just kept twisting the belt tighter and tighter without ever taking his eyes from Paul. “Better call yourself some help,” Paul said.
The guy started to reach for his collar and then hesitated, as if Paul’s suggestion might be some kind of trick, a ruse designed to get him to do something stupid as an excuse to injure him. His hand wavered in midair.
Paul nodded down at the guy’s leg. “That’s pretty ugly,” he said.
“You better call for some help.”
The guy’s eyes were locked on Paul’s as his hand crept to his call button.
“Agent involved shooting,” he said. “This is fourteen seventythree. Agent down, requiring emergency personnel.” He kept his gaze glued on Paul. “I’m . . .”
“You’re in the alley between Howser and Bradley. Three hundred block,” Paul quickly added.
The G-man frowned and cleared his throat, then repeated the location into his microphone. Somebody on the other end must have asked for a clarification because he sighed and started over with the “fourteen seventy-three . . . agent down” stuff and went through the whole thing again, talking slow and loud and speaking clearly, like there was an idiot on the other end of the line. By the time he finished talking and looked up again, Paul was gone.
10
The desk sergeant looked like he hadn’t moved in a month . . . like under the uniform, he might be covered with bark. The facial expression said he’d seen it all; the boatload of flab hanging over his belt said he’d managed to inhale a few meals while observing life’s rich pageant. He rocked himself off the stool, scowled, and then leaned his badge out over the counter. “Lemme see some ID,” he said to the little man in the gray suit.
The little guy used an exaggerated sweep of the arm to pull a black leather case from the inside pocket of his impeccably tailored suit jacket. Using only one hand, he flopped the case open and was about to similarly snap it closed when the big cop reached down and plucked it from his fingers.
He brought the ID up in front of his red face and held it there for a long minute before lowering it to the desk. The little man reached for his case, but the cop pulled it back out of reach. “And you want me to what?” he asked.
Gray suit told him again . . . slower this time, like he was talking to a child. The cop winced at the guy’s tone of voice. “I’m gonna have to bounce it by the watch commander,” he said. The little man opened his mouth to speak but the cop waved him off. The matter wasn’t open to discussion, his big hand said. He extracted a handheld radio from among the menagerie of cop equipment hanging from his Sam Browne belt. He brought the black box to his mouth and pushed the button with his thumb.
“You there?”
“Ramey,” squawked the static voice.
“I need you at the desk,” the big cop said.
Ramey didn’t bother to answer. The radio clicked silent. The cop returned it to his belt. “How many?” he asked. The little man gritted his perfect teeth and told him for the third time. “Two.”
“Where are they now?” the cop asked.
The little guy seemed relieved. At last they were covering new ground. “Outside in the car,” he answered, tilting his head toward the street.
A nearly inaudible electronic buzz was followed by the sharp snap of a lock. From a door built into the wall behind the booking desk, a uniformed officer stepped out into the lobby. A sergeant, Hispanic, maybe five ten, nearly as wide as he was tall. Every bit as kinetic as the desk officer was languid. A few more cop decorations and he risked being mistaken for a rear admiral.
“So?” he snapped.
The desk officer handed him the ID case. Ramey looked it over like there was going to be a test, then, seemingly satisfied, handed it back to the man in the gray suit, who made another show of feline grace as he stashed it inside his jacket.
The cop’s thick black eyebrows met in the center of his face like ardent
The guy started to reach for his collar and then hesitated, as if Paul’s suggestion might be some kind of trick, a ruse designed to get him to do something stupid as an excuse to injure him. His hand wavered in midair.
Paul nodded down at the guy’s leg. “That’s pretty ugly,” he said.
“You better call for some help.”
The guy’s eyes were locked on Paul’s as his hand crept to his call button.
“Agent involved shooting,” he said. “This is fourteen seventythree. Agent down, requiring emergency personnel.” He kept his gaze glued on Paul. “I’m . . .”
“You’re in the alley between Howser and Bradley. Three hundred block,” Paul quickly added.
The G-man frowned and cleared his throat, then repeated the location into his microphone. Somebody on the other end must have asked for a clarification because he sighed and started over with the “fourteen seventy-three . . . agent down” stuff and went through the whole thing again, talking slow and loud and speaking clearly, like there was an idiot on the other end of the line. By the time he finished talking and looked up again, Paul was gone.
10
The desk sergeant looked like he hadn’t moved in a month . . . like under the uniform, he might be covered with bark. The facial expression said he’d seen it all; the boatload of flab hanging over his belt said he’d managed to inhale a few meals while observing life’s rich pageant. He rocked himself off the stool, scowled, and then leaned his badge out over the counter. “Lemme see some ID,” he said to the little man in the gray suit.
The little guy used an exaggerated sweep of the arm to pull a black leather case from the inside pocket of his impeccably tailored suit jacket. Using only one hand, he flopped the case open and was about to similarly snap it closed when the big cop reached down and plucked it from his fingers.
He brought the ID up in front of his red face and held it there for a long minute before lowering it to the desk. The little man reached for his case, but the cop pulled it back out of reach. “And you want me to what?” he asked.
Gray suit told him again . . . slower this time, like he was talking to a child. The cop winced at the guy’s tone of voice. “I’m gonna have to bounce it by the watch commander,” he said. The little man opened his mouth to speak but the cop waved him off. The matter wasn’t open to discussion, his big hand said. He extracted a handheld radio from among the menagerie of cop equipment hanging from his Sam Browne belt. He brought the black box to his mouth and pushed the button with his thumb.
“You there?”
“Ramey,” squawked the static voice.
“I need you at the desk,” the big cop said.
Ramey didn’t bother to answer. The radio clicked silent. The cop returned it to his belt. “How many?” he asked. The little man gritted his perfect teeth and told him for the third time. “Two.”
“Where are they now?” the cop asked.
The little guy seemed relieved. At last they were covering new ground. “Outside in the car,” he answered, tilting his head toward the street.
A nearly inaudible electronic buzz was followed by the sharp snap of a lock. From a door built into the wall behind the booking desk, a uniformed officer stepped out into the lobby. A sergeant, Hispanic, maybe five ten, nearly as wide as he was tall. Every bit as kinetic as the desk officer was languid. A few more cop decorations and he risked being mistaken for a rear admiral.
“So?” he snapped.
The desk officer handed him the ID case. Ramey looked it over like there was going to be a test, then, seemingly satisfied, handed it back to the man in the gray suit, who made another show of feline grace as he stashed it inside his jacket.
The cop’s thick black eyebrows met in the center of his face like ardent
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