New York Dead

his way.
    Stone scrambled out of the cab, and, operating instinctively, yanked the left side door open, shoved the dead driver aside, and got the cab in gear. A block and a half ahead, a van was roaring away. Stone stood on it. He switched the blinking caution lights on, leaned on the horn, and streaked off down Second Avenue after the van.
    There was almost no traffic on the avenue at 4:00 A.M. “Where the fuck are the blue-and-whites?” he demanded aloud, suddenly aware that he was now cold sober. “Where are you, you sons of bitches?” The cab was new, and he gained on the van for a minute, until the driver realized he was being pursued. Still, Stone was keeping pace a block behind. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get any closer, since he wasn’t armed; all he wanted to do was to attract a blue-and-white or two. He tried to make out the license plate on the van and failed.
    At Forty-second Street, the van hung a left and nearly turned over. “That would be good,” Stone said, “turn the fucking thing over and save me some trouble!” Good luck, too. On Forty-second Street a blue-and-white was parked in front of an all-night joint, the cops drinking coffee from paper cups. Stone glanced in the rearview mirror as he passed and saw the cups go out the windows on both sides and the car start after him.
    The van turned left again and started up First Avenue, keeping all four wheels on the ground this time. Stone managed a wide four-wheel drift and made up a few yards on him. The blue-and-white was doing even better; it was faster than both the van and Stone’s cab. At Fifty-seventh Street, the blue-and-white overtook Stone, and the cop in the passenger seat was waving him over. Stone shook his head and pointed ahead. “No! Get him! Get him! He’s the cab killer!” The cop didn’t seem to understand, but the driver floored it and went after the van. Stone followed. At Seventy-second Street, another blue-and-white joined the chase. At Eighty-sixth Street, the van driver made his mistake. He started a turn to the left, then saw a hooker crossing the street. He wavered, missed her, then, too late, tried to get the van around the corner. It teetered on two wheels, then went over and slid twenty feet on its side, coming to rest against a parked car.
    “This is one for Scoop Berman,” Stone cackled, skidding to a halt behind a blue-and-white. “I wonder where the little guy is tonight.”
    The little guy came out of the driver’s window, holding an impossibly large pistol equipped with a silencer. He popped off one shot, which shattered the window of a blue-and-white, then a returning fusillade knocked him back inside the van.
    Four cops approached the van warily now, three pistols out in front, another with a riot gun. They hesitated, then the bearer of the shotgun crept around the front of the van and peered in through the windshield. The shotgun went off, and Stone made it around the van in time to see the cop reach into the cab through the hole he had blown open and remove Scoop Berman’s pistol.
    The cop used the butt of the shotgun to clean out a larger area of the windshield, and with help, pulled Scoop out of the van onto the pavement.
    “You the cabdriver?” a cop asked Stone as they crowded around Scoop.
    “No, the passenger. The driver’s in the front seat, there, missing most of his head.”
    “Well, we finally got the fucker,” another cop said. “That’s cabbie number six he’s offed. We’ll get a fucking commendation for this one.” He pulled out his notebook. “Let’s have your name,” he said to Stone, “and we’ll want a statement from you.” “My name’s Barrington. I was fourteen years on the job, detective second, most recently out of the 19th.”
    “I know you,” another cop said. “You were Dino Bacchetti’s partner.”
    “Right.”
    “Let him write out his own statement,” the cop said to his colleague. “He’ll do it better than you.”
    “I know this guy,” Stone said, nodding at Scoop. “His name’s Berman; he’s a free-lance television cameraman. You want me to talk to him?”
    “Yeah,” said the cop. “If you know him.”
    Stone went and knelt over Berman. “Scoop, how are you feeling? An ambulance is on the way.”
    Scoop was gutshot, twice, and there was blood around his lips. His eyes focused. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “I thought you was out to pasture.”
    “I was, buddy, but I was in the cab.”
    Scoop looked worried. “I’m sorry