“Excuse me a minute,” said the cop. “I’ll be right back.”
Otis saw the cop go and get into the driver’s seat of his car, the door open, one foot out planted on the street. He watched the cop lift the radio mic, speak into it as he read the plate numbers off the car.
“C’mon, Frank,” said Otis, more annoyed than anything else. “You fuckin’ around too much now.”
Dee Jonas handed her husband their cordless phone.
“Jonas here.”
“Bill?”
“Yes.”
“How’s it going?”
“Who is this?”
“An old friend. I’m back in town for a few days. Thought I’d say hello.”
“Who is this?” repeated Jonas.
“You have a good-looking family, Bill. I’m looking at your son Chris right now, and he’s a very handsome boy. Got a lot of friends, too. He’s sweet on an Indian girl, Bill. You know that?”
Jonas looked over his shoulder. His wife was back in the kitchen. He lowered his voice and said, “I’m going to ask you again -”
“Chris is tall. He drives a Toyota and he carries a leather book bag.”
“Coward.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re good at keeping your distance. You sent me a photograph. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right. I’m the man who put you in that chair.”
“What kind of rock did you crawl out from under?” growled Jonas.
“All kinds of rocks. Reformatories, state prisons, federal joints… I’ve been under all sorts of rocks my whole life, Bill.”
“Keep talking. Tell me more.”
“You killed my brother Richard, and now I’m going to have to kill your son. That’s all you need to know. Good bye, Bill.”
“Damnit!” yelled Jonas.
Bill Jonas heard a click on the other end of the line. Then he heard a dial tone and threw the phone onto the couch.
Dee Jonas had come from the kitchen. She was standing by its entrance, wringing her hands on a towel.
“What is it, Bill?” she said.
“It’s nothing,” said Jonas. “I lost my temper at a salesman, is all. Shoulda taken my number out of the book years ago.”
Jonas wheeled himself to the bay window. He rubbed his knuckle against his teeth and felt his wife’s hand on his shoulder. He looked down at his skinny, useless legs lying crookedly in the seat of the chair.
“Richard,” said Jonas under his breath.
“What?” said Dee.
“Pack your bags. Pack bags for our sons, too. I want you all to go down to Tidewater, to your mother’s place. It’ll only be for a few days.”
“Why, Bill?”
“Don’t ask me why.”
“You can’t stay here by yourself.”
“I can get from my chair to my walker. I can get in and out of the bathroom, and I can cook. So don’t tell me I can’t.”
Dee lowered her voice. “But the boys aren’t going to want to go.”
“Tell them that aunt of yours wants to see them. The one been in that nursing home for ten years? Tell them she’s dying and she wants to say good bye.”
“But Aunt Carla’s not dying. She’s gonna outlive us all.”
“Tell them anything you want to, then,” said Jonas, staring out the window at the street. “Whatever you tell them, I want y’all out of here by tonight.”
Frank Farrow racked the receiver. He walked around the corner of D.J.’s and saw the campus cop car parked behind the ’Stang. He crossed the street with his head down, staring at his feet. He heard a siren coming from somewhere behind him, and as he walked the siren grew louder.
As he approached the Mustang, he looked briefly at the cop, sitting behind the wheel of the car, one foot out on the street. The cop was young, nothing more than a boy. There was fear on the cop’s face, and something close to panic. He couldn’t even meet Farrow’s eyes.
The siren grew louder.
“Goddamnit all,” muttered Farrow.
He reached the Mach 1 and got behind the wheel.
“Put your seat belt on, Roman.”
Otis nodded. The metal-to-metal seat belt connection was made with a soft click. Farrow pulled the shifter back to D and hit the gas.
The Mach 1 left rubber on the street, fishtailed on 22nd, and then straightened, clipping the door of a black Camry parked at the curb. They passed Christopher Jonas and his friends, who were walking out of the carryout on the corner and staring at the speeding car.
“We got Johnny Law at twelve o’clock high,” said Otis. “That’s a real one, too.”
“I see him.”
Farrow turned sharp left on G, pumped the brakes, and then punched the gas to bring them out of the skid. The D.C. cop followed, the overhead lights spinning, the siren on full.
“Watch it, man,” said Otis, as a female student ran across the street into their path. Then they were nearing the girl and almost on her.
Otis said, “Frank.”
Otis leaned over and pushed the wheel in a counterclockwise direction. The Mustang swerved around the girl. For a second Otis saw her stretched-back, gray-as-death face.
“Where?” said Farrow.
“Left on Twentieth,” said Otis.
Farrow cut it hard. They sideswiped a parked Amigo before getting back on course. The cop car made the turn fifty yards behind them.
“Right on K,” said Otis.
“That the next street?”
“The next big one, yeah.”
A car jumped the curb to avoid collision ahead. Farrow speed-threaded his way around another.
“All right, Roman, here we go.”
“You got a red light up there, Frank.”
“I see it.”
“You plannin’ on blowin’ it off,” said Otis, “you might want to think about landin’ on your horn.”
Farrow goosed the accelerator as Otis’s fingernails dented the white bucket seat. Otis saw a flash of spinning green metal, heard horns as they dusted the stoplight. He turned his head and looked through the back window. The cop car had been slowed by the cross traffic. Farrow hooked a right onto K, kept it at sixty as he made the next three greens.
“Take New York Avenue straight out of town,” said Otis. “Then Fifty down to Three-o-one south. We get lucky enough, we might just make it out of here.”
Farrow screwed a Kool between his lips and pushed the lighter into the dash.
“I had to pump the hell out of those brakes back there,” said Farrow.
“We can check it out later. Just keep drivin’.”
“We got made,” said Farrow with a frown. “Why do you suppose that is?”
“Have to ask Man-you-el the next time we see him.” Otis smiled. “Guess you was wrong about that po-lice presence, Frank.”
