Time's Up

by Janey Mack

Narkinney’s nostrils flared. “I’m the one with the shield, bitch.”

  “Yeah,” I said, ready to throw down. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t kick your ass.”

  The wolf pack began chanting, “Kick his ass, kick his ass.”

  Narkinney’s cheeks turned a splotchy red, hands balling to fists. “I don’t hit bitches.”

  I mouthed the word “pussy.”

  Nark spat in my face.

  In one fluid motion Lee shoved me toward the booth and smashed his fist into Narkinney’s face. I fell back onto the vinyl banquette as Tommy’s nose collapsed in a sickening squelch.

  He hit the floor like a 190-pound sandbag.

  The bar exploded.

  Wiping Narkinney’s spit from my cheek, I slid off the banquette. He wasn’t moving.

  Seriously? Even with a broken nose, no guy ever goes down in a bar fight with one punch. Ever.

  I squatted down beside Narkinney and rolled him over. His nose was mashed to one side of his face, blood running down his chin faster than a spilled half gallon of milk.

  Son of a bitch.

  He needed to get up so I could kick his ass.

  Cash and Koji traded blows with a couple of beat cops. Thirty feet away, Lee was back-to-back with another SWAT waist-deep in blue uniforms, throwing crisp brutal punches.

  A thing to see.

  And I just stood there, a useless mixture of fury and adrenaline churning in my gut. I’d escalated for . . . nothing. Lee popped what should’ve been my cherry, and won me a lifetime’s supply of Narkinney’s petty revenge to boot.

  Aww, hell.

  A hand landed on my shoulder. I spun and Peterson—that fat fuck—actually took a swing at me. His ringed knuckles glanced off my mouth, splitting my lip.

  I responded like Hank had taught me.

  Three short, distracting jabs to the face and a heavy left with everything I had to the underside of his potbelly.

  Peterson took a couple wobbly steps back and sat down hard in one of the chairs. “Meter bitch,” he croaked, holding his girth.

  Whatever.

  I went back to Narkinney—still prone—and kicked his foot with my boot.

  Out cold.

  The wolf pack was holding their own, adrenaline-fueled egos giving them the Drunken Master edge. Something whistled down past my cheek. I ducked too late and it cracked against my collarbone.

  Oh my God, that hurt.

  I dropped to my knees, hand on my shoulder. What was that?

  “You fucking asshole!” Cash shouted in my general direction as he drove his fist low and hard into some guy’s kidneys. “That’s my—” Punch. “Sister!” Punch.

  I crawled under the bar table. Needles of fire zinged up and down my useless arm. I couldn’t feel my fingers. Who the hell did that to me?

  “Knock, knock.” Peterson leaned in.

  He grabbed the front of my shirt and dragged me out from beneath the table, making sure to crack my head on the table on the way up. Damn it. I scrambled to get my feet beneath me.

  Peterson raised his arm.

  Jesus H. He hit me with a goddamn beer bottle.

  And he is going to do it again.

  I popped up and nailed him with a side kick to the leg, making sure to aim downward and chamber the knee. Bruce Lee–style.

  Peterson’s leg gave way and he collapsed against the table. The beer bottle fell from his hand and shattered on the floor. “Stupid whore!”

  I grabbed him by the back of his head and slammed his face into the table. He swore and whipped back a chunky elbow, clipping me on the chin. I took a power step and drove my knee up hard into his groin.

  Peterson wheezed like a dying accordion and lay there, facedown across the table. I stood over him, panting. Fingers curling and uncurling, the feeling finally coming back to my hands.

  An ear-bleeding air horn blared until the fighting stopped.

  Hud’s bartender stood on the bar, aerosol can in hand. “Dudes. Disperse. I’m sure you don’t want to spend the night writing each other up and who the hell else am I gonna call to stop this shit?”

  The wolf pack went hands-up, wearing the same I-didn’t-do-nothing look as a bunch of second-grade boys, and went back to their places at the bar.

  “Jaysus, Maisie.” Cash came up behind me. “Nice work.” He reached over and took ahold of Peterson by the collar and jerked him backwards off the table.

  Peterson landed on the floor on his well-padded butt and rolled onto his side, hands buried in his groin.

  “A fucking career-ender, that’s what this ought to be.” Cash ran a raw and swollen hand through his dark hair. “Peterson. What an asshole! Using a beer bottle on another cop—” He shook his head impatiently. “Whatever.”

  Cash’s slip was a knife to the heart. I should be a cop. Instead I am a whatever. I looked at Peterson squirming around on the dirty floor in agony. I felt nothing. No anger. No remorse.

  “Christ, Snap. When Flynn, Rory, and Da get an earful of this . . .”

  I bit my split lip without thinking and winced. “They won’t.”

  “Like hell,” Cash said. “Hud’s probably already called Da himself.”

  “I’ll take the heat,” I said.

  “Riiiiiight.” He snorted in disgust. “Da’s so not gonna be okay with this. And Flynn . . . Jay-sus. I’ll have to think of something to keep us in the frying pan.”

  Lee and his buddies came back. He jerked his head at the unconscious Narkinney. “Want an apology?” he asked, completely serious. “I’ll wake him up.”

  “Um, no. I think breaking his nose was probably enough.”

  Lee bounced on his toes and rolled his shoulders in regret. “Hey—flat-foot,” he called to a uniform with a purpling eye.

  “Get these guys outta here.”

  A couple of beat cops helped Peterson to his feet and dragged Narkinney away.

  Lee caught my chin and took a good look. “You’re sporting a couple of dingers.” His voice turned nonchalant. “Who hit you?”

  “Does it matter?” I smiled, not daring to give him another spark. “This is my first official bar fight.”

  Lee’s eyes narrowed. “Sit down, okay?” He went to the bar.

  A couple of bar-backs came by, sweeping up broken glass, mopping up spilled drinks, righting tables and chairs. I slid in the booth next to a glowering Cash, arms folded across his chest. Koji—the Eagle Scout—already had a round waiting at our table, including a beer for me.

  I took a drink, the frosty cold Lite stinging my torn lip. Delicious.

  Lee returned with ice in a plastic bag, wrapped in a towel. He held it out to me.

  “That was sweet,” I said, taking it. “Sweet but unnecessary.”

  “Yeah? You’ll thank me tomorrow.” Lee put his hand on mine and lifted the makeshift ice pack to my lower lip and chin. “So, tell me. Is what Nark saying true?”

  That I’m a complete loser who got kicked out of the Police Academy? Yes. “Huh?” I said, making him actually ask it out loud.

  “That you’re a parking enforcement agent?”

  Not bringing up my fall from grace was one thing. But not calling me a meter maid? That was old-whiskey smooth. The kind of cool that gets a string of women trailing along behind.

  “Yes,” I said, leaving the ice pack in front of my mouth, waiting for the washout part.

  It didn’t come.

  “How do you like it?” Lee said.

  “It’s interesting.”

  “Working with the public always is. It’s why I became a cop.” Lee grinned and took a drink of his Stella Artois. “You ever date anyone on the job?”

  “No.” I said. “Never.”

  “We’re not all like that jackass.”

  “What?” I asked, catching up. “Oh no, I’m not opposed to law enforcement or anything. But my father and three brothers apparently traded in the sacred partner don’t-date-my-ex card for the don’t-even-look-at-my-sister/daughter one.”

  �
��McGrane.” Recognition dawned on Lee’s face. “Your clan’s Detective Division, Homicide, yeah?” He looked at my brother. “Except for Cash in Vice.”

  I nodded.

  “That’s okay, then.” Lee said. “I don’t think they’ll enter into the equation.”

  Equation?

  He gave me a look. And it was a good one. “How about dinner?”

  “Thanks, Lee. But I don’t think so.”

  My head hurt and I felt sick. Sick from adrenaline, a dozen Diet Cokes, getting kicked out of the Academy, Tommy Narkinney, Peterson, the PEA in general, and most of all, Hank.

  Lee let me out of the booth, and I signaled to my brother with the keys.

  After the last of the wasted wolf pack was dispatched, Cash, Koji, and I headed back to our house. Inside, Koji split off, going to the main floor guest room he normally stayed in, while Cash and I went upstairs and quietly crossed the hallway to our rooms.

  “Hey!” Cash whispered and waved me into his room. “Make sure you wake me and Koji up at eight thirty tomorrow. We want to hit the range before our tee time.”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?” Cash put a hand to his ear. “I didn’t hear a yessir.”

  “And you won’t,” I said. “The deal’s off. You’re going to continue to see Jennifer Lince. And I’m a free woman.”

  “Oh yeah?” He sat down on his bed.

  I pressed my hands dramatically over my heart. “Mom will be so proud you applied to SWAT.”

  The color drained from his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Best of luck with that one. After I tell Da, you’ll be off the list faster than you can blink in denial.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yeah? Then why haven’t you told them yourself?”

  Cash flopped back onto the bed and said to the ceiling, “God, I hate you.”

  I gave him a poor baby pout and walked toward the door.

  “Okay, wait,” he said scrambling. “I’ll—”

  “You’ll keep seeing Jennifer until after the Dhu West Gala. I’ll cover your chores. But no more thrall duty.”

  Cash nodded. “Deal.”

  I made it to the door before he asked, “What’d Lee Sharpe say?”

  “You and Koji are at the top of the heap.”

  Chapter 14

  Saturday dawn, I woke up with a throbbing shoulder, tender chin, and a headache. I got dressed and surveyed the damage in the bathroom mirror. I owed Lee Sharpe big-time for the ice pack. The bruise on my chin was pretty much undetectable, unless someone was looking for it. My lip didn’t look that bad, either, slathered with Aquaphor and surrounded by Dermablend concealer.

  Way too early, I started down the stairs, prepared to beg Thierry for a smoothie and a poached egg, and halted at the sounds of protest.

  Cash and Koji were already up and in the hot seat, fibbing away like mad. “Honestly, Mr. McGrane. You should have seen those idiot beat cops begging SWAT for a throw-down.”

  “And Maisie was with you?”

  “Jaysus, Da,” Cash complained. “Nothing happened. She’s totally fine.”

  “Pretty feckin’ thoughtful, taking her to Hud’s,” Rory said, “seeing as she’s just been scotched from the Academy.”

  “Give it a rest, Rory. She was happy to go. In fact,” he embellished, “it was her idea.”

  “Maisie, darlin’,” Da called. “Come down off the stairs and tell me your version of last night’s shenanigans.”

  Burnt toast.

  Cash and Koji were still arguing with Rory as I skulked into the dining room.

  Flynn’s phone buzzed. “McGrane.” He snapped his fingers and held up his palm. The squabbling stopped. “On our way.” He hung up and looked at Rory and Da. “Triple homicide in Ashburn. One juvenile.”

  “This isn’t over,” Da said, following Flynn and Rory out of the dining room.

  Minutes later, Cash, Koji, and I watched from the window as they tore out of the driveway, dash, deck and grille lights flashing.

  “Bullet officially dodged.” Cash took a bite from his makeshift breakfast burrito. He’d wrapped a pancake around his bacon and scrambled eggs so as to not stop eating for a second. “I mean—” He sucked some falling egg back into his mouth. “How lucky are we? Mom and the twins, stuck in the city, slaving away on their pedo case. Da and the guys gone till the wee hours.” He smacked me in the arm. “Let’s have a party.”

  “You’re an imbecile.”

  “Dude,” Koji said. “Get real. We’re working tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “C’mon. Two hours till tee time and I gotta hit some balls.”

  I spent the rest of the day culling through Thorne Clark’s solitary, squeaky-clean life, looking for connections to Nawisko that didn’t exist.

  Sunday I went to Joe’s Gym, telling myself I’d trained there for the last twenty-two months and I had every right to be there.

  Hank wasn’t there, either.

  Monday morning, bright and early, I waited in Dhu West’s Traffic Enforcement Bureau reception area for Jennifer Lince. Today was the day she’d hand over the coveted keys to the golf cart and bestow upon me the Barbie-replica shield. The little piece of aluminum that the TEB believed gave their minimum-wage earner a sense of righteousness and pride.

  I drummed my hands on my black cargo pants–covered knees. Dhu West ran with the efficiency of a clock dipped in maple syrup. Eventually, Jennifer’s sullen secretary led me back to her office.

  Ms. Lince, phone wedged between her ear and shoulder, was hard at work, fingers flying across her computer keyboard. “Yes. I understand. I see.” She stopped typing and pointed at one of the red fabric chairs.

  Everything in her office was exactly as it had been when I’d seen her a week ago, including the silver eight-by-ten framed photo of Cash, except for two things. The pony keg–sized mug of coffee that could flush out the digestive tract of an elephant and a little scrap of paper sticking up from her keyboard.

  Oh jeez. The stub to the art movie Cash took her to.

  Finally, she hung up the phone, took a manila folder with my name on it from her in-box, and began to read. “My goodness, Maisie.” Jennifer smiled pertly at me over the folder. “I have never known Leticia Jackson to give such a glowing recommendation. Caiseal must not be the only one with charm to spare in the McGrane family.”

  I smiled politely, not taking the bait.

  “In fact,” Jennifer said, “if I wasn’t so well-acquainted with her illiterate scrawl, I’d have said you wrote it yourself and, quite frankly, overdid it.”

  I hadn’t seen that one coming. “A lot in common, I guess.”

  Jennifer’s eyes narrowed. “Such as?”

  “Uh . . . Dennis Prager?”

  “Really? A mutual friend?” She tipped her head in relief.

  “Okay then.” She closed the folder, hefted her giant cup of coffee to her lips and took a long slurp. “I think you have what it takes to become a Dhu West player. A can-do attitude and a certain level of . . . understanding.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Dhu West only recently acquired the Chicago contract. As one of the single non-union-run city departments, Dhu West focuses on two things the unions don’t—profit and efficiency. Which is why I’ve assigned you to a senior agent.”

  “PEA agents don’t have partners,” I said automatically.

  “Normally that’s correct.” Her lips rolled back in a prim smile. “Your new partner, Eunice Peat, has had a long career with the TEB. Unfortunately, she’s operating at the barest minimum standard while her age and health condition are causing a drain on the entire PEA benefit package.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Dhu West believes an early retirement would best suit all parties.” Her blue eyes lit with an unholy glee. “Naturally, when you find your partner’s not performing to company standards, or is physically incapable of properly executing her duties, you will immediately bring that to my specific a
ttention.”

  Argh. A partner Dhu West wants fired.

  There isn’t enough Excedrin in Walmart for this kind of headache.

  “I believe in respect, and I think you do, too, Maisie. Respect that you have a higher loyalty to Dhu West, above whatever affinity you may have for a partner.” Jennifer opened a desk drawer and removed an AutoCITE machine, Traffic Enforcement Bureau shield, and an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven laminated route card. She slid them across the desk to me. “With Leticia’s recommendation and effective performance, the sky’s the limit for your career here.” She stood up and extended her hand. “Welcome aboard, Maisie.”

  “I heard you’d made the cut and I was, like, so totally jazzed,” Obi said, wheeling around the counter of the Dispatch office building.

  Oh Obi. No one says jazzed.

  He handed me a boot requisition form on a clipboard. “Usually you have a standard two boots per vehicle, unless you have Friday specials like—you know.” He leaned in. “Hey! I heard about the boots you laid at the Brothers of Allah Prayer Center. Those guys are complete assholes.”

  “You can say that again.”

  He chuckled. “Miz Jackson said one of the cops who showed up was just as bad.”

  “Yeah.” I looked the form over and signed the bottom.

  His face scrunched up in question. “Why didn’t they arrest the guy who broke your radio?”

  “Officer Narkinney and I aren’t exactly what you’d call pals.” I forced a smile. “More like mortal enemies.”

  “Oh,” Obi said. “Stormtrooper?”

  “Romulan.”

  Obi rolled his eyes. “Ix-nay on the ek-Trey.”

  “I thought Stormtroopers were pretty much silent. Narkinney is loud and obnoxious.”

  “Ahhhh.” Obi stroked the wispy fuzz on his upper lip. “Tusken Raider.”

  “Now you’re talking.” I handed the clipboard back, not letting go until he looked me in the eye. “From now on, Ms. Jackson should arrive with an escort every third Friday.”

  Obi nodded. “I’m on it.” He slipped the clipboard into one of the Star Wars saddlebags on the side of the chair.

  “Where do I get the keys?”

  “You don’t. Ms. Peat’s the driver.” He wheeled backwards up the ramp, showing off.