“You wouldn’t give up yours. You wouldn’t let anybody talk to Malcolm.”
“No. But it don’t matter…. This is a pissing contest here, and I’m gonna win.”
Esposito rubbed his face, and picked up the binoculars again. Nick wondered what he could see. Not much, but Esposito could read in the dark, the patterns in the traffic, who curtsied in the dance. More and more people came in, in bigger packs. Nick watched the dog roof when someone else came out, a middle-aged man, a young dog—another mutt, too shaggy for a pit bull. The faint light above the stairwell enclosure cast the figures in silhouette. The dog started to bark at the building next door, leaping up to the wall on the west side, over the alley gap.
There was a man there … a dark figure, in dark clothes. The binoculars got you closer, but there was no light. No eye could reach. The dog began to yelp, to leap into the air. That was what it knew, territory, who belonged, who didn’t. The dog made a show. The dark figure on the roof fired a gun at the dog. Three shots, four, five. The dog’s owner ran to the door and closed it behind him, quitting outright. The dog ran to the door, then ran back to the wall, yelping and leaping; his post would not be abandoned, even after his master had abandoned him. Another shot, but the dog wasn’t hit. Kiko? No, not Kiko, Michael Cole.
There were a few people on the sidewalk, and then a few more, looking up, stupidly. The man on the roof lifted his hands up, both of them, and threw them down. A car window smashed on the street. Michael Cole, yes. Nick couldn’t see him, his face or much of anything else, but there was no question, no doubt. Six shots, a revolver, and Michael had emptied his gun even before he’d begun what he’d come for. Another brick, another stone, down to the street, buckling the hood of a car. The people below began to scatter, even as more ran out from the funeral home. And then there were three shots from Nick and Esposito’s right, from the roof next to them, shooting across the street.
They hadn’t seen anyone there, either, but it had to be Kiko. It had to be. Michael Cole threw another missile down; another window smashed. The funeral home emptied out. “What? What? What?” Two more shots, and Michael Cole looked around—“What? What?” Somebody’s shooting at you, stupid. That’s what. Kiko shot again, near the detectives. No. Nick saw the muzzle flash, pointed away; this was from below, armed mourners. A window beneath them popped, shattered. Nick crouched in, close to the parapet. Esposito put a hand on his shoulder. Quiet. Let it play…. No need to say so. Nick knew they were invisible still. The magical thinking of a child still in bed, closing his eyes, making the bad ones go away. No, it was true. They were on the sidelines, not yet part of the game.
The alley between the buildings was six feet, maybe eight. The same layout, identical buildings facing each other. The dog made his own calculations, running back, rushing across to leap. A gap between the walls, for the fire escapes, the alley between. Good dog, good jump. Falling stones, breaking glass, so many guns that Kiko had to duck down before he shot back. The dog scrambled up, then leapt across the alley, clearing the next roof. Michael ran inside the door, yanking it shut behind him. He would face a mob, enraged and battle-ready, but not a dog? Michael had escaped, for now, from the dog. The crowd? Well, Nick hoped he had his helmet on.
Kiko yelled down to the gathering mob on the street, a swirling pattern of men looking up, dodging, taking cover and letting off rounds.
“El otro lado! Al cruzar la calle! The other side of the street!”
Kiko dropped down again to avoid friendly fire, then ran back across the roof. He yanked at the door, but it wouldn’t open. Maybe he wasn’t strong, maybe it was badly rusted, maybe an upstairs neighbor had locked it behind him, just to be safe. He yelled curses, but the door didn’t open. Nick and Esposito crouched, still quiet, watching Kiko look around for a way out. Shouts and shots were coming up from the street. Kiko picked up his phone and screamed, then shut it. Not a good place for reception, not a good time. He walked to the far side of the roof, then walked back; the near side was better. Six feet, maybe eight. They do it in movies, all the time. Across the street, the dog barked on the other rooftop, circling the door, on the hunt. Not the hunt; his territory had already been won. Kiko still hadn’t seen the detectives; he reckoned the distance, the way out, the way across. Six feet, maybe eight. He stepped back to make a run for it. One jump. He would cross over, he would run downstairs, he would be back in the thick of it, be the hero of the funeral games. From fifty feet, in the dark, Nick could see the picture in his head. But after Kiko started to run, Esposito stood up and turned on his flashlight.
“You coming to me, Kiko?”
These five words were spoken with bold slowness, and there was a solemn and martial music to them, familiar and arresting, like taps or reveille. Esposito put the flashlight down, then rolled it across the rooftop, so it wouldn’t give Kiko a target. But Kiko had already jumped, and the five words stopped him in the air. Reveille, then taps. He did not cross over. Could Nick hear it, the fall? Yes, he could. A soft call going down—“Ohh!”—no screaming, no protest, two bumps along the fire escape, garbage cans spilled when he hit. Nick walked past Esposito and looked down, as if he might have been able to see the bottom, as if he needed to know how it had ended.
“We oughta work on getting outta here,” Nick said.
Esposito nodded, and took out his radio. “There’s no way to put a good face on this…. Central? Ten-thirteen, ten-thirteen, ten-thirteen. Multiple shots fired, man down, large crowd, lots of ’em shooting. Be advised, you got two detectives on the roof. Advise responding units…. Yes, Central, I will stand by. The address is …”
Bedlam. That was the word for it, the only one. They tried to barricade the door with the bucket and crate. Footsteps coming up the stairs, yelling. Nick didn’t think the yellers were cops. Esposito grabbed Nick’s arm and led them over to the fire escape before the door broke. They started creeping downstairs, slowly, from the sixth floor to the fifth. The fire escape shivered with each step, lurched when their weight gathered at weak points. Angry men on the roof now, shouting, shooting guns anywhere, nowhere, into the night. Down from the fifth floor to the fourth. Better, but Nick knew that when they got to the ground, there would be a bigger crowd, madder still, when Kiko’s body was found. More guns, but Nick heard the sirens, too, the cavalry, the skull-crackers, hats and bats. Bring ’em on. They kept going down, but on the third floor, a woman opened her window and screamed. And then her man started yelling inside, and he started shooting, too. The detectives scrambled down the creaky metal stairs, the fire escape groaning against the building with the weight, rounds dinking off the metal bars as they moved down, flight by flight. There were missing slats and loose rails. The whole structure gave and groaned like a pained spine, the rusty bolts easing from the softening brick. Kiko had been found in the alley below by one man, two, who called out for witness, aid, revenge. One of them ran when the shots came from the third floor, but others came into the alley; more shots, more than you could place where they came from. A few of them in the alley, one of them shooting in the air. Nick and Esposito hugged the wall, and felt the platform sag.
There were flowerpots on the lowest ledge of the fire escape, a little garden, carefully tended and growing golden, green. Esposito started to hurl them down, the first with a warning—“Police! Get out! Get away, or I will kill you!” When shots came up past them, he grabbed handfuls of the pots, smashing them down below. Someone fell, groaning: bedlam. Nick shot two rounds into the back of the alley. Did that clear them? No, it did not. Nick took the radio and gave their position, keeping the line open when he let another round go, so Central could hear. The dispatcher began to scream, “Are you okay? Ten-thirteen! Ten-thirteen! Ten-thirteen!” The fire escape slipped and whined; it would not wait. Nick helped Esposito heave the last of the flowerpots over the side, aiming for heads. Another one down, with a brief, huffing sound, like a couch shoved on a carpet. Eight feet to the ground, maybe ten. They jumped.
Even as Nick landed on the garbage can, and even as he felt the ankle twist, the pain shooting up the leg—even then, he knew the landing could have been worse. The leg buckled under Nick, and when he fell over, the gun slid out of his holster, in the dark. Kiko lay beside him, arms bent back, head twisted, his face a few inches away. He still looked surprised. Esposito was oddly catlike in his drop, falling into a crouch, then alighting on agile feet. Nick felt for his gun and found it, wedged by Kiko’s dead leg. Not a bad landing, not as bad as it might have been. Esposito stepped over. “You okay?”
“The ankle.”
“Can you walk?” “Gimme a hand.”
Esposito turned to the front of the alley. It looked clear. He looked up. The fire escape made no more noises, no more threats to collapse. It would be good for another day, another week, until somebody else stepped onto it. It was time to go. There were sirens, the screech of cars in the street; their people were here. Esposito took hold of an elbow and armpit and lifted Nick up, as if he were light. “Easy, easy,” Nick said. “Okay, I’m up now.”
The right leg was solid; the left, not much.
“Can you walk?”
“Almost …”
“C’mere,” he said, putting Nick’s arm around his shoulder, grabbing hold of Nick’s belt from the back. “Anybody comes in, you gotta shoot. I got my right hand holding your ass up…. Does Daysi sell pots?”
“What?”
“Flowerpots. If she does, I gotta get some nice ones for the first floor fire escape. They saved us. Looks like I brained a couple of guys. You can shoot?”
“I can shoot. But let me go if you gotta fight. I can hop.”
“Okay, Hopalong. Let’s get outta here.”
What movie was that? Nick would remember later. It took a few steps to coordinate their tripod paces, but then they moved easily, toward the bright vertical bar of the exit, where the crowd surged, the nightsticks swung, and the threats and wails filled the air. It looked so much better than where they were, the fire escape ready to collapse, the dead man, the other two down, the shots going off; the alley made the street look nearly wholesome. Nick had his gun out, pointed down, as they marched, three-legged, to some better place. This fight was over for them, even if no one else knew. Bedlam still, for the rest of them.
A child ran up to them, bawling, then stopped. The ugly baby of the other day, Kiko’s kid. Little Jose! Now in a blue velvet suit, with a bow tie. Jose stared at them for a moment, maybe remembering. With a tin cup and a fez, the kid could have worked with an organ-grinder, Nick thought, ashamed of himself that it even occurred to him. Fatherless, now that the job was done, not that the child knew. His mother screamed, too, but she did not notice the detectives as she caught up with Jose, snatching him in her arms to bear him away. She wouldn’t have known about Kiko yet, either.
Bedlam. They had room to move on the sidewalk. They cut east, where the fighting was thinner, less out of fear than a desire not to take fighting cops from the people who needed fighting. They stayed close to the wall, to keep from getting hit from the roof. Nick felt the edge of the blow—a bat, a board—when Esposito’s head bounced against his own. Nick was close to the wall and spun off it, still standing, as Esposito collapsed. The board came down again, on Esposito, on his leg, as he hit the ground. Bad noise, a pop, a thud, by the knee, maybe from the fall. Tino in the white suit, as round and white as the moon, taking another swing. Nick shot him, shot him again, leaning against the wall, then pushing off. Hard to stand. Not much kick to the gun. He held it firm. Nick stood on his one foot as Tino staggered, and it looked like Tino would have held himself in his arms, one arm, the other, but Nick had shot them both. Nick hadn’t aimed at Tino’s arms when he’d been pivoting on the foot, twisting like a scarecrow. The cops came. Finally, even though they’d been here the whole time.
Tino screamed as he was cuffed, despite his two shot arms. Good. Let him cry, let him bleed. Nick went down to Esposito on the sidewalk, pestering him to say something, gripping his shoulder. The top of Esposito’s head was sticky, his breath shallow. Nick was ready to open Esposito’s eyes, if they didn’t open themselves. More cops came. An ambulance, another. A stretcher was laid out on the street beside Esposito, and he was lifted onto it. Cops lifted Nick up as well. He said he was all right. Esposito went into the ambulance, carried by cops. Nick was borne in later, to the berth across from him. There was a bed on either side, a space in the middle. A woman took his shoulders, gently, and told him to lie down.
“No.”
“Yes. It’s the rules.”
“All right.”
She fastened the belt loosely around his waist. Hey, Nick knew her.
“Hey … Odalys?”
“Hey, Nick. Where are you hurt?”
“Not bad. Espo …”
“We got him. He’s good.”
“Lemme see.”
Odalys stepped to the front of the ambulance and sat down, so she wouldn’t block the view to the other bed. Nick could see Esposito, almost, but another EMT was leaning over Nick’s partner, someone else. Shit. If it was her, it was the other one, too. The other EMT, her partner, leaned over Esposito, tapping his chest, trying to rouse him.
“C’mon, Detective, wake up! Come on, guy! Wake up! Work with me! Whaddaya got in ya? Are you with me? Are you a fighter? You gonna fight? Are you a fighter?”
What movie was that now? Nick didn’t like it. Esposito shifted and muttered. He raised a hand, let it fall down again. Muttered again. Nick called over to him, “Hey.” Esposito looked at Nick with one eye, his annoyance plain despite the concussion. He didn’t need a pep talk. The EMT tapped his cheek.
“C’mon! Are you a fighter?”
Esposito punched him in the face, which was an answer to the question, after all.
The room was not as Nick had expected. Not his, not Daysi’s, not the hospital. Where, then? Too much of this, changing beds daily like a fugitive. The shades were drawn, but he could make out a dresser, a mirror, blue and white striped sheets on a queen-size bed, shared with the teddy bear beside him; not right. What did he have, a sprained ankle? Esposito had a concussion, a broken leg. Nothing that he wouldn’t come back from. He hadn’t even been admitted to the hospital. Hitting the EMT must have had great therapeutic value. Esposito became the most cheerful patient after, pretending he didn’t remember. When Odalys checked him into the emergency room, he acted the amnesiac, asking why she wasn’t working with the other one. She didn’t push the issue. When her partner came over, keeping his distance, Esposito put on such a show of innocent apology that they shook hands when he left. Nick didn’t believe it.
“You really don’t remember? Espo, you are full of shit.”
“Are you kidding? My children being born, punching that rat—if those memories cross my mind when I go, they’ll bury me with a smile on my face.”
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Yeah. How are you doin’, Hopalong?”
“Still hopping.”
Hours in the hospital, a hubbub of well-wishers, cops and bosses, others who didn’t wish, well or otherwise, as far as Nick could guess. Lieutenant Ortiz told Nick that if he wasn’t up to it, he didn’t have to make a statement. Nick said it wasn’t a problem. When Esposito was taken in for X-rays, Nick was interviewed by Internal Affairs, someone from the district attorney. The questioning was gentle, the answers brief. Much easier than he’d thought it would be. Why? Nick learned later where the cameras had been placed—everywhere. The tops of buildings, streetlights, the door of the funeral home. The firefight between rooftops had been captured, showing that cops had not been involved. Kiko had not been pushed, despite the rumors that would later travel. Tino had made statements, angry ones, saying that he’d barely hit anyone, he didn’t deserve this, but yeah, he’d had a baseball bat. He had been brought to another hospital, so visitors would not mix. The bat was recovered at the scene. A few bones had been broken in the chaos, but the stories were remarkabl
y coherent.
Who came to visit? So many people, all the guys in the squad. When Nick left for X-rays, he was glad for some time alone. Esposito was adamant that no one call his wife, utterly clear and coherent about it despite all his painkillers. He didn’t want to call her himself, with the hurt, groggy voice, but he didn’t want a stranger on the phone—Mrs. Esposito? This is Detective X. I have some bad news.—to make her collapse on the other end of the line. And no one was allowed to go to his house. No state troopers at the door, waiting to tell a ghost story. Esposito had been late before, so often that he wasn’t expected at any time, but the expectation had always been to hear his voice, see his face, whenever the day ended. Nick got that, he understood; he was saddened that he had never felt the need to develop any such protocol in the event of his own misadventure. His father might wonder about him if he didn’t see him for a week; with Allison, longer. He wasn’t expected anywhere. That bothered him. Should he have called his father, to tell him he was hurt? For whose benefit? To what end? He didn’t know, and it bothered him. It bothered him more that he didn’t know where he was. The teddy bear had a bow tie. He pushed it away. What else had there been last night?
“Kim Martone! How ya doin’, babe?”
It had been good of her to show, and it had been good to look at her. Nick had met her, once or twice. Kim had short brown hair and wore jeans and a leather jacket; every sloppy cop dressed liked her, but she looked coiffed, put together, as if she were going on a date or coming from church. He wondered if she’d been working, or if she’d come in when she’d heard the news. She looked at Nick, briefly, before sitting on the side of Esposito’s bed. She leaned over to Esposito and fixed his hair, shaking her head, with a fond look. She didn’t look at Nick, even though she spoke to him.
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