pivoted, and looked up at us.
His right hand went to his hip, just over his gun, and he peered up at John Byrne’s bloody face.
Up the block at the corner of Arlington, several patrol cars had pulled up in front of the corporate offices of Grief Release, their blue and white lights streaking through the trees in the Garden, bouncing off the red brick buildings just past the Cheers bar.
The cop glanced up the block quickly, then back atus. He was a beefy kid, rusty haired and pug-nosed, with the studied glare of a cop or a punk from one of the neighborhoods. The kind of kid some people would take for slow just because he moved that way, and never figure out how wrong they’d been until this kid proved it to them. Painfully.
“Ahm, you two gentlemen have a problem?”
With John’s body blocking my own from the cop’s view, I slipped my gun into my waistband, closed the suit jacket over it. “No problem, Officer. Just trying to bring my friend to the hospital.”
“Yeah, about that,” the kid said and took another step toward the stairs. “What happened to your face, sir?”
“I fell down the stairs,” John said.
Interesting move, John. All you had to do to get rid of me was tell the truth. But you didn’t.
“And broke the fall with your face, sir?”
John chuckled as I buttoned my topcoat over my suit jacket. “Unfortunately,” he said.
“Could you step out from behind your friend, sir?”
“Me?” I said.
The kid nodded.
I stepped to John’s right.
“And would you both mind coming down to the sidewalk?”
“Uh, sure,” we both said in unison.
The kid’s name was Officer Largeant, I saw as we got close enough to read his name tag. Someday he’d make sergeant. Sergeant Largeant. I had the feeling that somehow nobody would give him a hard time about it. I bet nobody would give this kid a hard time about much of anything.
He pulled his flashlight from his hip, shined it on the door of Grief Release, read the gold plate.
“You gentlemen work here?”
“I do,” John said.
“And you, sir?” Largeant pivoted in my direction and the flashlight shone in my eyes just long enough to hurt.
“I’m an old friend of John’s,” I said.
“You’d be John?” The flashlight found John’s eyes.
“Yes, Officer.”
“John…?”
“Byrne.”
Largeant nodded.
“I’m kind of in some pain here, Officer. We were going to walk up to Mass General to get my face looked at.” Largeant nodded again, looked down at his shoes. I took the moment to pull John Byrne’s wallet from my coat pocket.
“Could I see some ID, gentlemen?” Largeant said.
“ID?” John said.
“Officer,” I said and put my arm on John’s back as if to steady him. “My friend might have a concussion.”
“I’d like to see some ID,” Largeant said and he smiled to underscore the edge in his voice. “If you’d step away from your friend. Now, sir.”
I shoved the wallet into the waistband of John’s pants and removed my hand, began searching my pockets. Beside me, John chuckled very softly.
He held the wallet out to Largeant and smiled for my benefit. “Here you are, Officer.”
Largeant opened it as a crowd began to gather. They’d been on the perimeter the whole time, but now it was really getting interesting and they closed in from either side of us. A few were the Messengers we’d seen earlier, all wide-eyed and gee-gosh-golly about this example of late-twentieth-century decadence happening right in front of them. Two men getting rousted on BeaconStreet, another sure sign of the apocalypse.
Others were office workers or folks who’d been out walking their dogs or having coffee at the Starbucks fifty yards away. Some had come from the perpetual line out in front of Cheers, presumably deciding that they could take out a second mortgage to buy a beer anytime, but this was special.
And then there were a few I didn’t like seeing at all. Men, well dressed, coats closed over their waists, eyes like
His right hand went to his hip, just over his gun, and he peered up at John Byrne’s bloody face.
Up the block at the corner of Arlington, several patrol cars had pulled up in front of the corporate offices of Grief Release, their blue and white lights streaking through the trees in the Garden, bouncing off the red brick buildings just past the Cheers bar.
The cop glanced up the block quickly, then back atus. He was a beefy kid, rusty haired and pug-nosed, with the studied glare of a cop or a punk from one of the neighborhoods. The kind of kid some people would take for slow just because he moved that way, and never figure out how wrong they’d been until this kid proved it to them. Painfully.
“Ahm, you two gentlemen have a problem?”
With John’s body blocking my own from the cop’s view, I slipped my gun into my waistband, closed the suit jacket over it. “No problem, Officer. Just trying to bring my friend to the hospital.”
“Yeah, about that,” the kid said and took another step toward the stairs. “What happened to your face, sir?”
“I fell down the stairs,” John said.
Interesting move, John. All you had to do to get rid of me was tell the truth. But you didn’t.
“And broke the fall with your face, sir?”
John chuckled as I buttoned my topcoat over my suit jacket. “Unfortunately,” he said.
“Could you step out from behind your friend, sir?”
“Me?” I said.
The kid nodded.
I stepped to John’s right.
“And would you both mind coming down to the sidewalk?”
“Uh, sure,” we both said in unison.
The kid’s name was Officer Largeant, I saw as we got close enough to read his name tag. Someday he’d make sergeant. Sergeant Largeant. I had the feeling that somehow nobody would give him a hard time about it. I bet nobody would give this kid a hard time about much of anything.
He pulled his flashlight from his hip, shined it on the door of Grief Release, read the gold plate.
“You gentlemen work here?”
“I do,” John said.
“And you, sir?” Largeant pivoted in my direction and the flashlight shone in my eyes just long enough to hurt.
“I’m an old friend of John’s,” I said.
“You’d be John?” The flashlight found John’s eyes.
“Yes, Officer.”
“John…?”
“Byrne.”
Largeant nodded.
“I’m kind of in some pain here, Officer. We were going to walk up to Mass General to get my face looked at.” Largeant nodded again, looked down at his shoes. I took the moment to pull John Byrne’s wallet from my coat pocket.
“Could I see some ID, gentlemen?” Largeant said.
“ID?” John said.
“Officer,” I said and put my arm on John’s back as if to steady him. “My friend might have a concussion.”
“I’d like to see some ID,” Largeant said and he smiled to underscore the edge in his voice. “If you’d step away from your friend. Now, sir.”
I shoved the wallet into the waistband of John’s pants and removed my hand, began searching my pockets. Beside me, John chuckled very softly.
He held the wallet out to Largeant and smiled for my benefit. “Here you are, Officer.”
Largeant opened it as a crowd began to gather. They’d been on the perimeter the whole time, but now it was really getting interesting and they closed in from either side of us. A few were the Messengers we’d seen earlier, all wide-eyed and gee-gosh-golly about this example of late-twentieth-century decadence happening right in front of them. Two men getting rousted on BeaconStreet, another sure sign of the apocalypse.
Others were office workers or folks who’d been out walking their dogs or having coffee at the Starbucks fifty yards away. Some had come from the perpetual line out in front of Cheers, presumably deciding that they could take out a second mortgage to buy a beer anytime, but this was special.
And then there were a few I didn’t like seeing at all. Men, well dressed, coats closed over their waists, eyes like
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