Gun play

 

We come around the corner like gang busters: me, Gene and the whole New York City police department two blocks behind us.

The black kid we saw snatch the purse slips around the corner of a building

We chase the boy out of impulse when in the back of my head I tell myself we ought to call for help.

Gene moves beside me smelling of shoe polish and gun oil, full of that fresh from the academy vigor my years on the police force have erased from me.

We come around the same corner to an empty street.

Except there’s a small girl sitting on the bottom level of a rusted fire escape. She munches on an apple.

I ask if  she knows where the boy ran.

She asks if she’ll get a reward if she tells.

Gene snaps and says he’ll arrest her for harboring a fugitive if she doesn’t tell.

She sighs and points to another alley.

I get an ugly feeling.

Last week a cop got shot in such a place while pursuing a drug dealer.

When I say as much to Gene he gives me an “oh brother” look and says this is a purse snatcher not the local pusher.

I want to call for backup. Gene pulls out his gun and says he has all the back up he needs.

When we ease into the alley we see the boy’s nose poking out from behind one of the trash cans.

I want to reason with the boy. I urge him to come out peacefully.

Gene gets pissed and says he’s no social worker and orders the boy out or else.

When the boy bolts, Gene shoots – once, twice, thrice – and the boy falls on the street.

Gene doesn’t blow the smoke from the barrel of his pistol, but he clearly wants to.

Then behind us at the alley mouth, the girl appears, still sucking on her apple, and tells us, this boy isn’t the boy we were looking for.