Cole’s legs pumped through the church like pistons in an old, reliable Chevy, muscling him through gambling addicts and timid dealers. He banged a table and sent stacks of chips in the air. His instincts told him to grab as many as he could as they fell. Maybe there was a gambling addict deep down inside him, too.
Now was not the time. He was nearing the back end of the sanctuary. He dove behind an old organ and waited for gunshots. Nothing. The thick wooden build must have been a deterrent. He could hear voices bounce off the high ceiling, panicked and concurrent.
Cole dove from behind the organ to behind a stand-up piano. Less cover, closer to his destination: a little door in the back. He waited for gunshots. Nothing! Maybe the piano was an expensive old bird. Built like it was corn-fed in the farm. Too tough to bust. The voices beyond were still all fused.
Cole dove from behind the piano to behind a keyboard on a plastic stand. What was next, a fucking Casio? He was in the wide-open. He waited for gunshots. Nothing. Not yet.
He could finally see his audience. Sandí raised the pistol he’d lifted off Cole earlier but La Mitad slapped it away.
“Down!” he ordered. He wiped his tears by punching his eyes, then priced-out Cole in the corner by the keyboard with new resolve. “No shots in the wall. No blood on the floor. This is a place of God. We kill him with our hands.”
Up on the pulpit, by the big-ass Bible, not far from Cole, a few dealers quietly gathered the cash into cases and sneaked away. The patrons hadn’t caught on yet.
Sandí rubbed a hand through the creases of his skull. “We’re running out of time.”
“Fuck time!” La Mitad bellowed.
While they argued, Cole fled for the little door in the back. He had tunnel vision. It was just him and the door knob. He nabbed it with his right hand, but—
“God!”
The hole-punching. All four wounds throbbed like ants were dancing down the nerve tracts. His whole mitt shook. He grabbed the knob with his left hand, banged the door open, swept in, and slammed it shut behind him.
No lock.
He dragged a marble baptismal bath with his one good hand so it was in front of the door. The jamb wouldn’t last forever.
The voices on the other end were warped and muted. They’d just finally reacted to Cole’s big move.
And what a move it was. Round of applause, ladies and gents. Cole was in a small, sacramental back room. Bible. Wine. Wafers in plastic bags. Candles on stands. Plastic Christmas tree stuffed in the corner. Place didn’t even shell for the real thing. And that was it. Trapped.
“Way to B-minus, son.”
But there was a window in the little room. About eight feet up.
Cole stepped atop the stand with the wine. Kicked one bottle over. It landed with a thud. He undid the lever on the window and threw the thing open. That cool, city air! So close.
Except he didn’t have his badge. Or his gun. Or his belt. Or his phone.
Two seconds must have passed in reality, but it might as well have been an hour. Could he call Central from a payphone? Run like hell to the Tenderloin station? Explain what happened? Articulate his side of things? That’d be the right thing to do. Right?
But how was that the smart thing to do? He’d never hear the end of it. Cole Hoffer: son of Scott Hoffer, goofy offspring of a legendary cop, paraded into a criminal circlejerk, arrived without backup, without notifying anyone of his whereabouts, arrived without brains, and for what? Then they’d ask questions. For who? Regarding whom? For Chuck Hattaran? For Chuck Hattaran’s wife? How do you know Chuck Hattaran’s wife? What do you care? Why go above and beyond? Then they’d get answers. What a fool, Cole, they’d say. An unthinking, overfeeling, irresponsible wreck.
It’d be Bayview all over again.
The voices were closer now. They rattled the doorknob. But there were no gunshots. Nothing. They weren’t going to fire.
Cole had a chance to do things his way.
Those two seconds had passed. Cole hopped off the stand, grabbed a candle, and found a box of matches in a cabinet stuffed with offering envelopes.
“I’m comin’ out!” he said.
He opened the door moments later to find a semicircle of dealers and doormen waiting for him. So this was what it must have felt like to be a priest.
“I’ll burn something!” Cole threatened. Burn what?
That big-ass Bible on the pulpit. He held the candle by the stand and raised it up to the Bible’s golden pages. It was just inches away before the good book got some bad news.
“Wait!” That was La Mitad, bumping out of the semicircle. “Please. Some of us believe.”
“Isn’t there something in this book about Jesus griping at gamblers in a church?”
“We believe in business, idiota!” That was Sandí, still fondling Cole’s pistol.
“All right,” Cole started. He kept the candle at its dangerous angle. “So you don’t want to screw your racket. Then I got requests. Request number one: give me my stuff.”
Sandí grumbled like a rancor until La Mitad gestured to do as told.
The gun, the belt, the badge, and the phone slid along the tile, up to Cole’s boot. The phone was cracked.
“You broke the phone,” Cole realized.
Sandí didn’t respond. A broken phone was better than none. He’d make excuses later.
“Request number two: tell me where to find this Moses guy.”
La Mitad’s face went as red as his suit. “You said you knew him!”
“Refresh me!”
“Mentiroso!” The word came out of La Mitad like bad digestion. He didn’t know. That was the whole point. All right, so Cole was at least on the same lap of the race.
“Request number three, then …” Before Cole continued, he grabbed his wares off the floor, the candle ever vigilant above him. Was it even worth pursuing the third request? What did he hope to gain? What did he hope to know?
“What did you see in him?” Cole asked. “In Chuck? What did he give you? What insight? What intimacy? What depth of feeling? What was it? He was a liar, a cheater, a thief. He was the worst of us! And you fell for the guy? You? Why? What did you see in such a monster?”
La Mitad bumrushed Cole before he could make good with the candle. Instead, Cole dodged and spun, leading with the candle like a javelin, until the wick snuffed out, and he threw the whole contraption at Sandí.
La Mitad came back after him from behind, but Cole somersaulted into dealers and used the chaos to get to his feet, pump his legs, and make for the front, which was now unguarded. Time was short. Fuck time. They’d be on him in seconds.
But even from a distance, he could see the front doors were still locked. He needed another plan. There. Another door. In the corner. Already ajar. He dipped inside.
Stairs. Leading up. Cole climbed. Rookie mistake. But he was out of options. He could already hear the steps of his predators below him. Four stories later, he came to a metal fire emergency door. He shoved the bar, exited.
He was on the roof. It slid down either side along a thin, flat peak. One way led to the brick wall of the adjacent building, the other went down to the street.
Cole was shoved from behind. It was La Mitad. Cole lost his balance and rolled down the wrong incline, headed for Taylor Street, five floors down, about sixty-five feet below. Far down enough to turn gravity into a murderer. He gripped at roof tiles and rocks as he went, but they gave way with ease. He skittered to the precipice. One foot was over, then the leg, then the other foot and leg.
Cole grabbed the ledge with his good hand. Secured purchase with his bad hand. He’d managed to predict the pain now and block it out, even as his body physically repulsed. The muscles in his arm spasmed. The rest of his body dangled below.
La Mitad was up above, slowly scooting his way along the decline. Little pebbles rolled from his footsteps and bounced off the edge.
Something shimmered in the guy’s hand. It was the knife. The one that killed Little Reggie. Apparently, the knife had assumed Little Reggie’s mantra in his wake:
No no po-po.