Cross Fire

big guy. Nah, big
kid
was more like it.
    “Excuse me, Officer. Did they catch the guy?” Denny asked one of the cops around the perimeter — and now he was just showing off for Mitch.
    “You’ll have to check the paper or TV, sir,” the cop told him. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
    Denny turned halfway around and spoke low. “You hear that?
Sir.
Must be a good neighborhood.” Mitch looked off to the side and scratched at his jaw to keep from cracking up too much.
    The cop was just about to get on the radio when Denny spoke up again. “Sorry, but I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare ciggie on you?” He held up a blue Bic lighter. People always like to see the homeless guy with his own match, and sure enough the porker reached into his cruiser for a pack of Camel Lights.
    “One’s fine,” Denny said, making sure Mitch was visible over his shoulder. “We can share.”
    The cop took two out of the pack. “What unit were you with?”
    Denny looked down at his faded camo jacket. “Third Brigade Combat Team, Fourth Infantry Division, best unit overseas.”
    “Second best,” Mitch said. “I was New Jersey Army National Guard, out of Balad.”
    In fact, Mitch had never known a uniform, but Denny had drilled him enough that he could fake it a little. People loved vets. It always worked to their advantage.
    Denny took the ciggies from the piggy with a friendly nod and handed one over to Mitch. “Word on the street is that this guy might be one of us, the way he’s been shooting,” he said.
    The cop shrugged in the direction of the sloped front yard. “Word don’t trickle down that hill too quick. You should ask a reporter. I’m just on crowd control.”
    “All right, well…” Denny lit his own cigarette, blew smoke, and smiled. “We’ll get out of your hair now. God bless you, Officer, and thank you for what you’re doing.”

Chapter 28

    THE FRIDAY AFTER the Dlouhy shooting was one of those breezy spring days, the kind where you can feel summer coming on the wind, even though it was still jacket weather.
    Kyle buttoned his blazer as he turned onto Mississippi Avenue and walked north, blending in with the local color, so to speak. His wig, makeup, and contacts were all perfectly effective, even if they were comically rudimentary. Ever since the surgery on his face, anything less was simply beneath him — if not also a necessary evil.
    Likewise, this run-down neighborhood was not a place he’d choose to spend a lovely spring afternoon. It was the kind of locale that kept white liberal guilt alive and well in America, just never enough that anyone actually did something about it.
    All of which was neither Kyle’s problem nor his concern right now.
    He ambled up the street slowly, making a point of arriving outside the Southeast Community Center just before four thirty. Word was that they were giving out Wizards tickets today, along with the latest “Just Say No” inculcation for the kiddies. Even some of the roughest boys had shown up, and a stream of them came running out through the double glass doors just as Kyle approached the squat redbrick building.
    One boy in particular caught his eye. He bypassed the front steps and jumped off a low wall, then stopped to drop the wrapper off a 3 Musketeers bar before continuing up the street.
    Kyle followed, close enough to register on the boy’s radar but far enough back that they’d be well out of earshot before anything happened.
    A block and a half later, the boy stopped short and turned around quickly. He was still chewing the candy bar, and he spoke around it.
    “Man, whatha fuck you comin’ up on me like that?”
    He was child-young, but there was nothing resembling fear in those brown doe eyes of his. The sneer on his face was a carbon copy of every other wannabe gangster who trawled these miserable streets for a living.
    The boy lifted the hem on his too-long white undershirt and showed a black leather-wrapped hilt of a knife that probably went halfway down his skinny leg. “You got somethin’ to say,
punk?
” he asked.
    Kyle smiled approvingly. “It’s Bronson, right? Or do you prefer Pop-Pop?”
    “Who wants to know?” His instincts were good — and he was just stupid enough. Bronson pulled the knife out a little farther, to show off some steel.
    Kyle angled himself away from the street and opened his own jacket. Inside was a compact Beretta pistol, holstered at his side. He took it out and held it by the barrel, with the