blocks away.”
Twenty minutes later, Angela and I are again on the way to the secondhand shop. The two uniformed officers knew him and said his street name really is Altar Boy. He had two warrants for failure to appear, one for an assault on a police officer and the other for aggressive begging.
“You know,” Angela says, “I could have handled the man if you’d given me the chance.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Soon as I saw him reach for you, I just reacted. I didn’t know if he was going to grab you or hit you, and I couldn’t see if he had a weapon in his other hand.”
She laughs. “Well, it was pretty cool. There a name for your nose crush move? It’s gotta hurt.”
“There is,” I say. “It’s called nose-oyama crush-azuki. It’s a good one because it messes with the recipient’s breathing and vision, plus it hurts like holy hell. Not particularly a good police technique unless you got a partner to do the handcuffing.”
“Good thing I was there to save your ass,” she says with a smile.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Oh, man, are we flirting with each other? Don’t need it. Don’t need it at all.
My cell rings again. I pry it out of my pocket, thankful for the distraction, and check the screen. “Mark,” I say. “How are you doing?”
“Sam. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“It’s good. I’m actually working. Rodriguez put me to work in Intel today and already I’m out serving and protecting. At the moment I’m in Old town with Angela Clemmons. We just pinched an aggressive panhandler.” Angela smiles at me. “It’s Intel’s secondary mission, you know.” I expect him to laugh but I get only silence. “Mark? You okay?”
“Yeah. Just so tired. I was going to bother you for a ride but I’ll grab a cab. Got to get home and check on the place, and get a shower.”
“Listen, buddy. We were about to interview a man but I can get over to the hospital after and—”
“No, no, no. I’m good. A cab’s fine.”
“Hold on a sec,” I say, retrieving my wallet. I find Rudy’s card: Rudolph Abraham Lincoln. World’s Best Cabbie. “I got people, Mark. Putting you on hold. Don’t go away.”
I tap in Rudy’s cell number.
“Rudy, where to?”
“Still pulling on innocent folk’s eyelids?”
“Ha ha. It was a hoot, wasn’t it, Sam? How you doin’? You goin’ to buy me a burger?”
“Hey, Rudy. I’m working right now. Let me give you a shout in a couple of days.”
“Listen to this. Weighed in this morning and sure enough, down one.”
“Excellent. Wife happy?”
Oh, yeah. Says the thought of me with a six pac makes her feel warm all over.” He laughs uproariously.
“Well, gotta say, thinking of you with a six pac kinda does it for me too.”
“Uh oh. Uuuuh oh. I got ‘em comin’ at me from all directions.”
I laugh. “Listen, Rudy. If you’re free, can you swing by Emanuel and pick up my friend Mark Sanderson? I’ll have him meet you in the lobby.”
“Consider it done. Just gassin’ up and I’ll be there in ten.”
“Thanks, Rudy. I’ll call you in a couple three days for a burger.”
“Ten four, Sam.”
I click back to Mark. “Hey, me again. Got a cab coming for you. He’ll meet you in the lobby in ten. His name is Rudy, black man, huge belly. I guarantee he will cheer you up before you get all the way home.”
“Thanks, Sam. Appreciate it. How’s it feel to be on the bricks?”
“Weird, good, fish out of water, exhilarating. How’s David?”
Long pause, then softly, “The same. I’m … scared. Got a bad feeling.”
“I think you’ll feel better after eating some nutritious food and sleeping a solid eight in your own bed.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I am. You heading down to the lobby?
“Almost there. Thanks, Sam. Talk to you later.”
Angela has been standing a few feet away fiddling with her cell. When I pocket mine, she asks, “How’s the lieutenant doing?”
“Hurting physically and hurting more mentally. He’s really worried about David.”
She shakes her head. “Sons of bitches,” she says through gritting teeth.
“I concur.”
“Is Second Chance on the corner there?” Angela asks. Before I can answer, she does. “Yes, it is. I can see the little sandwich board on the sidewalk. What’s the man’s name?”
“Mister Efrem Axelbrad.”
“A mouthful,” Angela says, pushing open the door. “Sounds Jewish.”
“Detectives Reeves!” the seventy-four-year-old man shouts from the back of the cluttered and dusty second-hand store. “Come in, sweet man. And your friend too.” The old man clasps his hands and shakes them vigorously above his head as he twists and turns his way through all the old crap lying about. He points upward as he approaches, and says, “Praise God I can see you today, my sweet detective.” He grips my arms and looks at me, his head nodding. His face shows hard years of worry and strain, his large nose and elongated ears sprouting more hair than his mole-covered, balding scalp. “Praise God. How are you, my friend?”
I laugh and touch his arms. “I am well, and you, Mister Axelbrad?”
“I am alive! Because of you.” He looks at Angela. “Young woman, did you know? Detective Reeves saved my life. Four months, eight days, and,” he looks at a big clock over his door, “one hour ago. He saved my life. Not at this store, my other one on Taylor, on the other side of the river. A hero. No, no, an angel,” he says, jabbing his finger heavenward. “Sent from God himself. I’m seventy-four years old and Detective Reeves gave me a few more years.”
Realization spreads across Angela’s face as she looks from the old man to me. “Ooooh, so this is the man …”
I nod, wondering if either of them can hear my pounding heart. Four months, eight days, and one hour ago, I interrupted an armed robbery in progress. A doper was pressing a gun against Mister Axelbrad’s head—he was about to blow a hole in it, but I shot the tweaker first, right under the nose and into his medulla oblongata, which stopped all his body functions instantly, preventing him from reflexively pulling the trigger. A couple months later, I would shoot two more people.
