by Sam Jones
As Maria came out of hiding, Mr. Thompson leapt out of the window with a cheetah’s stride and landed on the metal scaffolding outside, Maria popping off two more shots at him that missed wide as he began quickly scaling down on the fire escape toward street level.
Out of harm’s way.
“Shit,” she hissed.
Maria rushed toward Billy, exhausted but still alert, her gun trained on the busted-up window as her shoes crunched the glass on the floor. “Are you all right?” she asked as she began clawing at the duct tape that bound Billy to the chair.
“I could use a bottle of Tylenol about now,” Billy said.
Maria moved around Billy and spotted the missing chunk of flesh from his back.
“Jesus…”
Billy tried to cast a look at the wound over his shoulder. “Is it that bad?”
Maria waved him off. “You’ll live.”
She produced a straight razor from her back pocket. “Courtesy of our friend in the next room,” she said as she slapped it into Billy’s palm and retreated to the area behind him, to a table where his shirt, shoes, and Colt were laid out neatly on top of it.
“How did you break out?” Billy asked as he began cutting at the tape around his ankles.
“I killed the guy guarding me.”
“No shit. How?”
Maria scooped up Billy’s belongings. “It was easy,” she said. “I’m a woman. Flash one part to a guy and the rest is almost too easy.”
“What did you flash him? Was it above or below the waist?”
“That’s not funny.”
“Give me a break. I’ve had a long afternoon.”
Maria laid the clothes at Billy’s feet and then glanced out the broken window to her right, fairly certain that Mr. Thompson was most likely touching down on the street below. “We need to go after him,” she said.
Billy looked toward the door. “What about the other guys?”
“I killed the one guarding me and another out in the hallway. The other one left with that Kruger guy.”
Billy cut the last strand of the tape, freed his legs from the chair, and threw on his clothes. When he bent over to tie the laces up his Nikes, he spotted a small patch of pink and white on the floor behind the chair—the patch of skin that Mr. Thompson had cut out of him.
“Good God…”
Billy took his gaze off of it, buttoned his shirt, and checked the rounds on his Colt. “That guy who just dove out the window,” he said. “I think that’s the guy you’ve been looking for.”
Maria reached into her pocket and produced Billy’s badge, which she had retrieved off of one of the dead men. “I was thinking the same thing.”
She tossed Billy the badge.
He caught it. “Much obliged.”
They headed toward the shattered window. “Well,” Billy said as he moved out to the fire escape with his Colt raised, scanning down for any signs of Mr. Thompson. “Let’s go after your lead. Also, if you’re down for it, I’d kind of like a little payback too.”
Maria adjusted her grip on her Beretta, sprightly and ready to pounce. “Fabulous,” she said as both of them stepped out onto the scaffolding.
31
BILLY AND MARIA scaled down twelve stories of a dilapidated thread factory that had been foreclosed and abandoned sometime during Prohibition, based on the amount of squeaking and shifting the fire escape made as they descended toward street level. Down below, a literal parade of citizens dressed in green and orange were shouting, singing, and chanting their way up North Columbus Drive, a sea of proud Irish—and non-Irish—Chicagoans dance-marching their way toward the Chicago river to the sound of drums and bagpipes, oblivious to the two tattered and bruised law enforcement officials scaling their way down a fire escape.
All those in attendance were jovial. All those in attendance were considered to be of the same family for the next few hours.
Happy St. Paddy’s Day.
It was chilly out, but the adrenaline running through both Billy’s and Maria’s systems kept them more than warm.
They hopped off the ladder and made it to street level, swiveling their heads around to get a sense of their bearings. Tall buildings were all around them, rich with vintage, eye-catching architecture Billy quickly associated with the best kinds of gangster movies.
Al Capone, baby.
He noted the numbers of the crowd.
Hundreds, he thought. Thousands.
“Shit…”
Maria shook her head. “There’re too many people.”
We’ll never find that pale bastard.
They moved toward the street corner, Billy taking note of the sign above his head bolted to the intersection lights: East Illinois Street.
He glanced to the right and saw a sign pointing east toward the Navy Pier. To his and Maria’s left, North Columbus Drive ran perpendicular with East Illinois Street, bustling with Chicago’s citizens currently marching south toward the green-tinted Chicago River in a wonderful—and drunken—display of cheerful camaraderie.
“Anything?” Maria asked as she searched around all four points of the compass.
Billy did the same. “Nada,” he replied.
The noise of the crowd seemed to drown out and diminish their chances of finding Mr. Thompson as the seconds ticked by interminably.
Billy and Maria were at a loss.
Just pick a direction.
Go with your gut.
Confidence…
“We’ve got four directions to choose from,” Billy said. “What are you feeling?”
Maria scanned the faces in the crowd, pessimistic at their lack of options. “A bit of defeat,” was all she could think to say.
Billy scanned the crowd from left to right, his eyes trying to pick out a tall, pasty white guy making a quick exit, the noise of the parade now overbearing as everything began to feel hopeless.
Nothing.
This guy’s gone…
“Slim and none, Maria,” he said. “I think—”
“Billy,” Maria said as she reached over and squeezed his arm, pointing toward the east to the infamous Mr. Thompson heading north down Columbus—against the flow of the crowd, maybe thirty yards away, hustling, dipping, and diving toward some kind of exfiltration point.
Billy grinned through his swollen face, happy to have a break for once in the past few days.
“This is the part where I’m supposed to say something clever, right?”
Maria was already stepping off the curb, her hand hovering near her tucked-away Beretta as she replied, “No.”
Billy rested his hand near his hip, by his tucked-away Colt covered by his jacket as he followed Maria through the crowd.
They were about twenty yards away from Mr. Thompson as they moved against the sea of citizens on Columbus. They kept their distance but remained close, hiding their faces among the people in the crowd in case the pasty freak they were stalking cast a look over his shoulder and spotted them coming.
“Careful,” Maria said. “He sees us, he might start shooting. People are going to get caught in the crossfire.” She looked around the street. Searching. “Maybe we should grab a cop.”
Billy was also looking for a boy in blue. “Don’t see any. You’ve gotta be kidding me…”
Maria sighed as they moved around a blitzed, two-hundred-pound Midwesterner with a green sweetheart that read “Kiss My Irish Ass” trying to dance a jig in the middle of the street, his friends clapping their hands, hiccupping, and taking joy in his ill-coordinated rhythm.
Top o’ the morning, lad.
Maria scanned left to right, spotting side streets and alleyways that were less condensed and populated with people, looking for possible areas to flush Mr. Thompson toward if they could figure out a way to do it. Ahead of them, Mr. Thompson continued to slip through the parade like water in a creek, never making physical contact with anyone as he moved through the crowd like he could predict their movements before they even made them.
But Mr. Thompson had a glare in his peripherals. A look. Billy caught it quickly as the guy surveyed the crowd and noticed something about the way he tossed looks over his shoulder as they stalked him.
He knows.
He knows we’re following him.
He wants us to chase him.
Up ahead at the end of the block, on the left hand side, Billy could spot a parking lot on the corner of Grand and Columbus surrounded by a chain-link fence and a white sandwich board sign out near the curb that read “$4 ALL DAY” in big red letters.
Overpriced.
The lot was packed with cars but sported only a single staff member tending to it, his hands in his pockets and feet kicking at the granite pebbles on the ground to pass the time as he hoped to snag a brew before the parade ended.
It appeared that Mr. Thompson, based on the way he was maneuvering diagonally across the street, was heading straight toward the lot about twelve meters in front of him.
Billy pointed. “Boom,” he said. “Right there. Frosty the Freak Man has a car waiting.”
Maria spotted the lot. “Or he’s going to steal one.”
She got worried Mr. Thompson might shoot the attendant.
She rested her hand on the grip of her Beretta and prayed that wouldn’t happen.
“Let’s box him in,” Billy said. “Flank him on either side.”
Maria said, “There’re two ways into the lot: north and east. I’ll take north.”
“East sounds good to me. I like east.”
They maintained their twenty-yard distance as Mr. Thompson crossed the street, mounted the sidewalk, and made a beeline straight for the parking lot on the corner and entered through the north-facing side.
Billy said, “Wait until he’s in his car.”
Mr. Thompson handed the attendant his ticket, took back the keys, and moved toward the middle of the three-row lot.
Billy and Maria were slowly closing the distance, ten or so yards away from Mr. Thompson on the right side of the street. “Wait for it…” Maria said, focusing on the target and pacing her breathing to maintain a steady heartbeat.
Ten paces later, Mr. Thompson arrived at a black-cherry-colored Porsche Carrera, unlocked the door, and slid behind the wheel.
Boom.
“Split,” Billy said.
He and Maria parted ways and hustled through the crowd toward the parking lot, Maria moving to the north entrance and Billy to the east as they closed in on Mr. Thompson.
Mr. Thompson closed the door to the Porsche, inserted the keys into the ignition, and twisted, the car purring to life as Billy and Maria began to run.
Mr. Thompson put the car into first.
Billy and Maria took out their weapons.
Mr. Thompson began to move his foot off the break.
The parking attendant’s eyes went wide.
Billy and Maria then arrived on either side of the Porsche and aimed their pistols point blank at the windshield, standing textbook perfect shooting stances with their feet planted, arms extended into a triangle, fingers curved, and ready to rock and roll as Billy yelled out, “Out of the fuckin’ car!”
The noise of the parade was at a loud enough volume that no one seemed to hear him. Nothing but the trio—and a timid parking lot attendant—were witnesses to whatever was about to play out next.
Mr. Thompson waited. His reaction remaining neutral and his foot hovered over the gas pedal.
“Don’t do it!” Maria shouted, sensing that their attempts for a peaceful arrest were futile at best.
Mr. Thompson looked at Maria.
And then he looked at Billy.
For the briefest second, time for all three seemed to come to a stop.
And then Mr. Thompson, for the first time in a while—perhaps ever—formed the tiniest of smiles, so subtle it was almost invisible to the naked eye.
His foot slipped off the break and stamped down on the gas, the tires now spinning and the engine now screaming.
“Shit.”
32
PORSCHES ARE COMPACT, high-performance speed demons manufactured in Germany, just as fast as they are pleasing to look at. They’re low-riding, reliable machines that the people in Stuttgart took the upmost pride over the past fifty years to perfect in terms of design and drivability. While designed for sporting, the Porsche is a vehicle that’s just as ideal for a drive to the market or chewing up asphalt in a street race.
The Porsche that Mr. Thompson was currently gunning toward Grand Avenue was a new model—stolen from a wealthy man in the suburbs, but that’s a different story altogether—that went from zero to sixty miles per hour in 5.4 seconds and featured the newest, cutting-edge brake, suspension, and electronic tech on the market crafted by those brilliant little German minds over four thousand miles away. It was a compact and curvy road-hugger with a paint job that sported such a radiant shine it was almost criminal, and a soft yet throaty purr akin to a cougar that was currently signaling its intention to tear up the streets of Downtown Chicago.
And Billy had hopped on the hood the moment it began to peel out of the four-dollar-a-day parking lot.
“Holy shit!” Maria exclaimed.
Mr. Thompson turned the car hard to the right as he charged out of the lot, Billy turning into a starfish across the hood as he gripped onto the windshield wipers and held on for the ride.
Maria shouted out, “Billy!” as the car and her batshit insane partner glued onto it hooked a right and disappeared from sight. She turned to the perplexed and stunned attendant. “Give me a car!” she ordered. “Now!”
The gun she waved at him was more than enough to get him to comply.
The effort the Germans put into their design was no joke—Mr. Thompson’s (stolen) Porsche was a speedy little machine.
The needle was already up to twenty-five miles per hour by the time Mr. Thompson had accelerated west down Grand, the three-lane road occupied by only four other—and much slower—vehicles travelling away from the parade.
Billy, wind batting at his face as he pressed his cheek against the lower part of the windshield, finally caught up mentally with his split-section decision to body surf on the outside of a sports car. Even though Mr. Thompson was only clocking twenty-five, a fairly low and safe speed, hanging on the outside of the car while it was going that fast was a completely different story.
“Oh, buddy,” Billy said to himself as he saw the blurred shapes of the pedestrians looking on incredulously fly past him. “What the hell are you doing?”
He turned his focus back to the windshield and caught Mr. Thompson leaning forward to get a better view at the cop clasped on his car, their faces mere inches from one another through the glass as Billy hollered out, “You mind slowing down?”
Mr. Thompson responded by quickly jerking the wheel from left-to-right. The car shook. Billy almost lost his grip.
“Dick!” he said with a grunt.
Billy looked over his right shoulder—an Oldsmobile and a Plymouth were creeping up from twenty feet ahead of the Porsche.
Mr. Thompson responded by tapping the brakes and slowing the Porsche down to around twenty miles per hour, dodging from right to left between the cars with grade-A proficiency before settling back into the first lane.
Still clinging on with his fingers intertwined around the windshield wipers, Billy felt his legs sway from one side of the hood to the other, the heat from the engine underneath warming his chest as the smells of the street whipped him in the face.
“This was stupid, Billy,” he said to himself. “Brilliant idea, numb nuts.”
Coming up on the Porsche’s left, around thirty feet away near the corner of Grand and St. Clair, a crew of orange-vested construction workers threw jagged pieces of busted-up plaster and cardboard into a giant pile on the sidewalk. The building next to them was retrofitted with catwalks, scaffolding, and yellow garbage chutes running down from upper-story windows like tentacles that fed int
o a dumpster jutting out into the first lane of Grand Avenue and condensing the three lanes of cars into two—right where the traffic was beginning to pile up to a stop.
Mr. Thompson slowed the Porsche back down to fifteen and pulled out his gun. Billy caught a glimpse of it sticking out the window by the time they were fifteen feet from the rear end of the traffic.
One shot and it was all over.
“Shit!” Billy shouted.
He glanced over his shoulder to the right, spotted a possible (and risky) way out, and made another split-section decision.
“This is a bad idea!”
Before Mr. Thompson could fire off his shot, Billy glued his eyes onto the pile of plaster spilling out of the dumpster onto the sidewalk coming up on his right.
He took a breath.
Then he rolled off the Porsche.
Now, a lawman like Billy Reese didn’t rely on some ingrained, mathematical, military, or federally instilled technique when it came to doing his job. He went with his gut. He followed his instincts. And it (usually) paid off. So when it came to the notion of rolling off a moving car, Billy’s reasoning and rationale was still the same. In this case, one thought, one very quick thought, had flashed through his brain as he made the quick decision to roll off the hood: David Starsky from Starsky and Hutch.
Foolish or clever—probably foolish—Billy did a fairly decent job at imitating some bastardized version of the fictional cop’s famous hood slide. Eight feet out from the pile of plaster, the Porsche still clocking about twenty miles per hour, Billy rolled to the right, flew about three feet, and landed smack dab in the middle of the pile of busted-up drywall outside the dumpster, a white cloud of powder and broken chunks of plaster pluming into the air as soon as he made impact.
