Chapter 21

Gorman ripped open the box of shells, pointed the Mossberg barrel up, thumbed shells into the breech.

Constantine looked in the rearview. “Keep that shotgun down,” he said.

“Concentrate on your driving, driver.” Gorman stuffed a fistful of shells in the side pocket of his jacket. He dropped the rest of the box to the floor.

“Keep it down, Gorman,” Valdez said from the front seat.

Gorman giggled, laid the Mossberg across his lap.

They drove down R, passed the liquor store, saw dim lights, bars on the windows, little else. Constantine turned right on 14th, passed the children’s charity outfit, passed the projects, hooked a right on S. The wind from the open window blew back his long black hair.

Gorman reached into his shirt pocket, withdrew the snowseal. He carefully unwrapped it, bent his head down, put his nose very close to the mound of crystal meth. He inhaled sharply through one nostril, then the other.

Constantine looked at Valdez. “What is this?” he said.

“This is it, driver,” Gorman said. “That’s what the fuck this is.” There was white powder specked with blue on the tip of Gorman’s nose.

“Take it easy, Gorman,” Valdez said quietly.

Constantine turned right on 13th, went south one block, turned right again on R.

“Pull over right here,” Valdez said. “Don’t cut it.”

Constantine took the Road Runner to the curb. Down the block, past row houses, the liquor store looked small standing alone amongst the rubble of demolition. On the other side of R stood the Central Union Mission. A group of people-a dozen, maybe-stood on the sidewalk, outside the doors of the mission.

“All right, Gorman,” Valdez said. “Three Irishmen, a sawed-off under the left register. They’ll be wearin’ vests.”

“Head shots,” Gorman said.

“If we have to,” said Valdez.

Gorman took the snowseal, rubbed it on his gums, licked it, tossed it out the window. He put the stocking on his head. His eyes met Constantine’s in the rearview. There was chemical color now in the gray man’s face, confidence in his smile.

“Constantine,” Valdez said, fitting the stocking tightly on his head, then pointing a thick finger down the block. “You curb it right past the liquor store, there. Got it?”

“I got it,” Constantine said.

Valdez looked at his watch. “Let’s go.”

Constantine drove down the street as Valdez rubbed his palms dry on his jacket. Gorman pumped the shotgun.

“No matter what happens,” Valdez said evenly, staring ahead, “you don’t leave us. You leave us, I’ll kill you. You understand that, Constantine? I promise you.”

Constantine pulled the Road Runner to the curb where Valdez had pointed. Valdez and Gorman yanked down on their masks.

Just as he stopped, Valdez and Gorman got out of the car, closed the car doors, ran across the sidewalk, Valdez with both guns drawn, Gorman with the shotgun at his side, and pushed on the door of EZ Time Liquors. Then they were both inside.

Constantine sat alone in the Plymouth, listened to the heavy idle of the 440.

Across the street, on the sidewalk of the mission, a woman with large hoop earrings leaned against a garbage can, talking loudly to another woman who stood nearby. “That motherfucker dogged you, girlfriend,” she said.

Both women laughed.

A shotgun blast boomed like a bomb from inside the liquor store. The sound of exploding glass came from the store, and then a second explosion from the shotgun, and then more glass.

Some people from outside the mission stopped looking at their shoes and turned their attention across the street. The two women by the garbage can glanced toward the liquor store, and then the one with the hoop earrings pushed playfully on her friend’s shoulder.

“He dogged you,” she repeated.

Someone ran inside the mission. A few people walked slowly across the street, still looking at the liquor store but not nearing it. One of them, a man wearing a Blazers cap, noticed Constantine sitting in the driver’s side of the idling black car. The man studied Constantine, turned his head, turned toward 14th, and walked away.

Constantine heard muffled shouts from behind the black bars and glass. He felt a sudden weakness in his knees. Constantine pushed in the lighter, waited for it to pop. He drummed his fingers on the dash.

The lighter popped out Constantine used it to fire a smoke. He dragged deeply, exhaled through his nose.

The shotgun fired once more in the store, then several gunshots, then two different shotgun sounds, close together. After that, more gunshots.

The people on the sidewalk stepped back. Constantine heard a siren from far away. Steadily, the siren grew louder. Another siren sounded, from a different direction.

The cigarette dangled from Constantine’s lips. He kept his left hand on the wheel. His right hand worked the Hurst through the gears. He let up on the clutch, pushed the gas, felt the friction point, felt the Plymouth begin to jump.

The sirens grew louder.

No.

He depressed the clutch, pushed the shifter into neutral. He felt a warm calm, and a sudden wash of power. He had the vague sensation of his hardening sex. The Beat pounded hot, in his chest and his head.

“Come on,” he whispered.

He looked into the store. He saw gunsmoke hovering in the dim light. By the door he saw the raised barrel of Gorman’s shotgun.

Then, in the rearview, Constantine saw the first cop car, a blue-and-white, coming up behind him on R. He pitched his cigarette out the window.

“Come on,” said Constantine. “Come on.”

The first thing Gorman did, as he pushed through the front door of EZ Time Liquors, was shove aside two customers standing near the beer cooler that ran along the rightmost wall. Then Gorman stepped back, squeezed the trigger on the shotgun, and blew the fuck out of the cooler’s glass doors.

He pumped the Mossberg, turned, and fired into the vodka bottles shelved on the left wall. He felt a shower of glass and booze. He pumped the shotgun once more, pointed it at the Irishmen behind the counter.

Valdez had made it to the counter, one. 45 in the old Irishman’s face, the other at his side. Weiner had said there would be three of them, but today there were only two, a father and son, big, square-headed guys, big guts and big hands. Their hands were up, their faces empty of fear.

“You know what this is,” Valdez said loudly. “Let’s have it!”

The two customers-old juicers wearing blue maintenance uniforms-hit the floor behind Gorman. One of them talked to himself, the other made a steady moaning sound.

Gorman giggled, swung the shotgun around, pointed it at the juicers, heard the talker talk faster, swung the shotgun back at the young Irishman. The crank was fucking good-Gorman wanted to hear the shotgun again, feel the fire surge through his hands.

“Easy,” Valdez said, looking at the father, talking to Gorman. “Now the money. The Brinks money, Pops. Come on!”

The old Irishman narrowed his eyes. “There is no fucking money, you-”

“The money!” Gorman screamed, sliding a few feet forward.

Valdez touched the barrel of his. 45 to the old man’s head.

“Take it easy, friend,” said the young Irishman.

“We ain’t your fuckin’ friends,” Gorman said. He snorted the runoff back up into his nose.

“The money,” Valdez said, sweat dripping beneath the nylon of his mask. “Now!”

“Okay,” the young Irishman said. “Just take it easy.”

He kept his eyes on Gorman as he bent down slowly, lowered one arm. He came up with a large cloth bag. He tossed the bag, and it landed at Gorman’s feet.

“That’s right,” Gorman said, nodding his head.

“There’s more,” Valdez said.

The young Irishman moved a couple of feet to his right, bent down again, came up with a smaller bag. He dropped that over the counter, near the large cloth bag. He stood straight, his arms raised. Above him, on a shelf holding combs, rubbers, and lottery dream books, a rap song played at a low volume from an old clock radio.

“That better be it,” Valdez said. The old man took a slow step back, away from the touch of the gun.

“I’ll make this motherfucker explode,” Gorman said, opening his hand and then wrapping it tight around the barrel of the shotgun.

The young Irishman nodded. “One more,” he said. “Just take it easy.”

“Come on!” Gorman said.

The young Irishman bent down.

One of the men on the floor behind Gorman had shit his pants, the stench of it cutting the cordite smell that was heavy now in the store. The talking man spoke louder, said, “Please,” and then “Lord, no Lord.”

Gorman swiveled his hips, pointed the shotgun at the juicers, told them to keep their mouths shut, turned the shotgun back on the young Irishman.

Gorman heard Valdez yell his name, saw the sawed-off swinging up in the young Irishman’s hand.

Gorman fired the Mossberg, dove right behind the scotch rack, heard the young Irishman hit the wall behind the counter, heard him grunt, knew he had not killed him, knew he had hit him in the vest. Gorman pumped the shotgun.

The father reached frantically, clumsily beneath the counter.

Valdez had time to take a step back, stiffen his gun arm. Valdez shot the old man three times-gut, neck, face. The face shot took off the jaw on one side. Valdez saw white bone exposed, and a quarter-sized hole spitting blood from the neck as the old man went down.

Gorman stood, saw the young Irishman stand, saw his wild eyes as Gorman took aim above the barrel chest and fired. The young Irishman was thrown back against the wall, his face torn and peppered pink, his sawed-off exploding the plaster ceiling as he fell. Valdez reached over the counter, put another slug into the father, moved the gun, put one into the son.

Valdez said, “Get the money, Gorman.”

Gorman grabbed the bags, ignored the juicers spread flat on the floor as he joined Valdez by the front door. Valdez ejected the clip from the. 45 in his right hand, palmed a fresh clip into the gun. He looked through the black bars, out onto the street at the idling Plymouth.

“He’s there,” Valdez said, the sirens growing louder.

“I see ‘im,” said Gorman.

“They’re coming now,” Valdez said.

Gorman said, “I know.”

Gorman took the shells from his jacket pocket, thumbed them into the Mossberg’s breech. Valdez looked left, down the street. He saw the blue-and-white turn the corner.

“What else you holdin’?” Valdez said.

“My nine,” Gorman said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“How many shots?”

“Fourteen.”

“Keep the shotgun and the bags in one hand,” Valdez said. “Use the nine.”

Gorman drew it from inside his jacket.

The cop car rose and fell on its shocks as it blew down the street. The driver hit the brakes, the tires screaming as the car began its skid.

Valdez said, “Now, Gorman,” and put his shoulder to the door.

Valdez and Gorman came from the store, moved quickly across the sidewalk, stopped, and stood straight as the cop car skidded to a halt three feet behind the Plymouth.

Valdez and Gorman fired into the windshield, Valdez moving his gun driver to passenger, repeating with both. 45s. The glass spidered crimson, behind it the vague dark shapes of uniformed bodies rocking violently forward and back, jumping, coming to rest.

Valdez and Gorman turned, casings rolling on the sidewalk, crunching beneath their feet. The street was empty now. The siren still wailed from the shot-up cop car and there were more sirens coming from two or three directions.

Gorman got into the backseat of the Plymouth, dropped the shotgun and the bags on the floor. Valdez got into the seat next to Constantine.

“Take off,” Valdez said, shutting the door, pulling the stocking off his head.

Constantine’s face was pale, tight, stretched back. He worked the gears, stared straight ahead, pumped the gas against the clutch.

“What the fuck’s goin’ on, man?” Gorman shouted. “Move it, driver!”

The sirens were almost on them now. Valdez put the barrel of his. 45 to Constantine’s temple. He bared his teeth and put his face close to Constantine’s ear.

Valdez said, “Make it fly.”

The Beat flashed white in Constantine’s head. He let up on the clutch and pushed down on the gas.

The Plymouth laid rubber, screamed into the intersection at 14th and R. Constantine ran the red, skidded into a wide right turn as a blue Chevy sedan three-sixtyed, the ass end of it clearing the Plymouth.

Constantine double-clutched the Hurst, headed north on 14th.

“Heat,” Valdez said, pointing a finger at a blue-and-white driving head-on in their direction.

Constantine cut the Road Runner across two southbound lanes, jumped the sidewalk at S, heard Gorman’s head hit the roof as he put the car back onto the blacktop. In the rearview, he saw the cop car skid into a right, straighten, fall in behind him.

Constantine made a sharp left into the alley, hit the brick side of a rowhouse, saw sparks in his side vision, punched the gas. Pakistanis and Indians scattered ahead, frantically pushing their vending carts out of the way. Constantine landed on the horn, the Road Runner’s “beep-beep” sounding in the alley.

“What the fuck is this!” Gorman said, as Valdez sideglanced Constantine.

“Shut up,” Constantine said, over the screams of foreign words outside the car.

He blew through a vendor’s cart, the cart jumping, tumbling back over the Plymouth’s hood and roof. Constantine turned sharply right at the T of the alley, took out a chain-link fence, gave the Plymouth gas, downshifted, got out of the grip of the fence.

Gorman turned, looked out the back window. Through the smoke he could see the cop car, the vendor’s cart in pieces on the hood, as it crashed into the ruin of the fenced yard. Sirens still undulated in the air.

“Where you goin’, Constantine?” Valdez said.

Constantine raced through Johnson, the Plymouth’s four wheels lifting off the ground as it hit the street. The Plymouth came down, threw sparks, reentered the alley.

“Fifteenth,” Constantine said.

“Fifteenth’s one-way goin’ north.”

“I know it,” said Constantine.

Constantine blew out of the alley, fishtailed left, headed south against the traffic on 15th. A cop car sped toward them.

“Goddamn it, Constantine,” Valdez said.

Constantine pushed down on the accelerator, headed straight for the cop car. The front end of the Plymouth went down; Valdez and Gorman pushed back against their seats. Valdez gripped the armrest mounted on his door, his nails digging into the vinyl. Constantine kept the speed, kept the wheel straight. They could see the drawn-back faces of the cops, could see the mouth of the driver screaming.

“Constantine,” Valdez said.

Constantine cut it right, nicked the front end of the cop car, turned the wheel into the body of the cop car. There was a heavy collision of metal, the window on Gorman’s side imploding, and then the blue-and-white was off its wheels, airborne at the Plymouth’s side, rolling twice and landing, then skidding on its roof, stopped by a row of parked cars.

Gorman laughed, screamed “Yeah!”, laughed again, rocked back against his seat. Valdez breathed out through his lips.

Constantine turned right at R, drove against the traffic, cleared cars onto the sidewalk with the Road Runner horn. At 16th he cut north, drove to T, went right. Constantine swung left on 15th, headed north again. In his rearview, he saw the overturned car, smoke rising from its hood, a crowd forming around it.

Constantine accelerated, downshifted as he hit the hill at Malcolm X Park. The 440 sang beneath them as they climbed the hill. The park, the people, and the buildings were a bleeding rush of color at their sides.

“You catch Irving up ahead,” Valdez said, holstering his. 45. “Take that across town, into northeast, catch Michigan Avenue.”

Constantine nodded, expressionless.

“Told you he could drive,” Gorman said, from the backseat.

“Shut the fuck up, Gorman,” said Valdez.

Constantine took a cigarette from his shirt pocket, put it to his lips. He pushed in the lighter on the dash.

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