Big Trouble (16 page)

“Where's Andrew?” he said.

“I don't know,” said Jenny. “Oh God, what if they shot him?”

“Jesus,” said Matt. “Maybe we should go back.”

“Matt,” said Jenny, “there's a guy back there shooting. With a
gun
. We need to call the cops.”

A car was coming toward them. Matt jumped into the street and waved his arms over his head.

“Stop!” he yelled at the driver. “Hey, please STOP!”

The driver did what most Miami residents would do when confronted with a shouting person in the middle of the road: honked and accelerated. Matt leaped aside as the car brushed past. He landed back on the sidewalk on his hands and knees.

“Thanks,” he said to the receding car.

“Are you OK?” asked Jenny.

“Yeah,” said Matt, getting up. “Listen, let's go to my car. I parked right up there on Tiger Tail, and if we don't see a phone on the way, we can drive to one.”

“OK, as long as we get out of here,” said Jenny, looking back toward the parking lot.

They half ran, half jogged the three blocks to the Kia, not passing any phones. As they got into the car, Matt said, “Do you know where the police station is around here?”

Jenny said, “Could we just go to my house? My mom'll be worried by now, and we can call the police from there.” Jenny wanted her mom.

“OK,” said Matt. “We gotta call Andrew's mom, too.” He started the engine.

“Sorry,” said Matt, stabbing the stereo power button. He put the Kia into drive, and the two teenagers set off toward Jenny's house, both of them shaken, both of them looking forward to turning this scary situation over to responsible grown-ups.

IN the rental car outside the entrance to the Jolly Jackal, Henry and Leonard were waiting for the armed robbery, which they viewed as none of their business, to be completed, so they could continue tailing Arthur Herk. Leonard was attempting to tell Henry a joke about a lady being examined by a doctor with a thick Japanese accent.

“. . . so the doctor says to the lady, ‘Rady, I see your problem.' And the lady says, ‘What is it, Doctor?' And the doctor says, ‘You have Ed Zachary disease.' And the lady says, ‘Oh no! Ed Zachary disease! Is that serious?' And the doctor says, ‘Oh yes, Ed Zachary disease very serious.' And the lady says, ‘What does it mean?' And the doctor says, ‘It mean your face rook Ed Zachary rike your ass.'”

Henry sighed.

“Get it?” said Leonard. “Your face rook Ed Zachary rike your ass! Whoo. Who thinks this shit up?”

Henry turned the radio back on.

. . . point is that all these Gators ever do is talk trash, and then when they lose, you don't hear a peep out of 'em
.

My problem is that you weren't calling until I SAID no Gators were calling. THEN all of a sudden there's all these Gators calling
.

I would of called before. I'm not afraid to call
.

But you DIDN'T call. You're calling now, but before I SAID there were no Gators calling, there were no Gators calling, including you
.

Henry turned the radio back off.

“Those guys need a hobby,” he said.

“Maybe they should jack off more,” said Leonard. “If that's possible.”

“Seriously,” said Henry, “do you think any of those guys could name the vice president of the United States?”

“Hah,” said Leonard, who in fact was not certain that he could name the vice president, either. He knew it was a guy in a suit, but he wasn't sure which one. The car was silent for a moment, then Leonard, who did not handle silence well, said, “Your face rook Ed Zachary rike your . . .”

“Shut up,” said Henry.

The door to the Jolly Jackal had opened. Arthur Herk was coming out.

“There's our boy,” said Henry. “Looks like he developed a limp.”

Puggy came out next, lugging the suitcase.

“Who's that?” said Leonard.

“I believe that's Tarzan,” said Henry, sitting up.

“Who?” said Leonard.

“Guy who jumped on me from the tree at our boy's house,” said Henry.

“What the fuck's
he
doin' here?” asked Leonard. “And what's in the suitcase?”

“We are definitely gonna find that out,” said Henry.

Snake limped out, holding the gun, followed by Eddie.

“Great idea, panty hose on your head,” said Henry. “Whyn't they just wear a big sign that says ‘Armed Robber.'”

The four men went to Arthur's Lexus. Puggy, with Snake directing, put the suitcase into the trunk. Then they got into the car—Arthur driving, with Snake next to him; Puggy and Eddie in the back, with Puggy behind Arthur, where Snake could watch him. There was a moment of discussion, and the car started moving. Five seconds later, Henry put the rental in gear and followed.

“Where you think they're going?” asked Leonard. “Our boy's house?”

“Ed Zachary,” said Henry.

M
iami police officer Monica Ramirez could feel the pout vibes radiating from her partner, Walter Kramitz, as they patrolled westbound on Grand Avenue in their police cruiser. Walter was pouting because of what had happened forty-five minutes earlier, when they were eating dinner at the Burger King on 27th Avenue.

What happened was, Walter finally made his move. Monica knew he was getting ready, because he'd been displaying his biceps even more than usual, which was a lot. Walter had very large biceps; he kept them inflated by doing hundreds of curls per day. He rolled up the already short sleeves of his uniform shirt so their whole studly bulging masculine vastness was on display. At the Burger King, he was giving Monica a good view of them, flexing them when he raised his Whopper to his mouth, as though it weighed fifty pounds.

“So,” he said, with elaborate casualness, “I was thinking maybe you and me could get together sometime?”

“Walter,” she said, “we're together
all the time
. We're together
now
.”

“You know what I mean,” he said.

Of course she knew what he meant. He meant
let's have sex
. Monica had discovered that's what guys always meant when they said,
Maybe we could get together
. Their other favorite way of putting it was,
Maybe we could get to know each other better
. What they'd like to get to know was how you looked with no clothes on. But they could never just say it, just come right out and say,
Hey, let's have sex
.

“No,” said Monica, “I don't know what you mean. What do you mean?”

“I mean, we're, like, in the car all the time, and I been thinkin' maybe we could get to know each other better.”

Monica sighed. “Walter,” she said, “do you want to have sex with me?”

Walter stopped in mid-chew and stared at Monica, trying to figure out if this was really happening, if Monica was going to let him take the shortcut straight to paradise, if he had somehow found the wormhole in the universe that guys had been seeking for aeons, the wormhole that would enable him to bypass all the talking talking talking and just
do
it. He thought hard about exactly how he would phrase his response to Monica's question.

Finally, he said, “Yeah.”

“Well,” said Monica, “I don't want to have sex with you.”

Walter stared at her. It had been a trick!

“It's not personal,” Monica said. “You're a good partner, a good police officer. But you're married.”

“The thing is, me and my wife . . .”

“Walter, I don't want to hear about you and your wife. I don't care if you and your wife are having problems. I don't care if she doesn't understand you. I don't care if you've been thinking seriously about a separation. All I care about is, you're married, and I'm not going to get involved with you.” Monica was glad Walter was married, so she didn't have to go into any of the other reasons she didn't want to get involved with him, such as the fact that he had the intellectual depth of mayonnaise.

“You know,” said Walter, “there's plenty a women think I look pretty good.” It was true. A police officer like him, good shape, tight uniform, big arms, did not have trouble finding women willing to meet him somewhere at the end of the shift; or, if he had an understanding partner, during the shift.

“I know that, Walter,” said Monica. “You're an attractive man”—
even though your head is shaped like an anvil and you wear enough Brut to kill small birds
—“but with you being married, and us having to work together professionally, I just think it's a bad idea. But we're still partners, right? And we can be friends, OK?”

“OK,” said Walter, though in fact this was devastating news. Walter had spent over two months in the cruiser next to this woman, who he could tell had an excellent body, which he wanted desperately to see without a uniform on it. That possibility, that vision, had given him a sense of purpose, a goal, a reason to look forward to the working day. And now it was gone. Yet he was still going to be in the car with this woman hour after hour, day after day. What was he supposed to do now? Just
talk
to her? Get to
know
her? Jesus, what a waste.

So it was not a happy cruiser that was patrolling westbound on Grand Avenue. Neither Monica nor Walter had said a word since they'd left the Burger King.

It was Monica, at the wheel, who spotted Andrew up ahead, running out of the alley next to the five-and-dime, carrying a pistol.

“Man with a gun, your side,” Monica said, stomping the accelerator. “Call it in.” As the cruiser surged forward, Walter grabbed the radio microphone. Ahead, Andrew raced straight out of the alley, across the sidewalk and into Grand Avenue. He turned left, heading directly toward the cruiser. Monica slammed on the brakes, jammed the gearshift into park, opened her door and slid out onto the street, crouching behind the door as she unholstered her Glock 40 semiautomatic pistol. Walter, having radioed for backup, slid out on his side. Both officers rose up partway behind their doors with their guns aimed at Andrew.

“Police!” shouted Monica. “Stop and put down the gun
right now
.”

“FREEZE!” shouted Walter.

Andrew stopped, blinking into the cruiser headlights.

“FREEZE!” shouted Walter, again.

“Put down the gun,” said Monica.

“It's not my gun,” said Andrew. “Some guy was . . .”

“Put down the gun,”
said Monica.

Andrew bent down and set the pistol on the street, then stood. By the time he'd straightened up, Walter was on him, pulling his arms behind him and slamming his face onto the hood of the cruiser. Monica carefully picked up the pistol—a cheap .38 revolver; a classic Saturday night special—and put it inside the patrol car. She radioed in that the subject was in custody.

Walter unclipped the handcuffs from his belt. He yanked Andrew's arms up high behind the back.

“Ow!” said Andrew. “Listen, please! I'm not the . . .”

“Shut up, punk,” said Walter, yanking Andrew's arms higher.

“Ow!” said Andrew. “Please, I'm not . . .”

“I TOLD YOU SHUT UP,” said Walter.

Andrew shut up. He was wearing khaki pants and a knit polo shirt. His nose was bleeding, and he was obviously terrified. To Monica, he looked about as menacing as Kermit the Frog.

“Officer Kramitz,” she said, “maybe we don't need to cuff him right now, OK?”

Walter looked at Monica. “We're supposed to cuff him,” he said. He was dying to try out his handcuffs. In his apartment, when his wife was out, he sometimes practiced handcuffing a chair to the dinette table, but he had never cuffed anybody for real.

“Let me just talk to him for a minute, OK?” Monica said.

Walter thought about arguing with her. He was feeling much less inclined to agree with her on police procedure, now that he knew he wasn't going to get to see her naked. Reluctantly, he said, “OK.”

With Walter standing close, ready to pounce if necessary, Monica advised Andrew of his rights and asked him if he understood them. Andrew nodded. Monica asked him his name.

“Andrew Ryan,” he said.

“OK, Andrew,” said Monica. “What were you doing with the gun?”