Sin City

Lil Moe.

'Maybe he's not out tonight,' Brass offered.

'Or maybe he's making the car. Just 'cause it's unmarked, that doesn't mean Moe doesn't know a police car when he eyeballs it.'

'We could disguise ourselves,' Brass commented dryly from the wheel, 'as cheerleaders.'

'I got a better idea…. Let me out.'

Brass just looked at him. 'You have your weapon, Brown?'

'No-I don't wear it around the lab.'

'We're not in the lab. You're asking to do some kind of half-assed, impromptu undercover dance, and that's not-'

'C'mon, Brass! I'm not saying leave me alone. Just back me up from a distance. Let me see if I can smoke this guy out.'

'You're a criminalist, Brown-not a cop.'

'And you're a middle-aged white guy. Which of us stands to score easier?'

Brass considered that. 'Well, it's plain this plan isn't working.'

'All right then-Plan B.'

Hopping out at the corner of Harmon and Tarkanian Way, Warrick ambled down the street named after the legendary UNLV basketball coach. Taking his time, not wanting to appear anxious or in a hurry, Warrick strolled toward the arena, enjoying the cool evening. In the dusky light he could barely make out the sign for the Facilities Management Administration Building (whatever that was) across the street. Passing the single-story building, he continued inexorably toward the Thomas & Mack Center.

Warrick turned left, keeping the basketball arena on his right as he circled the building. The street-lights spaced their pools of light about every ten yards, giving a sense of security to a gaggle of passing coeds, but only made Warrick feel more like a moving target. The shadows deepened and became fathomless in contrast to the spheres of white.

He glanced up to see Brass's Taurus turning off Gym Road into the Thomas & Mack parking lot near Tropicana Avenue. Then he shifted his gaze around, as if aimlessly looking at this and that, so that anyone watching him wouldn't realize he'd been keeping tabs on the unmarked car.

The CSI had almost made it to the Jean Nidetch Women's Center when a male voice called out to him from the shadows. 'Bro!'

Warrick swiveled that way but stayed on the sidewalk. He said nothing.

The voice from the darkness said, 'You lookin' for somethin'? Or you jus' lost?'

'That depends. What kinda map you sellin'?'

A figure took a step closer, remaining in the shadows, but now visible as a slight, sketchy presence. 'Roadmap to bliss, bro-happiness highway.'

Warrick settled into place on the sidewalk. 'Who couldn't use a little happiness?'

The guy took another step toward the light. Warrick got a better look at him now: a tall, gangly man in a silk running suit, a Dodgers stocking cap perched atop a tangle of dreadlocks. Just a kid, Warrick thought, maybe twenty-one tops.

'You lookin' for happiness, I got it. Just not out there, man-light hurts my eyes. Ease on down the road.'

After a glance around, Warrick stepped out of the pale circle of streetlamp light, and into the shadows in front of the guy…

…who fit the intern's description of Lil Moe like a latex glove. Long time since I hit a jackpot in this town, Warrick thought.

The dealer was saying, 'What kind of happiness you in the market for?'

'You might be surprised what makes me happy.'

'Hey, bro-I'm strictly pharmaceutical…strange sex stuff, try the yellow pages.'

'Not sex, Moe…'

Eyes and nostrils flared. 'How you know my name? I never done bidness with you.'

'Information, Moe-that's all I want.'

'You want infor mation from me? Do I look like a fuckin' search engine? What am I, some Yahoo Google shit?'

Lil Moe snapped his fingers, and before Warrick could move, a third party grabbed his left arm, wrenched it behind him, and pain streaked up his arm, spiking in his shoulder. He heard a sharp metallic snick, and suddenly felt the point of a blade dimple his throat, next to his Adam's apple. He froze-and hoped to hell that somewhere Brass was watching this, somewhere close, calling in some backup.

'I'm gonna ask you again, homey,' Lil Moe said, moving in on Warrick, the dealer's face contorted, waving his hand like a pissed off rapper. 'Why you want information from me?'

The knife pressed deeper, and Warrick felt the sting before something warm began trickling down his neck. Behind him, whoever held his arm was strong, and kept Warrick's hand high between his shoulder blades, the muscles stretching and ready to explode, if the assailant snapped the bone.

In front of Warrick, the young man in the Dodger stocking cap hopped from foot to foot, as if the sidewalk were a bed of coals under his expensive sneakers. 'Who sent you, man? What's this about?'

Forcing himself to slow his breathing and to remain calm despite the situation, Warrick's mind raced over possible outcomes-most of them grim.

'I'll pay for what I want,' Warrick managed.

'Oh, you gonna pay, all right! Who you workin' for? You with Danny G?'

His unseen assailant's breathing came in sharp, rapid gulps, breath hot on Warrick's neck and reeking of liquor and garlic. The assailant sucked his teeth as if trying to control his salivating over the urge to plunge the blade into Warrick's throat.

And the dealer was singsonging, 'You better fuckin' talk, boy, while you got your vocal cords.'

Rasping, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper, Warrick asked, 'You don't wanna cut me.'

Looking older suddenly, Lil Moe eyeballed the CSI, the anger shining through even in the darkness. 'Aw fuck this, Tony-fuckin' cut him, man!'

Even as Warrick tensed for the cold invasion of steel, he felt the pressure go slack on his arm and the blade drew away from his neck. Then he heard steel clatter to sidewalk, followed by Brass's quiet voice saying, 'Smart move-and I didn't even have to tell you to drop it.'

Lil Moe's eyes went wild, his mouth dropped open; no words exited, but he did: spinning on his heel, he ran like a starting gun had sounded. Turning, Warrick saw his assailant, a wiry black kid, this one in baggy UNLV jersey and baggier jeans and no more than sixteen, the nose of Brass's automatic kissing the boy's right temple.

'You just gonna stand there bleeding?' Brass asked Warrick. 'Or are you gonna go catch him?'

Warrick took this gentle hint, and spun and sprinted after the drug dealer.

Moe had a good twenty-yard head start. But he was also stoned and pumping his arms wildly, his knees pistoning up and down, his stride lengths varying as the drugs kept him from running smoothly. And instead of heading toward the mass of buildings to the east, where he would have had options for escape and possibly obstacles to benefit his youth, he had taken off across the vast expanse of the parking lot.

Before he'd got halfway to Tropicana Avenue, Moe started to slow, and-by the far side of the lot-Warrick caught up and grabbed his jacket, slowing him as they both ran. 'Stop!…It's over!'

Lil Moe fought frantically with the zipper, trying to escape the jacket and still keep running at the same time. The drugs prevented him from doing either very effectively. Suddenly lurching to the right, Moe snatched the jacket from Warrick's grasp, but tumbled, elbows and feet flying at odd angles, and he whumped onto the cement and rolled and came to a skidding stop at the parking-lot curb, in a fetal position, one hand going to his face, the other arm wrapping around ribs that were at least cracked if not broken.

Barely breathing hard, Warrick bent down over him. 'That's it-there ain't no Moe.'

Sweat beading on his face and looking like he couldn't decide whether to bawl or vomit, the young man stared up, all the fight gone from his face. 'Okay, man, okay-so I'm Lil Moe. You five-oh?'