High Noon

Tactical. Until Razz was out and in custody, she couldn’t risk taking his mother too close to the inner perimeter. “I need you to wait here with this officer for just a few minutes. I’m going to come back and get you, and I’m going to see that you’re taken to where Charlie will be.”
    “Thank you, for everything you did. Thank you.”
    Phoebe moved quickly, angling so she’d have a view of the front of the liquor store. When she saw the door open, saw the boy step forward, hands high, she let out a long breath of relief.
    The gunfire was a stunning blast. For an instant she simply froze, simply stared as Charlie’s body jerked, danced, fell. She heard herself screaming as she rushed forward, as dozens of cops dove for cover.
    Someone shoved her down. With the breath knocked out of her she heard the screams from inside the store, and the shouts of: “Shots fired! Shots fired!” zinging around her.
     
    It was beautiful! And so pathetically easy. All you had to do was slip and slide and know how to look like you belonged. Not so hard to find a good position, hold up, wait things out.
    All that time she’d spent talking that asshole out. Wasted, wasn’t it, bitch?
    Stupid fucker deserved to die. Gangs were a blight on the city.
    He could have put some bullets in her, too. Easy-peasy. But this was better. This accomplished something and kept it all rolling.
    He hadn’t known, really hadn’t guessed, how much fun this would all be. Why end it too soon?
    He’d left the gun, done some more slipping and sliding. Easy-peasy again, tucking the ID away, melting into the panicked crowd, then easing away in the confusion.
    But not before he watched Phoebe scramble up, run toward the others at the door of the crap-shit liquor store and drop down beside the dead kid.
    ’Cause that kid was stone dead, and don’t you mistake it.
    Press was going to love this, he thought as he made his way west to where he’d left his car. Going to eat it up like Cheez Whiz on a cracker.
    Lieutenant Bitch Mac Namara had talked the asshole out all right. And straight into a hail of bullets.
    He was going to pick himself up a six-pack and some takeout, go home. And watch the news.
     
    When Phoebe got home she heard the voices in the parlor. Dinner long over, she thought. Dishes done and put away.
    Coffee and brandy served in the parlor—the Wedgwood pot, the Baccarat decanter and snifters.
    All on loan from the tight-fisted estate of Elizabeth Mac Namara.
    She wanted to go straight up the stairs, crawl into bed. Or under it. But it couldn’t be done. Just one more thing that couldn’t be done. So she walked to the doorway.
    Carter was telling some story—she could tell by the way his hands were moving. He had such good stories. She knew he hoped to become a writer, and that he worked at it when he could. But teaching ate up most of his time.
    Beside him Josie rolled her eyes, but she was laughing while she did. It was so sweet, the way they loved each other. Still so fresh and sweet.
    There was Mama, looking so happy. Just peaceful and happy, her world full of people who made her so. And Ava perched on the arm of Mama’s chair, sipping coffee from one of those lovely Wedgwood cups.
    Her little girl, sitting on the sofa beside Duncan. And oh my goodness, what was that look on Carly’s face when she smiled up at him? Her baby was having her first crush by the looks of things.
    And didn’t he seem just right at home, Mr. Duncan Swift, sprawled back, all relaxed and easy, sending her little girl winks like the two of them were in on a big secret.
    How many blocks from here was Hitch Street?
    How could that distance have an entire world between them?
    It was Duncan who saw her first. A quick light in his eyes, then an equally quick fade into concern. Was she so transparent?
    He rose, came to her. “Are you all right?”
    “No. I’m not hurt, but I’m not all right. I’m sorry I missed dinner,” she said in a voice that carried into the room.
    “Mama, we had the best time! And Duncan said…” Carly’s words faded away as she dashed over. Phoebe saw her bright blue eyes latch on to the blood on her pants.
    She’d had a spare shirt in her locker, but she’d had to come home with the blood—Charles Johnson’s blood—on her pants.
    “It’s not mine. I’m not hurt, not at all. But I need such a hug from you right now. I need such a big, enormous Carly hug right this minute.” She crouched and squeezed tight as