by Johnny Shaw
At the end of the hall, there was a large window. Andy’s view was exclusively of the adjoining building’s roof, one floor below. The roof was flat but covered in vents, ductwork, and other utility units. Stacks of construction material crowded the already dense space.
On the roof, Rocco was pinned down by rifle fire. He hunched behind a large air-conditioning vent. A tall man in full camouflage poked out from behind cover and fired shots from an assault rifle that pinged off the metal above Rocco’s head. Norman Hopewell. It had to be. Only an asshole wore forest camouflage in the city.
Andy may have only known Rocco for a short amount of time, but he wasn’t going to let an asshole shoot at his father.
Andy looked down at the machine-gun pistol in his hand, making sure that he knew how to operate it. The window didn’t open, so he aimed the weapon at the camouflaged man through the glass. When he opened fire, two things happened: glass shards went everywhere, and he missed horribly. If he was being honest, he came closer to hitting Rocco.
Both Hopewell and Rocco looked up in his direction. Nerves and window refraction out of the way, Andy fired again, missing but not embarrassingly so. Hopewell hadn’t even bothered to dive for cover. Hopewell brought his rifle to his shoulder.
Andy dove backward down the hall. Gunfire ripped through the ceiling above him, raining ceiling tile debris on his head. Hopewell was a much better shot than he was.
Once the gunfire ceased, Andy crawled through the broken glass to the window. Hopewell moved along the edge of the roof. A glance to the window, but back to concentrating on Rocco’s position. If Hopewell made it to the corner and around some ductwork, he would flank Rocco.
Andy yelled Rocco’s name. Rocco gave Andy a thumbs-up, followed by a bunch of hand gestures that Andy didn’t understand.
“I have no idea what that means!” Andy shouted and pointed. “Hopewell is coming around to your right. To your right.”
Rocco pointed at his ear and shook his head. He shouted what was probably “I can’t hear you,” but it sounded like “My man mere moo.”
Andy checked Hopewell’s position and threw one leg over the edge of the window, then the other. Cutting his hands, he lowered his body down the side of the building. When he was fully extended, hanging from his hands, he knew he needed to let go. He glanced down, realizing he’d miscalculated. What he thought would only be a few feet was more like ten. He would have to get his eyes checked if he survived the day. He tried to do a chin-up and pull himself back up, but we all know how that went.
Bullets flying in one’s direction were a great motivator. The moment he heard the first shot, his fingers released. His feet landed on the pebbled roof, knees buckling beneath him and pain shooting up his thighs. He fell onto his side, protected from any more gunfire by a large generator.
Using the air-conditioning ducts for cover, he crawled in Rocco’s direction, kicking with his legs like swimming on the ground.
Andy peeked over the edge of the ductwork. Rocco was only ten yards away, looking right in Andy’s direction.
“Hopewell is somewhere to the right,” Andy said. “He’s flanking you.”
Andy’s message arrived too late. Hopewell stepped out from the stairwell structure at the corner of the roof. Rocco’s back might as well have had a bullseye painted on it.
The camouflaged military man smiled.
Andy rose, screamed gibberish, and fired his machine-gun pistol. Which was empty. Which was bad.
Hopewell shifted his rifle away from Rocco and pointed it at Andy’s head.
CHAPTER 36
I don’t find any of it funny anymore.
—Reported last words of Auction City seamstress Candy Maxwell right before she stepped off the O’Donoghue Street railway platform. She was killed a second later by the oncoming H train (1956).
In the moment before his imminent demise, Andy’s world went quiet. He didn’t hear the fighting on the street, the chaos of the city, or Hopewell’s cruel laughter. A peaceful second of contemplation that could have been spent on philosophy and the nature of man. The only thing that went through his head was his acknowledgment of the pathetic metaphor of an empty gun. Why did there have to be so many symbols for impotence? If Andy survived, he would get back on the dating circuit. It couldn’t be that much more painful or frightening than getting shot at.
Hopewell fired his weapon, but the bullets never reached Andy.
When Andy opened his eyes, he saw Rocco holding a heavy piece of sheet metal in front of him. Hopewell’s bullets were pinging off it, the ricochet sound as loud as the rifle. The steel dimpled, but the bullets didn’t puncture it.
Andy ducked for cover. He chucked the empty machine-gun pistol and pulled his revolver. He crawled along the edge of the ductwork, trying to get a better angle at Hopewell from the side.
Hopewell marched forward toward Rocco. A volley of his shots tore into the exposed fingers of Rocco’s left hand, spraying blood and flaying them to the bone. Rocco winced and fell to a knee, but he held on to the heavy sheet of metal. It must have weighed close to eighty pounds. Hopewell reached Rocco, standing over the shielded man.
Andy rose from behind his cover and fired his pistol. All three shots hit their mark. The hand, the shoulder, and the neck. Hopewell fell a few feet from Rocco, one hand clutching his neck.
Andy jumped the ductwork and ran to the two men. He kicked Hopewell’s gun away. Andy pulled Rocco’s handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped his father’s fingers, the white fabric immediately saturated by blood.
“Nice shootin’,” Rocco said.
“Thanks,” Andy said. He started lifting the metal sheet to pull it off Rocco.
Rocco nodded his head toward Hopewell. “Make sure.”
Hopewell was alive, fingers reaching for his rifle a foot away. More instinct than purpose. Andy kicked the rifle farther across the roof.
Hopewell laughed. “Well, ain’t that a pisser.”
“Why didn’t you run?”
“No better way to go than doing the thing you love.”
“There’s still time to get help,” Andy said.
“People don’t survive grenades.”
“What do you—”
Andy dove back. He pulled the sheet of metal off Rocco and flipped it on its end on top of Hopewell, then shielded Rocco’s body with his own, arms around the old man’s head. Nothing happened for exactly two seconds. Like the awkward moment holding a smile waiting for someone to take a photo.
The sheet of metal only slightly contained the grenade blast. Andy felt the heat and shock wave on his legs and the bottoms of his feet. Pebbles from the roof sandblasted his exposed skin. Small projectiles, but nothing big enough to kill him. Scratches on his scratches. Bruises on his bruises.
When Andy looked, a hole had replaced Hopewell on the roof. No sign of the military man. The sheet of steel flew in the air thirty feet above like a piece of cardboard caught in the wind. It reached the apex of its ascent, arced, and plummeted. Rocco and Andy lay directly in its flight path. Andy picked up Rocco by the armpits and push-dragged him toward the edge of the roof.
The bent sheet of metal stabbed through the roof like a knife. It cut through multiple floors, slicing its way through the center of the building.
Andy held his father. “This is where you say you’re too old for this shit.”
“You’re only as young as you feel,” Rocco said. “And frankly, right now I feel two thousand years old.”
Leaning heavily into Andy, Rocco guided them through the maze of the building. Andy’s body hurt like hell, but he was past complaining. He imagined himself in a full body cast. His idea of a vacation.
Smoke filled the hallways, a fire burning somewhere in the building. Turning a corner, they almost ran into Frank Whittle, the prison guard. Armed with two kitchen knives, he looked crazed.
“I got one of them to admit it,” Whittle said. “It was police that killed Connor.”
“Not all of th
em,” Rocco said. “Gray, Robinson, the Thorntons.”
Whittle shrugged. “Cops are cops.” He ran in the opposite direction reciting “This Little Piggy” in an eerie, singsong falsetto.
Back in the foyer of 6243 Holt Avenue, Andy and Rocco walked over the bodies to the front door.
“Hold on a second,” Andy said. He scoped the ground and found a revolver. He checked to make sure it was loaded and rejoined Rocco. “Feels ghoulish, but mine’s empty.”
“He’s not going to need it,” Rocco said.
“You should wait it out in here.”
“And miss all the fun?” Rocco said. “I’ve never shied away from a fight in my life.”
“You should listen to yourself sometime,” Andy said. “I’m going to get you somewhere safe. Then I’m going to get Champ and Mac out of here. I got enough fight for that.”
Andy opened the door, and the two men walked out onto Holt Avenue.
The chaos had ended but not the threat. Instead of the expected bedlam, the police and their opponents had divided into two clear fronts. A row of police cars blocked one side of the street. On the other side, everyone else: Trust, 893, Consolidated, a few priests, and most surprisingly, some police officers.
Police helicopters flew overhead. It appeared that they were corralling the TV helicopters, keeping them from getting a shot of the action.
Behind a Crown Vic barricade, Hank Robinson stood with a bullhorn in one hand and a revolver in the other. The cops around him looked mostly like Thorntons with a few scattered loyalists. Not many left. Robinson was done. His Alamo.
With Rocco on his arm, Andy made his way through the crowd. Pilar and a few of her girls found them.
“What is this?” Andy asked.
“Good. You’re here.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Andy said. “Here for what?”
Pilar walked into the no man’s land between the two groups, facing Robinson and his men.
“I can make it on my own,” Rocco said. Andy let go of him. Rocco gingerly limped next to Pilar. Andy didn’t understand, but he knew what he was supposed to do. He joined them, standing next to his father.
Out of the crowd, Agnes and Hiro emerged and joined the line. Floodgate stood strong. The five of them faced the police. Kate was going to be upset that she missed this moment, Andy acting as her proxy. The affiliated men and women behind them stood quiet and ready.
One of Robinson’s men swore, took off his badge, set it on the hood, and walked toward them. They let him pass. Another did the same and followed. Robinson shouted into the bullhorn. In his frustration, he had forgotten to turn it on. He threw it on the ground, plastic shards scattering against the asphalt.
“It’s over, Hank,” Rocco said. “You can’t win this.”
“I’m not trying to win anything.”
“What are you trying to do?” Rocco said. “What do you want?”
“Satisfaction,” Robinson said. “Boys, you ready to show them?”
The five remaining Thorntons shouted, “Hooah!” They tossed their weapons to the side, balled their fists, and formed a row of their own. Three generations of goons represented, donnybrook ready. Raised on corned beef and John Wayne.
High noon at midnight.
“Oh, screw this,” a voice said from behind Andy. He turned slightly to see the current head of the ACPD Fiscal Division, Randall Ashley, walk from the crowd, past Floodgate, and into the street between. He stripped off his dress blues as he walked, shedding both jacket and shirt.
Down to his tank top, Ashley stopped in the middle of the street and struck a barehanded boxer’s pose, left held high. “You want satisfaction, Hank? Step up and take your beating. This has been a long time coming.”
“Like hell!” Robinson yelled, tearing off his coat and walking past the Thorntons. They looked at each other, confused, but that was nothing new. “You’ve never been anything but a chicken-livered suck-up.”
The two old men circled each other, pumping their arms, throwing jabs, and yelling insults at each other.
“Skulker.”
“Poltroon.”
“Bully.”
“Wimp.”
Rocco put a hand on Andy’s shoulder for balance. Andy gave him a look. Rocco shrugged.
With the police and gangs of criminals as their audience, two old men beat the hell out of each other in the middle of the street. A war reduced to name-calling and a playground scuffle.
“What can you do?” Rocco said. “It’s Auction City.”
1929–1986
LONG PAST DAYS
According to the history books, the Flood lasted one day. The truce, hours. But it took almost two years to pull the city from anarchy. To establish peace and balance. To rebuild enough to live. For those two years, I worked ceaselessly with Floodgate. Not a single day off. They treated me with respect. I was embraced by men I admired. The work felt important. I felt important.
Between crises and injuries, I thought of her every day. At the time I didn’t even know her name.
When I could, I looked, asked, tried to find her. With only a description. In a town scattered and surviving. No one could help me. They couldn’t help themselves.
When Floodgate disbanded—or so I thought—I went back to working for Fat Jimmy and the Trust. Back to being a hoodlum. More time to look for the girl, but every day my drive faded a little. I hadn’t forgotten her. Only stopped looking. Out there somewhere. A nice memory, but she was lost to me.
I worked the rackets until December 1941. Pearl Harbor. Fat Jimmy was a patriotic man. Encouraged those of age to do their duty. I joined the marines. Had always liked boats. Never been on one but fancied how they looked.
The USS San Juan wasn’t like the sailboats or barges in the river. It was the vessel that chauffeured me to battle. Guadalcanal. The Solomons. Unlike the young soldiers I fought alongside, the Flood had prepared me for the horrors of war. The only soldier in a foxhole having flashbacks to an even more violent time.
The war ended. I returned to Auction. Fat Jimmy had succumbed to his vices, and his son, Tony, had taken his place. Out of respect, he gave me a managerial position, but the organization was changing. Until Sal made his deathbed pitch, and I was back in a Floodgate.
A case I had been working took me to Gallows Terrace. Something about stolen art or art forgery. The Chinese had some gripes about national treasures. It was all very complicated.
I had expected the maid or butler, but the woman of the house opened the door. It was her. It was the girl. Standing in the doorway of a Gallows Terrace mansion. The red-haired girl I had met in the sewers under the city. Twenty years older. A woman. More beautiful. Radiant. Real.
She gave me a bored look, then recognition. A hand to her mouth. Eyes big. She looked over my shoulder and made her face neutral. My partner, Father Mickey, was with me, in civvies, not his collar. He joined us. Formally, she introduced herself as Mrs. Elizabeth McIntyre. The first time I heard her name, but all I heard was the Mrs. part.
In what I guessed was the parlor, the three of us sat. Elizabeth and I traded glances. Mickey had questions about the art thing. The reason for our visit. She provided answers. Yes, her husband was overseas. Yes, he spent a lot of time in Asia. Yes, he had an import-export business. We already knew all that. He was a Trust man, working with the Triads. I had no idea what she knew about that, under the impression that we were insurance investigators.
When we were done, I reached for my business card, acted like I didn’t have any, and asked Mickey to get them from the glove box. Gave us a minute.
“I looked for you,” I said.
“I didn’t want to come home. I couldn’t stay in Auction. Spent six months in New York. My parents found me, shipped me to Europe,” she said. “Boarding school.”
“You’re from the Terrace?”
“That day, I had run away from home. Why I was in the city when the Flood began. It wasn’t important where I was from, because I
had no plans to return.”
“Yet here you are,” I said. “Back in Gallows Terrace.”
She didn’t say anything. Studied my face. Smiled.
“I want to see you,” I said.
“That’s a bad idea,” she said.
“Some of the best ideas I’ve ever had have been the worst ones.”
Mickey walked back into the parlor. Business cards in hand.
It didn’t matter. I knew where she was. Who she was. How to find her. If I could wait twenty years, I could wait however much longer.
I used the art-smuggling investigation as an excuse to drop by. Often. Damn near every day. Using my imagination to fabricate reasons.
It took some asking. Some persistence. A lot of begging. She finally agreed to have dinner with me.
Her resistance wasn’t that she was uninterested. She told me she was. But she was married. We hadn’t seen each other in twenty years. And didn’t know each other then or now. But we had shared something important. Only one day, maybe. But when your one day is the Flood, how many more do you need? How much more are you going to learn about a person?
We went to dinner at a roadhouse out past Cedarville. No cloth napkins or two forks for them. Lucky to get your food on a plate. Even in the rustic environs, I wore my funeral suit. Looked sharp. She stunned in green.
She looked over her shoulder through dinner. Worried she’d get recognized. But the three drunks and the working girl at the bar weren’t interested in a couple of city folk unless they were buying the next round.
We talked nonstop. Relived that day. All the thoughts that were never words. Tried to fill the two-decade gap. My life so full of secrets that I kept to the war. Stories I didn’t like telling. I let her do the talking.
I had known nothing in ’29. My picture of her constructed from that day and my imagination had all been wrong. She was from a different world. She ran among people I didn’t understand. But I knew her better than she thought. Because I knew her strength. Her courage. Her laugh and her smile.
