by Seth Harwood
“Oh, shit.” Niki looks across the street, away from the cops. “What are they doing?”
“It looks like these bastards are making us,” Jack says, as the two start flipping through pages in their books. They both stop and look up at the SUV at the same time, directly at Niki, and start walking toward the car.
“Oh, shit.” Jack drops his cigarette out the window and rolls it up. Al still hasn’t lit his; it sticks out of his mouth, cold. “They’re coming over.”
“Fuck these guys,” Shaw says. “I’d tell you to drive, but you’re not getting anywhere in this traffic.”
“So what the fuck we do?”
Vlade says calmly, “We tell them that we are lost and ask them in Czech if they can give us directions.”
Jack grunts. He takes his phone out. “I’m calling Gannon.”
The first policeman steps off the curb about ten feet from their car. Up ahead, the light turns to green and the cars creep forward. Jack dials as Niki eases up the block.
“Stop,” the first cop says. He holds up one hand and waves Niki toward the curb with the other. Niki looks over at Vlade, and Vlade shrugs. Gannon’s phone starts to ring.
If they drive forward, they have about ten feet to go before they hit the back of another car. Along the right side of the street, parked cars block the sidewalk and its pedestrians, and on the left are the two cops and Union Square. Even if they could get past the cops, the sidewalks and openings in the small park aren’t big enough to get the car through—too many vending carts.
“You’ve got to pull over now,” Shaw says.
Niki starts toward the curb, and Jack hears Gannon’s phone ring again.
The second patrolman, still holding his notebook, steps toward the Escalade, at about the same time as Niki stops short. The cop wears big mirrored sunglasses like the heaviest cliched version of an officer. He motions again toward the curb, and Niki complies.
“What is wrong with this prick?” Shaw asks.
The first patrolman steps closer and then raps on Niki’s window with his knuckles. Jack looks down, into his lap, wishing he had a hat on and hoping he won’t be recognized. He hears the sound of Niki’s window lowering.
“Yes, Officer,” Niki says. Jack looks away.
“License and registration, sir. We’re stopping random cars today to check for an international terrorist.” The cop puts his head toward the open window, but Niki leans forward, sitting up to reach for his back pocket and his wallet, covering the small space.
“Terrorists?”
“This is just a random check, sir.”
The other cop, Mirrors, starts to walk around the car, trying to look through the tinted windows. His glasses are less than three feet from Jack’s.
On the other end of the phone, Jack hears Gannon’s voicemail message start to play. He hangs up.
Softly, he says, “This is roll-the-dice time, boys. What do we do?”
13
A Few Good Men
“We’re not rolling any dice here,” Shaw tells them. “We play this cool for now.”
Al starts to shake his head. He takes the still-unlit cigarette out of his mouth. “We are not the cool cucumbers here.”
Vlade gives the three of them a stern look from the front seat. “In Russia we are stopped by the polices,” he says, putting on an even thicker accent, loud enough for the cop to hear. “But in the U.S. I thought it was land of free.”
The cop looks over at Vlade, holds his hand out for Niki’s information. “How many passengers are you carrying today, sir?”
Niki looks up from his wallet, meets the officer’s gaze. The officer looks into the back seat, squinting to adjust his eyes to the dimness.
“Would you mind asking your passengers to step out of the car?”
“I wonder if you can tell me how to get to Fisherman’s Wharf?” Niki says. “We are looking to see the sea lions.”
“Sir,” the officer says, placing his hand on his gun and unbuttoning the strap over its holster. “Please turn off the ignition and step out of the car.”
Next to Jack, the other patrolman cups his hands around his mirrored lenses and leans in toward the window. Jack looks the other way, to where Shaw’s reaching inside his jacket. He removes his wallet, flips it open and leans forward into the front of the car. “Officer, I’m on a special assignment with these men,” he says. “They’re under my custody.”
The patrolman reaches inside the car for Shaw’s badge, but Shaw holds it out of reach.
“May I see your identification, Officer?” the patrolman says.
Jack’s head buzzes with the tension of the situation and the coffee and the cigarette. He wants to reach for the Vicodin and take two to ease it all away.
“You know Sergeant Mills Hopkins, Officer?” Shaw says.
“I know him, yes. He’s been missing for two days.” The guy’s hand goes back to his gun and his friend stands back from the car. “Maybe you know something about this?” Seeing his partner reaching for the weapon, Mirrors does the same. Jack can see them both—too close—standing next to the car, hands on their guns.
“This is fucking sweet,” Jack says.
“What did you say?” the cop sticks his head further in the window, looking back trying to see Jack. Up ahead of their car, the traffic’s lightened, thinned momentarily. Jack wishes Niki would just gun it and drive their asses away from these two, but they probably wouldn’t get far. He sees the cop next to his door take another step back, too far now for Jack to hit him by opening it.
“I said this is an obstruction of justice,” Jack says, raising his voice.
“Fuck.” Shaw sits back, shaking his head.
“I can’t believe this scene is happening! We’re supposed to be trying to go after the killer of Sergeant Mills Hopkins on a joint task force FBI mission and now we’re sitting here dicking around with these two. Show them your damn badge and let’s get on with this!”
Jack can feel Al pulling away from him. Vlade looks down, puts his hand over his eyes.
And Jack keeps going, “We’re on a special order from Agent Jane Gannon of the FBI and these gentlemen are helping us with her orders. Is that good enough for you, Officer?”
Now the patrolman stutters. “I—”
“If you detain us and require our identification any further, we will most certainly lose the lead that we are tracking here! Terrorists? You think these aren’t the bunch that we’re tracking? You don’t think these are the least of your city’s problems right this minute?”
The cop steps back, clearly not sure what to make of the situation, not used to someone else taking control. “I—I think you should lower your voice, sir.”
“You’re damn right I should lower my voice!” Jack leans forward toward Niki’s window, practically yelling. “I should lower my voice and call in my superiors and give them your fucking badge number, Officer. What is your name?”
“I—"
Jack can see the name “J. Blake” embroidered on the cop’s uniform on the side opposite his badge. “Officer Blake, if I have to fly back to New York City and tell my chiefs at Homeland Security that San Francisco is a fucking loss completely and that we lost a cop-killer terrorist motherfuck because a goddamned beat cop stopped us on the street, you can be guaranteed that your name will be attached to that report.”
The cop starts to hold his pad toward the car, but Jack cuts him off. “Do you understand what will happen to your career if our conclusion to this case is that the corruption in San Francisco’s own police department cannot be stopped because beat cops are too stupid to get out of federal agents’ way?” Jack grabs Shaw’s wallet out of his hand, shoves the badge toward the cop.
The officer’s eyes dart from Shaw’s badge, to Shaw’s face, to what he can see of Jack. The cop’s lips are still parted as if to speak, but he doesn’t. If a fly happened by, it’d feel perfectly welcome landing on Officer Blake’s
tongue.
“Now do you want to tell me what this is about, or do you want to let us go handle the lowlifes that killed your Sergeant Hopkins?”
“I—” The patrolman flips through the pages of his pad. “I have reason to suspect—” He holds up an old picture of Jack, taken from the pages of the Enquirer after his first arrest.
Jack raises his voice again, projecting from his diaphragm and booming like Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men. “Full respect, son, but your police chief has his dick in a sixteen-year-old Russian whore. Do you want to know that? Is that who your orders come from? Sergeant Mills Hopkins looks into it and now he’s missing. When this is over, you want to be the cop that stopped his murderers from getting caught?” Jack hands Jane Gannon’s card through the window. “Call Agent Jane Gannon for clarification. And who the fuck is that in your picture? You think showing around some movie star is going to get you his autograph? What are you trying to run here, Officer? That is a picture of a bad fucking actor. You want to look for autographs, I’d say start checking strip clubs and crack dens. Now kindly get out of our way.”
The patrolman takes a small step back away from the car, toward the curb. His friend has already stepped back up onto it and taken off his mirrored glasses. He holds them by his side and lifts his other hand as if he’s not sure whether he should salute or not.
“We’ll be leaving now,” Jack says. “Leaving to do what this city really needs. You call the number on that card there. Speak to the FBI and Agent Jefferson at our Homeland Security New York office. Ask them who we are.”
The cop steps back, up onto the curb, and stands on the sidewalk next to his partner. The two of them look at the pad, then at Gannon’s card, then back at the car. One of them looks back over his shoulder at the two patrol cars on the south side of the square.
Niki shifts the car into drive and starts moving forward; he pulls out into the street where the traffic’s now flowing freely toward the light. Al turns around to look back as they go, watching the police behind them, Mirrors and Blake, who still have dumbstruck looks on their faces.
“Well.” Shaw takes his wallet back from Jack. “Shit. The fuck was that?”
Jack shakes his head. He rolls his window down halfway to where it stops on its own and takes his pack of cigarettes back from Al. “Fuck,” he says, exhaling deeply. He shakes another cigarette out of the pack, takes the lighter out of Al’s hand, and lights it himself.
Vlade’s turned all the way around in his seat, looking at Jack and maybe back at the cops. When they’ve passed through the first light and are into the next block, leaving Union Square, Jack takes a long drag. He exhales out the window. The breeze coming in feels good on his face.
“How?” Vlade asks. “Who?”
“That was kind of fucked up, right?” Jack says.
Shaw laughs. “Oh hell yes. Who the fuck you just turn into?”
“Nicholson?” Jack says. “I think from A Few Good Men. Was that who it was? I think I was channeling that old bastard.”
“You cannot handle the truth,” Al says.
“That’s, right.”
“Or some asshole from Full Metal Jacket?” Shaw furrows his brow, studying Jack as if he’s just changed into a whole new person. “Platoon?”
Vlade laughs. “I like the Officer and the Gentleman.”
“What? I’m talking about some Hamburger Hill.”
Jack shakes his head and sits back in the big leather seat. He takes a deep drag, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs and holding it before he lets it out. His shoulder finally feels a little better.
“You shoot me in the fucking shoulder and set me off without some pain medication, and there’s no telling what I’ll do,” Jack says.
Shaw swears. “I can’t believe that fucking worked.”
“You guys really didn’t think I could act, did you?”
Everyone looks away from Jack. Suddenly the car’s quiet as it moves up the next block of Stockton. He takes a drag. “I know you saw the movie.”
“That is it,” Niki says. “Just, we saw you in the Shake ’Em Down. No. We do not think you can act.”
“What?” Jack’s phone begins to ring. “What the fuck is this now?”
He flips the phone open and before he can even answer it, he hears, “Jack Palms, you motherfuck.” The voice on the other end is unmistakable: Akakievich.
14
Drive
“Jack Palms,” Akakievich says in his deep voice, with his strong accent. “Did you have a good sleep?”
“How the fuck did you get this number?”
The others in the car look at Jack. He cups his hand over the receiver, tells them it’s Akakievich. Shaw swears and looks out the other side of the car. Vlade watches Jack for what he’ll do.
“Palms, did you enjoy your last night of sleep on this earth?”
“That’s very catchy, Alexi. You make that up yourself?”
“I saw it in a movie. Not yours.”
“You’re already stretching it, man. Last time we spoke, you said I’d be dead by now. And here I still am. You keep going back on your promises, I’m going to stop taking your word on anything.”
“Jack.”
“Yeah?”
“Jack Palms in the back seat of a black Escalade. How did you get away from those police?”
“Fuck.” Jack looks behind their car, to either side, and doesn’t see anything. “Where are you?”
“I am here.”
Niki slams on the breaks, and Jack’s thrown forward. He reaches to catch himself, not thinking, and the arm he uses is his left, which gets stopped by the sling, and Jack’s thrown against the front seat, his arm pushed against his chest, his bad shoulder taking the brunt of the hit, and his face bouncing off Niki’s headrest. Al’s practically thrown into the front seat, over the emergency brake and center console, and Shaw’s the only one who stays in place, the only one in the back seat who was wearing his seat belt. Then, as soon as Jack’s hit the front seat, he’s thrown back into his chair.
In front of the car, two black H2 Hummers jut out into the intersection ahead of them, blocking the Escalade’s path. Vlade reaches into his jacket for his gun.
Jack closes his eyes against the pain for a moment and hears Akakievich say, “Oh Jack. You should have be wearing your seat belt, my friend.”
“Get down,” Shaw barks, already opening his door and drawing his gun.
Jack throws himself across the back seat, into the space that Al’s now vacated. “Fuck yourself,” he says into the phone, and flips it closed.
Shaw leans out of the car and, using the door to shield his body, he steadies his arms on the open window, his weapon trained on the H2 to their right. He shoots twice at the car. “Drive!” he yells to Niki, who promptly throws the Escalade into reverse and into a backward spin clockwise that almost throws Shaw out of the car. Almost. Now Jack’s door faces the Hummers, and Niki shifts gears and guns the car forward onto another one-way street, heading east now as Shaw’s tossed back inside and the door whips closed beside him. Jack holds onto the rear seat to stay in place, and as the car jumps forward, Al’s thrown backward on top of Jack, onto his bad shoulder.
“Shoot them,” Al yells. “Shoot them!”
“Get the fuck off me!”
Al struggles to get a grip on the front seats and pull himself off Jack. Jack squirms to get up. As he does, he looks to see what’s happening, catches one glimpse of the right-side Hummer reversing itself into the Escalade on his side, and he ducks down again, forward this time. The car’s jolted from the left, its whole backside pushed to the right, and Jack’s door buckles in the middle. It makes a horrible screeching, metal-on-metal sound as Niki floors the accelerator, pulls free of the Hummer and takes off up the block. As soon as he can, he jumps out into the left lane to get around the traffic and stay ahead of the Hummers.
“Drive!” Shaw yells.
Jack’s
phone starts ringing again. “Fuck!” He flips it open and then closes it immediately.
Shaw looks up over the back seat. As Jack lifts himself to see out the back window, the first Hummer knocks the other one out of the way and starts coming up the street after the Escalade, fast.
“Get down,” Vlade yells, as he climbs over Al with his gun drawn and aims toward the rear window.
“This is going to get loud,” Jack says, doing his best to cup his ears with his hands, his sling-constrained left arm making him hunch up and push his chin into his stomach to do it.
Shaw’s got his weapon out too, and they both start shooting, firing out the back window toward the Hummer. The sound of the shots hits Jack like a slap against in his eardrums, even with his hands in the right places to protect them. Somewhere in all the noise, he hears the rear window shattering and wheels screeching on the ground.
Jack clenches his jaw, trying to avoid dropping more F-bombs, and wishing he’d taken a Vicodin back at Union Square when he had the chance. Somewhere in all of this, he’s lost his cigarette and he hopes it doesn’t set the car’s rug on fire.
“Hold on,” Niki yells, just before he slams the Escalade into a hard left turn that throws Jack into Al and pushes all of them against the right side of the car.
“Jesus,” Shaw says. “Get us out of here!”
In the next block ahead of them is a row of traffic and beyond it Jack can see the big Chinatown gate. “Where are they?” Niki calls back to Shaw.
“Don’t see yet.”
With the traffic piled up in the northbound lane ahead of them, and their car on its first two-way street, Niki jumps the car out into the oncoming traffic. A blue car swerves to get out of their way, and Niki does his best to stay in the middle of the road, as much as he can fit. A red sedan narrowly avoids hitting them, takes off the Escalade’s driver’s side mirror, and then passes within a foot of Jack’s window before it scrapes a shrill grind against a parked car. Niki swerves to avoid a truck, somehow finding a gap in the northbound traffic, then slams around another hard turn just before the big fancy gate to Chinatown, a right that throws them all back to the other side of the car. When Jack looks up, he sees the street’s another one-way, very luckily the way they’re going.
