by Nick Stone
‘Safekeepin’ my ass! You just about the keepin’ part! You just told me–and everyone else here–you didn’t even go to the store!’ And without letting go of Mandel’s arm, she turned to the crowd. ‘Didn’t y’all hear him say that?’
‘YES, WE DID!’ the crowd hollered back.
‘DIDN’T. Y’ALL. HEAR. HIM. SAY THAT!’
‘YES WE DID!’
‘You lyin’-ass thievin’-ass corrupt cop!’ Garcelle said to Mandel.
‘Let’s kick they asses!’ a man yelled.
‘Give this back!’ The woman grabbed at the bag’s handle, but the cop held on. They struggled. Garcelle, urged on by the onlookers, was getting the upper hand while Mandel was losing his grip and with it his nerve.
Penabaz saw this and knew it was time for drastic action.
He drew his gun and pointed it at Garcelle.
‘Let go and step away NOW!’
She didn’t. He cocked the hammer to emphasize his intent.
The crowd backed off a little.
Garcelle let go of the bag but didn’t move away. She stood where she was with her hands by her sides, terrified, incredulous and above all angry. There were tears in her eyes.
‘Roro worked all his goddamned life for that money,’ she said. ‘And you–you just steal it offa him.’
The cops began to back away.
‘You should be ashamed of yourselves!’ Garcelle yelled after them. ‘And I got your names too! Penabaz and Mandel. I’m gonna report your thievin’ asses!’
Mandel stopped walking.
‘Fuck this,’ he whispered.
‘What are you doing?’ Penabaz asked.
‘I’m giving it back.’
‘The fuck you are!’
‘We’re busted. I ain’t goin’ to jail–’
Behind them, the cops heard an almighty crash. They turned and saw their car being beat to shit by a mob with bats, clubs and metal poles. The back window had been staved in, the tyres slashed and a couple of kids were on the roof, kicking out the lights.
And it was worse: a mass of people were moving up towards them from 54th Street.
From Garcelle’s end, people were doing the same.
The two cops looked at each other. They knew they were fucked.
A bottle flew through the air and caught Penabaz on the side of the head. He went down, dropping his gun.
The crowds charged at them.
Mandel was struck in the back by a brick. He let go of the bag and went for his gun, but was brought down by a blow to the legs and then, almost immediately, people swarmed around him, kicking and punching him.
He blacked out.
Meanwhile, Penabaz, dazed, his head bleeding profusely, managed to slither away, unnoticed in the violence and confusion.
He stumbled up North East 2nd Avenue. At first he was lost, like he’d woken up from a deep sleep to find himself dumped back in a dream. Then, as the sheer terror of his situation sunk in, his senses overrode his pain and dizziness and he began to find his legs and run.
Missiles began to follow him. Then a tattoo of pursuing feet.
He ran faster. And faster.
He got onto 56th Street, praying he’d see police cars there, but it was empty of all traffic.
He carried on running. But he wasn’t going fast enough, he knew, and sooner or later someone was going to catch up with him and take him down.
He began to pray as he ran.
‘Don’t let them kill me, God. Don’t let them kill me. Please.’
And then a miracle.
A solitary yellow cab turned into the road and started heading his way.
He ran into the lane, towards the cab, waving his arms in the air. The cab slowed and then stopped.
‘Thank you, God!’ Penabaz looked up into the heavens as he went over to the vehicle.
‘Get me outta here, man!’ Penabaz said to the black driver, as he tried to open the passenger door. It was locked.
‘Come on, man! They’re gonna fucken’ kill me. Open the fucken’ door!’
The driver looked very calmly at the road up ahead and at the mob spilling out of North East 2nd Avenue and heading towards them.
‘Come on! Please! ’
When the driver looked back at Penabaz, the cop suddenly recognized him.
He reached for his holster, but remembered, mid-motion, that he’d dropped his gun in the street. The driver reached over slightly towards the door and Penabaz thought he was going to open it. But, instead, the driver lifted a sawn-off shotgun from the seat and blew the cop’s face clean off to the bone.
Max and Joe were coming down 56th Street when they saw the cop get shot by the cab driver. The cab sped away before the cop’s body hit the ground, screeching past them in a blur.
‘Officer down! Officer down! North East 56th Street! North East 56th Street!’ Max shouted into the radio as Joe hit the brakes and got out to check on the fallen cop.
‘Please state your intentions,’ the dispatcher’s voice crackled back.
Max looked through the windshield. Joe shook his head. The cop was dead.
‘In pursuit of suspect. Suspect is driving a yellow cab. Heading east on 56th. Request back-up.’
They chased the cab through Lemon City and watched as violence began to erupt all over the area like ripe, diseased sores.
On street after street, cars were being broken into, stores were being looted, windows smashed, people were being beaten up or fleeing for their lives, rocks, bottles and sticks were flying in volleys through the air.
Back-up was nowhere in sight. The radio crackled with emergency calls, requests for help, requests for ambulances, reports of cops being dragged out of their vehicles, reports of shots being fired.
Max had his pistol in one hand, his rifle in the other. Their Chevy was stoned or people ran alongside it and tried to smash the windows whenever they slowed down or stopped to avoid hitting pedestrians.
Petrol was siphoned out of cars and into bottles. First buildings went up in flames, then mounds of tyres, then the cars themselves. Thick acrid smoke began to fill the streets.
The cab got onto North East 3rd Avenue, which was comparatively clear, and started tearing up the road. Max and Joe were close on its tail. Max leant out of the window and tried to shoot out the tyres, but the driver was zigzagging left and right, so he couldn’t get a clear aim.
Suddenly three prowlers and a riot truck came zooming towards them. The cab swerved and skidded into the opposite lane and then tore back up the road, passing the Chevy.
Joe reversed and spun the car around, in time to see the back of the cab disappearing down a side street.
They came out on North East 55th Terrace. The road was choked with people running away from a line of cars which had been rolled across the road and set ablaze.
They saw the cab. It was in the middle of the road, at an angle, all four doors wide open, being pushed by a group of people.
Max searched the crowd.
Then, on the right sidewalk, he saw a man standing quite calmly in the chaos, looking right at them. He was wearing jeans, a black sweatshirt, white sneakers and a black do-rag. He had a sawn-off shotgun in his hand.
‘There! That’s him!’ Max pointed out Do-rag and opened the door.
Do-rag turned and started walking off down the road, quite calmly, once in a while looking over his shoulder back at them.
‘WHERE YOU FUCKIN’ GOIN’!’ screamed Joe.
‘We can’t drive through this.’
Rifle in hand, Max got out and started running down the sidewalk.
When Do-rag saw him coming he broke from saunter to lightning sprint in a fraction of a second.
Joe stated his position to the dispatcher, requested back-up again and, cursing his partner’s recklessness, got out of the car.
Max chased the man through crowds of panicked, angry people. Do-rag slipped around them like an expert skier negotiating a slalom course, moving with the agility of a gazelle
on speed. Max–jacked up on adrenaline, but fresh out of hospital, weighed down by his bulletproof vest, 190 pounds of sluggish muscle, painkillers and blinded by the sweat streaming down his face–hit the crowd like a wrecking ball, crashing, pushing, toppling and stamping on whoever didn’t get out of his way fast enough. People tried to get at him, the lone white face in that seething cauldron of black rage, fists and kicks were thrown, but he ducked, or sidestepped, or smashed his rifle butt into stomachs and faces, or fired shots above their heads. When a man came running up behind Max with a meat cleaver, Joe shot him in the shoulder without hesitation and moved on.
Do-rag zipped across the sidewalk like it was made of ice. He ran across the street, through a crowd carrying furniture out of a store. Max followed him, toppling an old man who was being carried high up above the chaos in an armchair.
Do-rag ran around a brown three-storey building. Max reached the corner in time to see him scooting up the fire escape, three steps at a time. When he reached the top floor, he went over to the window nearest the stairs, opened it from below and slipped inside.
He didn’t close the window behind him.
Max was about to take the fire escape when he saw Joe coming.
‘He’s on the third floor. Second room on the right. He’s left the window open,’ Max said. ‘Take the front.’
Joe nodded and headed for the building’s entrance, while Max stole quietly and quickly up the stairs to the window.
He looked inside. He’d expected to see a small, cramped, low-rent apartment, but found himself staring into a long bare space with unvarnished wooden floors and whitewashed walls painted with yellow and black voodoo symbols–snakes coiled around candles, coffins marked with crosses, hands gripping a cracked skull. The opposite wall was covered in a mural of Baron Samedi walking through a village, collecting bones.
Do-rag was sitting on the floor with his back turned, and the shotgun by his side. He was facing a large black painted cross with a purple cloth draped around the beams.
He was alone.
Max gingerly crept into the room and tiptoed towards the man, his gun trained on his head.
‘Freeze, asshole! Police!’
The man didn’t move.
‘Face down on the floor with your hands behind your head!’
The man still didn’t move.
Max kicked the shotgun away and then put his foot on the man’s back and sent him toppling on his front.
He was about to frisk him when there were several heavy bangs on the door, followed by a huge crash. Part of the mural came away as Joe came bursting in.
Max turned Do-rag over.
He didn’t immediately realize who it was. The face was plain, a photofit of a black Everyman.
But there was something about his stare, and mostly the hint of the smile, the mouth’s not quite mu?ed mirth.
Boukman.
The shock hit him and he felt himself retreat a step or two, dazed, stung by a phantom punch.
Boukman lay quite still, arms spread out, palms out, and his eyes on Max, beaming recognition.
Max was speechless.
So was Joe.
They stood him up, dragged him against the wall and frisked him.
‘Open your mouth and stick your tongue out,’ Joe ordered.
Boukman affected a yawn and rolled out his split tongue –pale pink, except for the ends, which diverged and were pointed and red.
Both Joe and Max winced at the sight of it.
‘Put it away,’ Max mumbled disgustedly.
Keeping his rifle trained on Boukman’s head, the barrel inches away, Max sized him up. They were about the same height, but Boukman was of a much slighter build, an almost insignificant presence. Only his eyes–which never once left Max’s–hinted at innate strength, at a will and ability to do what others wouldn’t.
‘Solomon Boukman: you are under arrest, motherfucker,’ Max began. ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you as evidence. You have the right to a lawyer. If you can’t afford one, the state will provide one.’
Max looked around for a chair to sit Boukman down in so they could question him about his high-level protector. He couldn’t see one anywhere. He noticed how the place had once been four separate apartments, but the walls had been knocked out. Outside he saw columns of dark smoke rising up into the sky and a Miami PD chopper flying low across roofs. They couldn’t take Boukman in until the riot was over. Their car would probably be burning now.
‘And you also have the right…’
Max thought about what he’d been through, the needle through his lips, almost killing Eldon and Joe. Then he thought of Sandra. And how Boukman had kidnapped her.
‘…to file a complaint against me…’
And the small, fragile restraint separating man from beast snapped.
‘…for police brutality.’
Max swung his rifle butt hard at Boukman’s face. The wood connected flush with the bone and Boukman went down with a quiet plop. He spat blood and started pushing himself up, but Max grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him against the wall. He pounded him like a heavy bag, slamming his fists into his head and torso. Boukman collapsed under the fusillade of punches, but Max didn’t stop. Screaming and snarling he kicked and stamped on his prone body.
Boukman stopped moving, but Max, in a blind vengeful rage, didn’t notice, didn’t even care.
He grabbed Boukman’s head and started banging it on the floor.
Joe, who’d stood by, knowing this would happen, decided to intervene. He gripped his partner in a bear hug and dragged him off.
‘He’s had enough now, Max! And so have you! That’s it!’
Max lunged forward but Joe pushed him back against the wall. Max struggled, but Joe penned him in using his bulk.
‘Cool it now, Max! Come on! Come on now…’
Joe kept him there until he saw the mad fury begin to dim in his partner’s eyes; the violence give way to the possibility of reason.
‘Let’s do the right thing. By the book. OK?’
Max took deep breaths. Joe could see him calming himself inside, standing down.
Max looked at him, clear-eyed, and nodded.
Joe stepped away from him, but as he did so, Max saw Boukman had stood up and was staring at them–specifically at Max. His eyes were swollen almost shut, his nose and mouth were bloody, and his left cheek was a bloated, protuberant lump, and yet there was amusement etched through all the damage.
Then, before either cop could fully react, Boukman spun around and bolted for the window at an almost unnatural speed, as if he’d been whisked across the room by a hidden hand. He leapt feet first through the glass, taking most of the window frame with him. He missed the fire escape gangway and fell through thin air.
Max and Joe rushed over and looked down at the ground. They saw only shattered glass and splintered wood below.
Boukman was already up on his feet and running away from the building, making for the streets.
They bundled down the fire escape.
There was blood all over the debris where Boukman had landed, and a trail of thick wet red splashes mapped the direction he’d taken.
They followed the blood markers down the sidewalk and across the street. The riot squads had moved in. Choppers were sweeping the sky, which had darkened considerably, storm clouds mingling with the towers of black smoke rising from incinerated buildings and cars, as a hot dirty wind fanned the flames and blew tear gas and gasoline fumes into their faces.
They kept their watering eyes to the ground, following Boukman’s spoor, the blood making bigger and bigger marks. Max guessed Boukman had opened an artery. The faster he was running the more blood he was losing. He didn’t have long and neither did they, if they wanted to get him alive.
They negotiated scenes of chaos: full-scale battles between helmeted, baton-wielding cops and rioters on one street; a car being rammed into the front of a laundromat
in another; a near empty supermarket being looted; a man running through the streets with an aquarium; a woman pushing a cartload of golfclubs; groups of people making petrol bombs.
The blood splashes began to diminish in size. They began to note bloody handprints on walls and whatever windows were still intact.
They came to 54th Street, which was now completely deserted and strewn with trash and detritus. They looked for blood up and down the sidewalk and on the road, but saw none.
They crossed over the road and looked on the other side.
Nothing.
Max looked back to the opposite side and noticed a store on the very corner of the street. They’d had their backs to it and hadn’t seen it.
The front was completely covered with thick steel shutters. On the side of the shutters, close to a narrow passageway dividing the store from a barbershop, was a bloody handprint.
They crossed the road again and went down the passageway, crouching, Max in front.
The back door of the store was wide open, hanging a little off its hinges and smeared with fresh blood.
They crept towards it and flattened themselves against the wall.
Max looked in. It was empty and dark, except for thin slivers of light coming through gaps in the shutters.
Boukman was lying in the middle of the floor, on his side, motionless.
Max went over to him carefully. He prodded him on his back with his foot.
Boukman unravelled, his limbs flopping out softly, like lifeless tentacles.
Max checked his vital signs. The pulse was faint, and his skin already had the coolness of death.
He stared at Boukman for a second, watching the life drain out of him with every fading heartbeat. It was tempting to let him die here, alone, except for his enemies, in the darkness and dirt. He deserved no better. It even made a kind of sense, but it wasn’t right. And, ultimately, it was no kind of justice.
Joe sensed what Max was thinking, as good as knew it.
‘What do you want to do with him, Max?’
Max thought about it a little more. He knew the way things worked in the city. The police would get blamed for the riot that was still raging outside–even if it wasn’t their fault. Boukman might even get off.
