XXXI

New Uses for an Old Car

A huge palm slapped the glass, startling Bradley Janeski. The hand reconfigured, and a dark finger that could break a sternum pointed at the dirt.

“Roll it down.”

The cadet cranked the knob, lowering the driver’s side window of the two-seater that had once belonged to his older brother, and prior to that, his oldest brother. Standing in the parking lot of the long-closed elementary school was a big black man whose silhouette resembled the front of a warship. Steam rose from the two dark turrets that were his nostrils.

Like most people, Bradley Janeski was intimidated by Corporal Dominic Williams.

“Park under there—” The big fellow pointed to the partially collapsed overhang that shielded the front entrance of the school. “Stay in the shadows. When you see Slick Sam, you call me or you call Tackley. If you don’t get us, try Huan or Perry Molloy. Here—”

A balled-up piece of paper bounced off of the cadet’s freckled face and landed in his lap. Rubbing his right eye, the young fellow retrieved the crumpled sphere of data.

“If he bolts before we get here…” Dominic unbuttoned his black overcoat and produced a snub-nosed revolver that was covered with cellophane. “Ever shoot one?”

“I scored in the top two percent on the range and grew up hunting with my dad and brothers.”

“Take this out of the wrapper.” The big fellow tossed the laminated weapon onto the dashboard. “If Slick Sam tries to run off, point it at him—tell him to stop, say you’re a cop. Fire a warnin’ shot in the air if you have to.”

“Yes, sir.” Bradley Janeski claimed the revolver from the dashboard and started to peel off the cellophane.

Dominic threw plastic handcuffs onto the sketch of Slick Sam’s face, which was lying upon the passenger seat. “Tie him up and keep him in the trunk ’til one of us gets here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If he scampers,” the big fellow added, “I want you to hit him with your car. Run over his foot, break a leg. Don’t go too fast and don’t run over his vitals. If he gets in a car, smash into that.”

“Shouldn’t I just shoot him?”

“We need him alive no matter what.”

“I know how to shoot.”

“Maybe … but even a shot in the leg can kill a nigga. And if Slick Sam pulls a gun on you, you won’t be thinkin’ ‘I need to wound him.’ You’ll shit your pants and shoot ’til you’re empty.” Dominic slapped the hood of the car. “This’s your gun.”

The cadet disagreed with the corporal’s insulting appraisal, but was smart enough not to verbalize his opinion. “I’ll hit him.”

“But first thing you do when you see him is call those numbers for us to come over.”

“Yes, sir.”

Exhaling steam, the big fellow turned around and walked toward his silver luxury car.

Bradley Janeski closed his window, put the gun on top of the sketch, and raised the binoculars that he had received last month for his twenty-second birthday. Across the street was the unremarkable concrete façade of the building that was said to contain Slick Sam’s chop shop.

The cadet’s first stakeout had begun.