. . Jack and the woman appear to be talking . . . and holy jeezum, he’s givin’ her a bouquet of flowers! What a ploy!”
“Ploy” is one of George Rathbun’s favorite sports terms, as in
“She’s
“Even a blind man could see he turned her off,” Henry says.
“Just in time, too,” Bobby says. “Here’s Channel Five and there’s another truck with one of those big orange poles on it . . . Fox-Milwaukee, I think . . . and—”
“Oh nooo!” Bobby says, even now sounding like George Rathbun, telling his morning-after audience how another Badger rally had started to fizzle. “Not nowwww, not with the TV here! That’s—”
Henry already knows who that is. Even through two layers of chicken-wire-reinforced glass, that high, yapping cry is impossible to mistake.
Wendell Green understands his job—don’t ever make the mistake of thinking he doesn’t. His job is to
The sound of other voices joining in with his provides an incredible rush. It is, as his old college roommate used to say, a real zipper buster. Wendell takes a step forward, his chest swelling, his cheeks reddening, his confidence building. He’s vaguely aware that the Action News Five truck is rolling slowly toward him through the crowd. Soon there will be 10-k’s and 5-k’s shining through the fog; soon there will be TV cameras rolling tape by their harsh light. So what? If the woman in the blood-spattered sweatshirt was in the end too chicken to stand up for her own kid, Wendell will do it for her! Wendell Green, shining exemplar of civic responsibility! Wendell Green,
He begins to pump his camera up and down. It’s exhilarating. Like being back in college! At a Skynyrd concert! Stoned! It’s like—
There is a huge flash in front of Wendell Green’s eyes. Then the lights go out. All of them.
He grabs Dale’s blind uncle by the shoulders and whirls him in a delirious circle. A thick aroma of Aqua Velva descends toward Henry, who knows Bobby’s going to kiss him on both cheeks, French style, a second before Bobby actually does this. And when Bobby’s narration resumes, he sounds as transported as George Rathbun on those rare occasions when the local sports teams actually buck the odds and grab the gold.
All around them, cops are cheering at the tops of their lungs. Debbi Anderson starts chanting “We Are the Champions,” and other voices quickly lend support.
Afraid for all of them, really.
“That was good work, man,” Beezer tells Jack. “I mean, balls to the wall.”
Jack nods. “Thanks.”
“I’m not going to ask you again if that was the guy. You say he’s not, he’s not. But anything we can do to help you find the right one, you just call us.”
The other members of the Thunder Five rumble assent; Kaiser Bill gives Jack a friendly bop on the shoulder. It will probably leave a bruise.
“Thanks,” Jack says again.
Before he can knock on the door, it’s opened. Dale grabs him and gives him a crushing embrace. When their chests touch, Jack can feel Dale’s heart beating hard and fast.
“You saved my ass,” Dale says into his ear. “Anything I can do—”
“You can do something, all right,” Jack says, pulling him inside. “I saw another cop car behind the news trucks. Couldn’t tell for sure, but I think this one was blue.”
“Oh-oh,” Dale says.
“Oh-oh is right. I need at least twenty minutes with Potter. It might not get us anything, but it might get us a lot. Can you hold off Brown and Black for twenty minutes?”
Dale gives his friend a grim little smile. “I’ll see you get half an hour. Minimum.”
“That’s great. And the 911 tape of the Fisherman’s call, do you still have that?”
“It went with the rest of the evidence we were holding after Brown and Black took the case. A trooper picked it
