The alley that runs behind my office from Berkeley to Arlington was named Providence Street. When Z and I came down the back stairs of my office to get my car, which was parked on Providence Street, I noticed that the Berkeley Street end was blocked with a couple of orange traffic barrels. If people have threatened to kill one, one becomes unusually observant. I paused in the doorway.
“Odd,” I said.
“The barriers?” Z said.
“Yeah. Usually there’s a cop.”
I looked up at the Arlington Street end. More barriers.
“Odder,” I said.
“Street’s one-way,” Z said.
I nodded.
“Might be nothing,” I said.
“Might not,” Z said.
“Might be something,” I said.
Z didn’t say anything.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll hang here. You go out the front door, turn right up to Arlington, and right again to that end of the alley. When I see you at that end, I’ll step out.”
“And?”
“And we’ll see,” I said.
Z turned and went up the three steps to the first floor and disappeared. I stayed where I was. Halfway up the alley was a white Ford van with tinted windows. If there was something, I was betting the van contained it. Ordinary-looking. Couldn’t see in. Plenty of room for four or five guys and their weapons. Since the visit from Alice DeLauria, I had been wearing my S&W .40. I took it out and cocked it, and held it at my side. It took Z maybe ninety seconds to scoot around to the Arlington end of the alley. When I saw him, I stepped out of the doorway and began to walk toward him. He strolled toward me. The side doors of the van opened.
Bingo!
Four guys got out. None of them seemed to notice Z. One guy had a shotgun. I shot him in the chest. He stepped back, half turned, and fell with the shotgun underneath him. I ducked between two cars, and several bullets ripped into them. Z’s .357 boomed, and a second shooter went down. Face-forward. One of the remaining two spun toward Z, and I shot him from behind the car. The last guy threw his gun on the street and turned and ran.
Z reached me.
“You want him?” Z said.
“You think you can catch him?” I said.
“The Cree named Z,” he said. “All-American.”
“Go,” I said.
From a standing start, Z exploded down the alley. He’d been outrunning me in our interval training for several weeks. But this was like seeing some kind of different species. Z caught the shooter before he got to Arlington Street. He hit him in the back of the head with a forearm and the man went face-forward onto the ground. Z got hold of his collar and dragged him to his feet. And they came down the alley together more slowly than they’d gone up. I could hear sirens.
“Put the gun down on the ground,” I said to Z. “Don’t want the cops to shoot us while they are protecting and serving.”
Without letting go of the collar of the guy he’d caught, Z put the .357 on the street. I put my .40 beside it. From Berkeley Street, a police cruiser came rolling through the barrels without even slowing; another came down the alley from Arlington Street, showing equal contempt for the barrels. Both cars stopped maybe ten feet short of us, and cops got out, shielding themselves with the open door, guns leveled at us.
“Put your weapons on the ground,” one cop shouted. “Slowly.”
I pointed at the guns on the ground.
“They’re down,” I said.
Two more cruisers showed up.
“Okay,” the talking cop said. “Now you. On the ground, facedown, hands behind your heads.”
Z frowned.
“Do it,” I said.
We got down as instructed.
“You guys ever gonna forget the Little Big Horn?” Z said.