talked to himself, the other made a steady moaning sound.
Gorman giggled, swung the shotgun around, pointed it at the juicers, heard the talker talk faster, swung the shotgun back at the young Irishman. The crank was fucking good-Gorman wanted to hear the shotgun again, feel the fire surge through his hands.
“Easy,” Valdez said, looking at the father, talking to Gorman. “Now the money. The Brinks money, Pops. Come on!”
The old Irishman narrowed his eyes. “There is no fucking money, you-”
“The money!” Gorman screamed, sliding a few feet forward.
Valdez touched the barrel of his. 45 to the old man’s head.
“Take it easy, friend,” said the young Irishman.
“We ain’t your fuckin’ friends,” Gorman said. He snorted the runoff back up into his nose.
“The money,” Valdez said, sweat dripping beneath the nylon of his mask. “Now!”
“Okay,” the young Irishman said. “Just take it easy.”
He kept his eyes on Gorman as he bent down slowly, lowered one arm. He came up with a large cloth bag. He tossed the bag, and it landed at Gorman’s feet.
“That’s right,” Gorman said, nodding his head.
“There’s more,” Valdez said.
The young Irishman moved a couple of feet to his right, bent down again, came up with a smaller bag. He dropped that over the counter, near the large cloth bag. He stood straight, his arms raised. Above him, on a shelf holding combs, rubbers, and lottery dream books, a rap song played at a low volume from an old clock radio.
“That better be it,” Valdez said. The old man took a slow step back, away from the touch of the gun.
“I’ll make this motherfucker explode,” Gorman said, opening his hand and then wrapping it tight around the barrel of the shotgun.
The young Irishman nodded. “One more,” he said. “Just take it easy.”
“Come on!” Gorman said.
The young Irishman bent down.
One of the men on the floor behind Gorman had shit his pants, the stench of it cutting the cordite smell that was heavy now in the store. The talking man spoke louder, said, “Please,” and then “Lord, no Lord.”
Gorman swiveled his hips, pointed the shotgun at the juicers, told them to keep their mouths shut, turned the shotgun back on the young Irishman.
Gorman heard Valdez yell his name, saw the sawed-off swinging up in the young Irishman’s hand.
Gorman fired the Mossberg, dove right behind the scotch rack, heard the young Irishman hit the wall behind the counter, heard him grunt, knew he had not killed him, knew he had hit him in the vest. Gorman pumped the shotgun.
The father reached frantically, clumsily beneath the counter.
Valdez had time to take a step back, stiffen his gun arm. Valdez shot the old man three times-gut, neck, face. The face shot took off the jaw on one side. Valdez saw white bone exposed, and a quarter-sized hole spitting blood from the neck as the old man went down.
Gorman stood, saw the young Irishman stand, saw his wild eyes as Gorman took aim above the barrel chest and fired. The young Irishman was thrown back against the wall, his face torn and peppered pink, his sawed-off exploding the plaster ceiling as he fell. Valdez reached over the counter, put another slug into the father, moved the gun, put one into the son.
Valdez said, “Get the money, Gorman.”
Gorman grabbed the bags, ignored the juicers spread flat on the floor as he joined Valdez by the front door. Valdez ejected the clip from the. 45 in his right hand, palmed a fresh clip into the gun. He looked through the black bars, out onto the street at the idling Plymouth.
“He’s there,” Valdez said, the sirens growing louder.
“I see ‘im,” said Gorman.
“They’re coming now,” Valdez said.
Gorman said, “I know.”
Gorman took the shells from his jacket pocket, thumbed them into the Mossberg’s breech. Valdez looked left, down the street. He saw the blue-and-white turn the corner.
“What else you holdin’?” Valdez said.
“My nine,” Gorman said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
“How many shots?”
“Fourteen.”
“Keep the shotgun and the bags in one hand,” Valdez said. “Use the nine.”
Gorman drew it from inside his jacket.
The cop car rose and fell on its shocks as it blew down the street. The driver hit the brakes, the tires screaming as the car began its skid.
Valdez said, “Now, Gorman,” and put his shoulder to the door.
Valdez and Gorman came from the store, moved quickly across the sidewalk, stopped, and stood straight as the cop car skidded to a halt three feet behind the Plymouth.
Valdez and Gorman fired into the windshield, Valdez moving his gun driver to passenger, repeating with both. 45s. The glass spidered crimson, behind it the vague dark shapes of uniformed bodies rocking violently forward and back, jumping, coming to rest.
Valdez and Gorman turned, casings rolling on the sidewalk, crunching beneath their feet. The street was empty now. The siren still wailed from the shot-up cop car and there were more sirens coming from two or three directions.
Gorman got into the backseat of the Plymouth, dropped the shotgun and the bags on the floor. Valdez got into the seat next to Constantine.
“Take off,” Valdez said, shutting the door, pulling the stocking off his head.
Constantine’s face was pale, tight, stretched back. He worked the gears, stared straight ahead, pumped the gas against the clutch.
“What the fuck’s goin’ on, man?” Gorman shouted. “Move it, driver!”
The sirens were almost on them now. Valdez put the barrel of his. 45 to Constantine’s temple. He bared his teeth and put his face close to Constantine’s ear.
Valdez said, “Make it fly.”
The Beat flashed white in Constantine’s head. He let up on the clutch and pushed down on the gas.
The Plymouth laid rubber, screamed into the intersection at 14th and R. Constantine ran the red, skidded into a wide right turn as a blue Chevy sedan three-sixtyed, the ass end of it clearing the Plymouth.
Constantine double-clutched the Hurst, headed north on 14th.
“Heat,” Valdez said, pointing a finger at a blue-and-white driving head-on in their direction.
Constantine cut the Road Runner across two southbound lanes, jumped the sidewalk at S, heard Gorman’s head hit the roof as he put the car back onto the blacktop. In the rearview, he saw the cop car skid into a right, straighten, fall in behind him.
Constantine made a sharp left into the alley, hit the brick side of a rowhouse, saw sparks in his side vision, punched the gas. Pakistanis and Indians scattered ahead, frantically pushing their vending carts out of the way. Constantine landed on the horn, the Road Runner’s “beep-beep” sounding in the alley.
“What the fuck is this!” Gorman said, as Valdez sideglanced Constantine.
“Shut up,” Constantine said, over the screams of foreign words outside the car.
He blew through a vendor’s cart, the cart jumping, tumbling back over the Plymouth’s hood and roof. Constantine turned sharply right at the T of the alley, took out a chain-link fence, gave the Plymouth gas, downshifted, got out of the grip of the fence.
Gorman turned, looked out the back window. Through the smoke he could see the cop car, the vendor’s cart in pieces on the hood, as it crashed into the ruin of the fenced yard. Sirens still undulated in the air.
“Where you goin’, Constantine?” Valdez said.
Constantine raced through Johnson, the Plymouth’s four wheels lifting off the ground as it hit the street. The Plymouth came down, threw sparks, reentered the alley.
