Time's Up

by Janey Mack

  “Stop!” Niecy pointed a trembling finger at a bright yellow Volkswagen Jetta. I pulled over. “I got this,” she said. “You don’t look so good, kid.”

  I watched her struggle to open the door, get out, and approach the car one shaky step at a time.

  Sweet Jesus. She’s about to lose her job, her benefits, and after that, all her savings.

  Niecy wedged the ticket under the wiper blade and gave me a thumbs-up.

  I needed to think of something. And fast.

  Chapter 39

  Sick to my stomach over Niecy’s imminent termination, I spent an exhausting and unsuccessful night of searching for Ferret through the memorial service photos I’d reprinted from Walgreens again, before climbing in next to Hank.

  I woke up half-crushed in his bear hug at 4:45 a.m. knowing exactly how to save my partner’s job.

  Who would’ve thought This Gun for Hire was a sleep-cuddler?

  I eased out of his arms and hustled into the shower. By the time I was dried and dressed, Hank was out in the kitchen, pouring Lucky Charms into a bowl. “Hey,” he said, grabbing a couple Xenergy Cherry Lime drinks out of the fridge, popping the tops, and handing me one as I came around the counter. He clinked his can against mine. “Cereal?”

  “Uh, no thanks.”

  “Most important meal of the day.”

  “Yeah.” I made a face and waited until he ate another bite. “I didn’t notice any pepper spray in your light-arms kitchen drawer. You wouldn’t happen to have a can I could borrow, would you?”

  “Uh . . .” He ran a hand over the back of his head. “Check the junk drawer.”

  “Which is?”

  “Next to the fridge.”

  I pulled out the top drawer. Odd-shaped utensils.

  “No,” Hank said. “The big one.”

  What I thought was a cabinet door was actually a large drawer. Filled to the top. “Whoa.”

  “Sure you don’t want the sap?” he teased.

  “No, thank you.”

  I started taking out items and setting them on the counter. An Army ball cap, a dog-eared Dick Francis novel, several screwdrivers, road maps, an expired driver’s license with Hank’s photo and someone else’s name, a DVD of 1939’s Gunga Din, a bottle of gun oil, two hammers, a pair of scissors, raggedy T-shirt, six permanent markers, and more. A lot more.

  I held up a Beretta. “Maybe I should borrow this.”

  “Firing pin’s broken.” He came up behind me and set his Lucky Charms down next to the growing pile. “I’m not a tidy guy. Anything Wilhelm doesn’t know what to do with ends up in there.”

  “Hmmmm.” I held up a lavender Cosabella thong. “Like this?”

  “Like I said—” He yanked it out of my hands and threw it in the trash compactor. “It’s the junk drawer.” He hip-checked me out of the way and dug around in the drawer until he came up with a small black canister. “Call in sick today?”

  “You wish.”

  I closed and locked the Dispatch gate and pulled the Interceptor around to pick up my partner.

  Niecy opened the passenger door. “Holy shrimp! Where the hell am I supposed to sit?”

  We were locked and loaded with nine boots, one in the passenger side. “You’re not that big. Let’s go.”

  She wedged herself around the orange metal anchor and tried to turn. “Jeebus, McGrane. I can’t reach the dang door.”

  I got out and went around to her door. “You in?”

  She pointed a trembling finger and sniggered. “I ain’t seen one o’ them tin cans since The Dead broke up.”

  I turned. A faded electric-blue Suzuki Samurai was legitimately parked half a block up the street.

  Whatever.

  “Let’s focus on cars that are illegally parked, okay?” I closed her door and got back in the cart.

  “Where to, kid?”

  “Butch’s. Then we’re gonna go have us a couple of bacon breakfast sandwiches, listen to a little Prager, then go say hi to Leticia’s old boyfriend.”

  I stood in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust. Radio waves carrying Leticia’s voice echoed across the bar.

  “Like I be sayin’, Glenn. Jesus was a capitalist. Check it. The Parable of the Talents. It’s all there. Mmm-hmm.”

  Niecy, who could have found her way around Butch’s in a blackout, bellied up to the bar. “Ginger ale, barkeep.”

  The Glenn Beck show cut to commercial. “Hey,” I said. “Could we get a little Dennis Prager?”

  Wiping out a glass, Butch rolled his eyes at the tin ceiling. “Leticia was on Prager yesterday.” He threw a thumb toward the kitchen. “I have it on podcast in the office, if you’d like.”

  “Nah, the kid wouldn’t like,” Niecy said. “We’re havin’ an effin’ powwow.”

  We took a seat at a faux wood–grained Formica round. Butch brought over her soda and a bag of chips.

  He looked at me. “What can I get for you?”

  A double whiskey. “A Coke, please.”

  Butch left.

  “You’re thinking so hard I can see the smoke comin’ out your ears,” Niecy said, fighting with the potato chip bag. “What gives?”

  I waited the interminable forty seconds until she got the package open. “This is a make-or-break day for us,” I said softly.

  “I figured as much.” Seemingly unconcerned, she munched a couple of chips. But her rheumy eyes wouldn’t meet mine, and she had a hard time swallowing.

  “How’d you get Obi to issue us nine boots?” A teasing leer cracked her smear of peach lipstick. “You threaten him with sexual harassment?”

  “Nope. I just said please.”

  “The hell you did.”

  “Keep an eye on the kid, Niecy,” Butch said, putting the soda at my elbow. “I don’t want her checking out my package.”

  “That’s why we come here”—she gave a croupy laugh—“for the scenery.”

  We finished our sodas and left, drifting around writing tickets on Leticia’s route until 12:20 p.m. I pulled over around the corner from the golden alley and turned off the Interceptor.

  “What gives?” Niecy said.

  I unzipped the yellow-green reflective vest and reattached my radio to my shirt. “Can you drive?”

  “Of course I can drive.”

  “Now?” I folded up the vest and wedged it in a cargo pocket of my pants. Perfectly legal according to the Parking Enforcement Agent Manual, which explained that while the Loogie was “critical to the employee’s safety, it is not a mandatory component of the uniform as such.”

  “Yeah.” Niecy squinted at me. “Why?”

  “We’re poaching the Brotherhood.”

  “You got guts, kid.” Niecy dug in her purse. “Not much in the brains department, but you’ve got guts.”

  Hank’s Law Number One: You are defined by your disasters.

  “I need a minute,” I said.

  Niecy pulled out a pair of binoculars. “Preloading.”

  I got out of the Interceptor, typed 555-0162 on my phone, hit Send, and climbed into the hurt locker.

  Eleven rings. “Narkinney.”

  “Hiya, Tommy,” I said. “It’s Maisie.”

  Nothing.

  “McGrane,” I said.

  “I can read caller ID.”

  Good for you, window licker.

  “Whaddya want?” he said.

  “I thought I’d call you directly, seeing as you’re the TEB’s police liaison. Interceptor 13248 is requesting immediate police backup at the Brothers of Allah Prayer Center for multiple booting.”

  “You gotta be shitting me.”

  “Not really, no,” I said, a little stunned. I’d pretty much figured he’d come full-speed with sirens blaring for the chance to rub my face in it.

  There was a scuffling sound as I heard him cover the mouthpiece of the phone and say something to Peterson. He came back on the phone. “Liaison is subject to interpretation, grunt. First and foremost, we’re patrol officers. With a beat.”
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  WTF? “So?”

  “We’re eating.”

  “Eat and drive.”

  He snorted. “So that’s how you think it is, huh? You snap and I say how high?”

  Hank’s angry bear lesson flashed in my mind—Don’t insult. Don’t challenge. Don’t threaten. Give him an exit. “Not at all, Tommy. My partner and I need you.” I shuddered with revulsion. “Those Brotherhood guys are really scary.”

  “Well, now, whatcha wanna do, Molly Maid, is send it through Dispatch and wait for us to show.”

  I stifled a humongous sigh of annoyance. “I’ll do that. Thank you for your assistance, Officer.”

  I hit End and kicked the curb hard enough to feel it through my steel-toed work boot. Then radioed Obi for backup. When I finished, I got back on my phone.

  “What the friggin’ ficky-fick are you doing?” Niecy squawked from the window.

  “Saving our ass.” Just to be a pain in the ass, I sent Tommy a text, asking him politely for backup. Traceable insurance aka a little sand in his salad.

  Niecy and I swapped places. The Interceptor’s clock read 12:42. “Let’s roll.” The street looked as though Godzilla had walked down the street during rush hour, swipe-kicking the cars out of his path, like a mother trying to say good night in an eight-year-old’s bedroom.

  The very first car on the block was a boot. Three-hundred-dollar unpaid on a green Chevy Citation.

  How apropos.

  I got the orange Wolverine anchor on in forty seconds and sprinted back to the Interceptor, where Niecy held an enveloped ticket out the window. I slapped it on the hatchback parked full-on in the yellow zone.

  “Two boots,” she barked. “White Rio and the dog-crap tan Tahoe three up from it.”

  I booted the Rio. It’d be a hassle for the Boot Removal and Tow crew. The nose of the Rio was in the guy’s driveway, body across the sidewalk. A battered Monte Carlo blocked the Rio’s rump as well as the driveway egress.

  I hit Print on my AutoCITE, jammed the ticket in a wrinkled envelope, and slid it under the Monte’s windshield.

  “Quit writing tickets,” Niecy said. “Gimme your gun and boot the Tahoe.”

  I got that sunshine-and-lollipops feeling. Tahoe secured, six to go.

  The next three cars were philanthropists for the Save Niecy’s Benefits fund. Starting off in a no-parking zone. They were each multiple violation tickets. I walked them, confirming with the tape on my boots. “Off eighteen inches,” I said. “On curb. Water main.”

  We were smack-dab in front of the converted apartment building that housed the Brothers of Allah Prayer Center.

  Blood pulsed in my ears as I dropped the boot at the rear wheel of a red Caprice street side.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” shouted a man from across the street. And then the protests. A chorus of it.

  I put the plate against the hubcap. Here we go.

  But Niecy was no Leticia. “Call Obi,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Eh, they’re still on their own side of the street.”

  The wrench slipped twice. My hands were shaking from adrenaline. Shit. I exhaled a slow breath from my nose and finished tightening the plate. “Call!”

  “Wuss.”

  It’s really one of life’s joys, having a partner who has your back.

  An angry man popped up across the Caprice’s hood. “Didn’t you learn from last time, daughter of a whore’s shoe?”

  I recognized him immediately. The miscreant I’d had kissing the car hood. The one who broke my radio. He smelled like he hadn’t had a bath since our last encounter.

  Good times. Good times.

  Boot secure, I stood up and moved toward the front of the Caprice. No-Bath kept his distance. “You ticket us to embarrass us,” he spat. “To persecute Allah’s faithful.”

  Over his shoulder, the rest of the block looked like a bunch of Driver’s Ed kids had dropped acid before their first parking lesson. I tried not to smile. “I ticket cars that don’t follow the traffic laws of the state of Illinois.”

  No-Bath rushed me.

  I cringed toward the car, let him in close, then sidestepped into the street. No-Bath caught the Caprice’s driver’s-side mirror in the chest. It folded over and cracked against the window. That dampened the misogynistic banter coming from across the street. For about half a second.

  Niecy shrieked with laughter and pulled the Interceptor up behind me. No-Bath bent over the Caprice’s trunk, trying to recover his desert wind.

  “Green Versa.” She held a ticket out the window.

  With a glance at No-Bath—still prone—I grabbed it, trotted ahead to the car, and jammed it under the wiper.

  “Boot!” Niecy called, the Interceptor idling in the center of the street as she ran tickets for the pair double-parked on her right. “Rusty Mercury six cars up.”

  I glanced up the block. A faded electric-blue Suzuki Samurai revved its engine. Hadn’t we just seen that thing? The Brothers of Allah’s flock now lined both sides of the street, cranking the obscenity volume up to a Spinal Tap eleven.

  Cripes. When is Narkinney going to show up?

  “Get the friggin’ boot, McGrane!”

  I jogged over to the Interceptor’s trunk and halted. Four men, one with an aluminum baseball bat, approached the rear of the cart.

  Shit. Hank’s pepper spray was in the Interceptor.

  “We gotta get out of here,” I said, backing around the front of the cart.

  “A little too fuckin’ late for that, bitch.”

  I spun around. Leticia’s archenemy, Marcus, grabbed me by the shirt with both hands and propelled me like a tackling dummy up the middle of the street.

  I got my arms inside his grasp, popped my fists up, and slammed my arms down on top of his. He let go and I staggered backwards. “It’s a felony to touch a parking enforcement agent, Marcus.”

  He stiffened. Surprised I knew his name.

  “Yeah?” He leered. “I don’t see no witnesses around.”

  Whatever.

  Through the windshield, I saw Niecy on the radio. Thank God.

  An earsplitting squeal sounded at the end of the block. I did what Hank taught me never to do. I took my eyes off the nearest threat and glanced at the Japanese Jeep bucking in place at the end of the block.

  Marcus shoved me in the back.

  I took a header onto the asphalt, shredding my hands and knees on the pavement. I scrambled to my feet, ready to give Marcus the what for.

  The Suzuki Samurai dropped into gear and charged me.

  I faked left, the Suzuki swerved. I stutter-stepped to the right and froze as I got a good look at the driver. He had a big white bandage over his ear.

  Ferret.

  I cut back left again. Ferret cycled the wheel as I threw myself toward a pickup truck, smacking the back of my head on the running board as I rolled underneath the truck bed.

  The screech of rubber combined with the crumpling of steel and explosion of glass and plastic was one of the worst sounds I’d ever heard.

  Oh no. Oh no.

  I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees and forced myself to turn around and look. The Samurai lay on its side, wheels spinning, engine whining, the Interceptor crushed between the Jeep’s nose and a red Ford Taurus.

  I got to my feet and ran toward the wreck. “Call nine-one-one!”

  The men backed away. No one lifted a finger. Jaysus!

  The glass face was cracked on my phone, but it still worked. “We need an ambulance, police, and fire truck at the Brothers of Allah Prayer Center.”

  “Stay on the line, please.”

  “I can’t!” Leaving it on, I jammed it in my back pocket and climbed on the hood of the Taurus. “Niecy? Can you hear me?” The windshield of the Interceptor was a mangled but intact spiderweb around her. “Niecy!” I couldn’t see her. “Niecy, help’s on the way!”

  Fifty yards away, Ferret fought his way out of the Samurai’s passenger window. He glared at me,
flipped me off with a latex-gloved finger, and disappeared into the welcoming crowd.

  Not a sound. Not a movement from the smashed cockpit.

  I couldn’t get to her, much less get her out.

  Far off in the distance, the faint aria of emergency vehicles sounded. I sank down on the hood. The blare of sirens came closer. I lay back on the Taurus’s windshield, waiting for the bright blue and red lights, certain that Niecy was going to be okay.

  Had to be okay.

  Chapter 40

  The CPD in its officious blue and white, two ambulances, and the sublime scarlet fire truck arrived all at once. Men of all shapes and uniforms spread out and took over in a display of true American efficiency, freeing the crumpled soda can of an Interceptor from the Samurai.

  I swayed.

  “Are you hurt?” a detective asked me.

  “No,” I said.

  He eyed me up and down. “You look a little dinged up to me. Why don’t you sit down on the curb and I’ll get one of the EMTs to check you out.”

  I scanned the paramedics, looking for Ernesto. Not this call, I guess.

  “I got this one,” Tommy Narkinney said from behind me, fingers closing on my arm.

  He hustled me away from the noise, bumping and nudging me past the ambulance and the firemen. “Always gotta be the goddamn center of attention, dontcha? Fucking showboat.”

  He was too imbecilic to respond to.

  Tommy opened the rear door of his squad car and shoved me in, pressing my head down perp-style. “For once in your life, you’re gonna stay quiet.” He closed the door and went back to the fray.

  The emergency crew peeled back the Interceptor roof like the top of a sardine can. I sat watching from the back of the squad car and realized I couldn’t open the damn door.

  Paramedics surrounded the Interceptor. One mouthed okay with a thumbs-up and motioned for a stretcher. Between the broad-shouldered navy uniforms, I got a glimpse of Niecy’s tiny white hand gesturing to them.

  Thank God.

  I got my broken phone out and called Hank.

  “Maisie? Are you okay?”

  “Um . . . yeah. Yeah,” I said, not really knowing. “I’m in the back of Nark’s squad car. They’re taking me to the station and loading Niecy in an ambulance and Nark—that bastard—”