mental and physical health spent, I have a piece of tin and a ton of bad memories. That's all that's left. TV glamorizes it, but it's the kind of life I wouldn't wish on an enemy.”
Maybe the kid would make the decision on his own and try something else. Because if he couldn't even pass the written test, he had no business being on the streets in the first place. He'd be eaten alive.
Crevis stared in hypnotic fascination at the badge. “Can I hold it?”
I slid the tin out of my wallet; it was my flat investigator badge I used to clip to my belt when I was in Homicide.
He snatched it from my hand and rubbed it between his long bony fingers, as if memorizing every detail by Braille.
What kind of life must he have had? Maybe he wasn't the sharpest kid around, but at least he wasn't smoking crack and knocking off convenience stores. I guess he had a sense of decency to him.
“You can keep that one. I've got a couple more like it at home.”
Crevis's mouth dropped. “Really? You're not messing with me, are you?”
I considered answering yes and taking it back. But I couldn't. My third incident of niceness lately—I seemed to be on a run.
“No. It's yours, if you want it.” My moment of pity might come back to haunt me at some point, but I'd been known to do some not-so-smart things.
“Thanks!” He jumped to his feet and held the badge up to his shirt. “I'll be back.” He sprinted down the hallway, to the bathroom, I presumed.
Less than a minute later, on his way back, his hoofs trampled the carpet like a bison stampede—his snaggle-toothed grin wide like I'd never seen it before. My old badge was pinned to his chest. I hoped it would forgive me for the indignities it would suffer in that position. Crevis slapped his hands on his hips.
The world would never be the same: Crevis Creighton had been deputized.
14
H AVING DONE MY OBLIGATORY good deed for the year, I took the elevator down to the parking garage. I'd finally convinced Mr. Savastio to let me park there. He wasn't going to go for it until I mentioned something about the Americans with Disabilities Act and a potential lawsuit. He seemed to get my point then.
The echo from the brass tip of my cane's stabbing the concrete reverberated throughout the garage. I made it to my pickup and jiggled my key ring as I searched for my door key. Something moved to my left.
A large man in a ski mask stepped from behind a van, pistol at the ready. “Don't move, Quinn,” the guy said in a deep, graveled voice.
I could see the skin on his neck and around his eyes; he was African American and big. He stood in a Weaver stance, the one most cops use to shoot, and I could see right down the barrel. He had the drop on me, and if I went for the Glock in my waistband, I would be dead before I touched it. I raised my right hand, keys still in it.
Feet shuffled behind me as I turned just in time to catch an elbow to the side of my head. The second guy slammed my body against the side of my truck and tossed me to the ground on my back; the pistol in my waistband stabbed into my spine.
I shook my head to clear the cobwebs and drew my fists to the sides of my head, instinctively covering up like I used to in the ring.
The man with the pistol loomed over me, aiming it at my head. “You need to mind your own business, Quinn, if you want to stay alive.” He mashed his foot on my hip and pressed down, jamming it into the concrete.
I was going to puke. A guttural cry, not much louder than a whimper, escaped me.
He smirked through his little mouth hole; he was enjoying himself. His partner was a white guy, shorter than him but well muscled too.
“Hey, what are you doing?” a voice echoed through the garage. “Let him go.” Crevis marched toward us.
“He's not armed,” Bigfoot said to his crony. “Take him out.”
“Crevis, run!” I managed. “Get outta here!”
He ignored me and picked up speed. The second hulk hurried to intercept Crevis, who had my big,
Maybe the kid would make the decision on his own and try something else. Because if he couldn't even pass the written test, he had no business being on the streets in the first place. He'd be eaten alive.
Crevis stared in hypnotic fascination at the badge. “Can I hold it?”
I slid the tin out of my wallet; it was my flat investigator badge I used to clip to my belt when I was in Homicide.
He snatched it from my hand and rubbed it between his long bony fingers, as if memorizing every detail by Braille.
What kind of life must he have had? Maybe he wasn't the sharpest kid around, but at least he wasn't smoking crack and knocking off convenience stores. I guess he had a sense of decency to him.
“You can keep that one. I've got a couple more like it at home.”
Crevis's mouth dropped. “Really? You're not messing with me, are you?”
I considered answering yes and taking it back. But I couldn't. My third incident of niceness lately—I seemed to be on a run.
“No. It's yours, if you want it.” My moment of pity might come back to haunt me at some point, but I'd been known to do some not-so-smart things.
“Thanks!” He jumped to his feet and held the badge up to his shirt. “I'll be back.” He sprinted down the hallway, to the bathroom, I presumed.
Less than a minute later, on his way back, his hoofs trampled the carpet like a bison stampede—his snaggle-toothed grin wide like I'd never seen it before. My old badge was pinned to his chest. I hoped it would forgive me for the indignities it would suffer in that position. Crevis slapped his hands on his hips.
The world would never be the same: Crevis Creighton had been deputized.
14
H AVING DONE MY OBLIGATORY good deed for the year, I took the elevator down to the parking garage. I'd finally convinced Mr. Savastio to let me park there. He wasn't going to go for it until I mentioned something about the Americans with Disabilities Act and a potential lawsuit. He seemed to get my point then.
The echo from the brass tip of my cane's stabbing the concrete reverberated throughout the garage. I made it to my pickup and jiggled my key ring as I searched for my door key. Something moved to my left.
A large man in a ski mask stepped from behind a van, pistol at the ready. “Don't move, Quinn,” the guy said in a deep, graveled voice.
I could see the skin on his neck and around his eyes; he was African American and big. He stood in a Weaver stance, the one most cops use to shoot, and I could see right down the barrel. He had the drop on me, and if I went for the Glock in my waistband, I would be dead before I touched it. I raised my right hand, keys still in it.
Feet shuffled behind me as I turned just in time to catch an elbow to the side of my head. The second guy slammed my body against the side of my truck and tossed me to the ground on my back; the pistol in my waistband stabbed into my spine.
I shook my head to clear the cobwebs and drew my fists to the sides of my head, instinctively covering up like I used to in the ring.
The man with the pistol loomed over me, aiming it at my head. “You need to mind your own business, Quinn, if you want to stay alive.” He mashed his foot on my hip and pressed down, jamming it into the concrete.
I was going to puke. A guttural cry, not much louder than a whimper, escaped me.
He smirked through his little mouth hole; he was enjoying himself. His partner was a white guy, shorter than him but well muscled too.
“Hey, what are you doing?” a voice echoed through the garage. “Let him go.” Crevis marched toward us.
“He's not armed,” Bigfoot said to his crony. “Take him out.”
“Crevis, run!” I managed. “Get outta here!”
He ignored me and picked up speed. The second hulk hurried to intercept Crevis, who had my big,
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