With alarming force, Dante slammed Lotto Man through the glass candy counter. The man’s nose shattered in a spray of blood and a chaos of falling Slim Jims, breath mints and chocolate bars behind which Dante bolted, hitting the street in a spirited, if not especially fast, run. Mallory and Gunner charged after him, slipping on candy trying to avoid stepping on Lotto Man, who was flopping around on his back holding his free flowing nose.
“I’ma sue! Fuck Lotto! Somebody got to pay me!”
On the street, Mallory and Gunner craned their necks to pick up the figure that had fled straight across the street but suddenly was lost behind two city buses. Mallory scanned down the block to the left, under the ‘el’ looking for a break in traffic. “Some coincidence him showing up here.”
“First the hotel, now this? Too fucking much of a coincidence.”
Mallory flashed on the bulldog giving that single upward nod of its chin.
Suddenly Dante jumped out from behind a bus, smiled, then gave a little wave before cutting right across the “square.”
“Cocky bastard,” Mallory grunted.
“Did that motherfucker just flag us?”
“Yep.”
Gunner fumed, “Suspected murderers aren’t supposed to fuck with us like that. Where’s the fear, the desperation?” Brakes squealed and drivers cursed as they charged across all four-lanes of East Tremont Avenue. “We got this asshole. He’s heading for the train.”
“No, it just left. He’d be trapped on the platform,” Mallory tossed him the keys. “Grab the car. I’ll chase him on foot; you swing around, cut him off.”
Gunner split off toward their car. “How ‘bout I swing around and run this arrogant motherfucker over?”
The suspect charged down Lane Avenue, a short street off Tremont leading to Westchester Avenue. He was several car lengths away now. Mallory raced after him. Near the expansive entrance to the Six train, the suspect veered left, charged into the street, then suddenly stumbled next to a gypsy cab, hitting the blacktop hard. Mallory pushed himself to go faster, to catch this freak now. Traffic stopped him cold. The suspect was still down, perfect chance to make the arrest. Mallory waved his shield at drivers. This was The Bronx; no one was impressed. The suspect scrambled up. Mallory rushed right into traffic, shoving his shield in front of screeching brakes, hurrying across the street.
The suspect ran to the only other gypsy cab around, parked right ahead. Mallory rushed into the street, within 20 feet now. A Ford Explorer blew past him, nearly clipping the detective, the woman behind the wheel flipping him an enthusiastic middle finger.
The suspect yanked an older man out of the driver’s seat.
He hurled him right towards the grill of the oncoming Explorer.
The woman covered her face.
The cabbie’s eyes widened.
The Ford swerved.
Its grill crunched the cabbie’s face, breaking his neck, shattering his shoulder.
The body flipped back—
—landing on the street with a sickening bounce—
—then an ugly thud.
The Ford swerved left, across the lane divider, ramming into an oncoming Trans Am. The sports car crumpled like the fiberglass piece of crap Mallory knew it to be, its driver smashing his head through the windshield. The woman hit her face on her steering wheel, gashing her forehead, then disappeared behind a crash bag. Neither moved. The second cab lurched forward, reclaiming Mallory’s focus. He ran to the first cab, the one the suspect had stumbled by. Then froze. He eyed the disappearing cab, looked back at his cab’s rear tire. Flat. The suspect hadn’t fallen. He had dropped down to slash the tire.
Screeching brakes slammed to a halt behind him. Mallory spun, ran, jumped in. “He’s getting away.”
Gunner floored it. “Fuck that.”