin says.
“He tried to kill you,” Monty says.
Levin says, “And he’ll go away for it.”
“Look,” Malone says, “I know you’re concerned with ‘social justice’ and you want ‘the minority community’ to love you, but if Jackson goes to Central Booking looking like he ain’t been tuned up, every mook in New York will think it’s okay to shoot at an NYPD officer.”
“If you don’t break out the gym set on this individual,” Monty says, “you’ll put us all in danger.”
Levin looks stricken.
“We’re not saying stick a plunger up his ass,” Russo says. “But you don’t fuck him up, no one in this house is going to respect you.”
“Go do the right thing,” Malone says, “or clean out your locker.”
Twenty minutes later they come downstairs to put Jackson on the bus to Central Booking. His head looks like a pumpkin, his eyes are slits, he’s limping and holding his ribs.
Levin did a job on him.
“You fell down the stairs when my guys busted you, right?” Malone asks Jackson. “You need medical attention?”
“I’m okay.”
Yeah, you’re okay now, Malone thinks. The jailers in Central Booking don’t like cops, so they’re going to leave you alone. Different story when you get to the joint, where the COs always feel their lives are threatened and take assaults on cops very seriously. You’ll be a hero in the population, but the guards are going to give you a ride down another set of stairs.
Levin, he looks sick.
Malone gets it—he felt the same way when an old-timer made him tune up his first perp.
If memory serves.
It was a long time ago.
Monty comes into the room and hands Malone a sheet of paper. “Mr. Jackson here is having a very bad day.”
Malone looks at the sheet. The bullet Jackson winged at Levin matches the bullet that ended up in Mookie Gillette’s chest.
Same gun.
“Hey, Sarge?” Malone says. “Unhook this guy, huh. We’ll be in Interview One. And call Minelli up in Homicide. He’s going to want in on this.”
Jackson’s hooked to a bolt on the table.
Malone and Minelli sit across from him.
Malone says, “You may be having the worst day in the history of days. You shoot at a cop and miss, and now you’re down for a double homicide.”
“Double? I didn’t shoot Mrs. Williams.”
“Well now, here’s an interesting theory,” Minelli says. “According to the law, your shooting of Mookie led directly to his shooting of Mrs. Williams. So you’re down for both.”
“I didn’t shoot Mookie,” Jackson says. “I was there, but I didn’t shoot him. I was just the walkaway.”
The shooter passes the weapon to a junior member, who walks away.
“You still have the murder weapon,” Minelli says. “And you used it again.”
“They gave it to me,” Jackson says, “told me to get rid of it.”
“And you didn’t,” Malone says. “Dumb shit.”
“Who gave you the gun?” Minelli asks. “Who was the shooter?”
Jackson looks down at the table.
“Look, you know how this works,” Minelli says. “You can go for the murders or someone else can. I don’t give a shit which. It clears my sheet either way.”
“I get it,” Malone says. “Killing Mookie gives you street cred. But do you really want to go down for Mrs. Williams?”
“I’m still going for the cop.”
“New York law,” Malone says. “Forty to life for shooting at a police officer. With two previous convictions, bet on life.”
“So I’m fucked anyway.”
“You give us the shooter,” Malone says, “maybe we can help you on the cop shooting. We can’t get you a walk, but we can have the ADA tell the judge you cooperated on a double homicide. Forty, you do fifteen, you still have a life. The other way, you die in there.”
“I give them up,” Jackson says, “they kill me inside anyway.”
Malone sees it in his eyes—the kid knows his life is over.
Once the machine has you, it doesn’t let you go until it’s chewed you up.
“You have a grandma?” Malone asks.
“’Course I got a grandma,” Jackson says. It’s at least ten seconds before he says, “Jamichael Leonard.”
“Where do we find him?” Minelli asks.