At the City's Edge (28 page)

And when she was spent, he said, ‘I know how to beat them.’

Cruz pulled back, looked up at him with wet eyes. ‘What?’

‘Remember our mysterious caller?’

‘“The burnt child fears flame.”’ She sniffled, then took a step away, moving to hold his hands between them like they were
dancing.

‘We assumed that the evidence he gave to Michael was gone. That Galway and DiRisio had taken it.’ He paused. ‘But what if
we were wrong? What if Michael hid the evidence somewhere safe, safe even from the fire?’

She stared at him for a moment. ‘You mean –’

‘Yes.’

‘And you know –’

‘Yes.’

The beginnings of a smile graced her lips. ‘Where?’

‘Michael’s bar. In a place they wouldn’t have known to look. We can go get it right now. End all this shit. Make sure Billy
is safe. Get your job back.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Burn Galway and Donlan to the ground.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah.’

Her hands squeezed his, her fingers not the baby-soft girlskin he was used to. Hands that worked, that knew how to hold a
weapon and grip a chin-up bar. He liked touching them. ‘What do you say?’

She smiled at him, then stepped forward and grabbed his neck, pulling his mouth to hers. He stood frozen, still able to smell
the tears on her cheeks, but then her tongue parted his lips, menthol and spice in a soft dance growing harder. His body reacted,
pulling her closer, the ridge of her pelvic bone pressing his hips, her body warm against his chest, warm and right and close.
His hands tangled in her hair, and she gave a soft moan, and then they were stumbling across the floor to the bed, not breaking
the kiss, hands flying everywhere, her back, his shoulders, the curve of her hips. When they reached the bed she pushed him,
and he fell backwards. She was on him even as he hit, crawling onto his body, her hands fumbling at his belt, the brush of
her fingers sending electric shivers up his spine, his cock straining at his jeans, her smell sexy and strong, and he could
barely wait to pull the sweater over her head and kiss the triangle of cinnamon skin in the hollow of her throat, to yank
her jeans and pan ties to her knees and slide inside her, feel her warm and sweet, a place to lose himself, to forget, to
separate themselves from everything that was happening –

He reached for her hands and gripped them in his
own, pulling them from the belt she’d managed to undo in no time at all. ‘Stop.’

She froze, then leaned back, the crotch of her jeans rubbing his, a knowing look on her face, her voice whiskey and black
coffee. ‘Stop, huh?’

He groaned involuntarily, bit his lip. Then shook her hands, pushed them away. ‘Stop. Seriously.’

She cocked her head. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

He was wondering that himself. ‘I just… this doesn’t feel right.’

‘It doesn’t
feel
right?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘You really know how to romance a girl.’

‘I don’t mean that. It feels great. It’s just…’ He paused. ‘This doesn’t seem like you.’

She stared at him, something flashing in her eyes. ‘What the fuck do you know about me?’

‘I’m just saying, I don’t know, I don’t want to end up with you thinking of me the way you think of him, of Donlan. Like a
mistake, something you regret.’

She pushed herself off him, shaking her head. Stalked over to the mirror and began to straighten her sweater, not looking
at him, her voice venomous. ‘I don’t need your protection.’

‘I know that.’ Things had gotten turned around. It had been clear in his mind, the idea that with her he didn’t want to do
the same old thing, just use sex as a conduit to forgetting, but now everything seemed jumbled. He sat up, sighed. Ran a hand
through his bangs. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ She turned her head back and forth, examining her profile in the mirror. She blew a breath, then patted
her pockets, came up with a blister pack of gum. Popped one of the pieces in her mouth and chewed viciously. ‘We should go
anyway.’

‘Listen –’

‘I’ll see you downstairs.’ Without a look back, she walked out the door. He could hear her walk down the stairs, the sound
steadily growing fainter.

He sighed, flopped back on the bed, stared at the stucco shadows on the ceiling. ‘Shit.’

It was only afternoon, but the light was fading against a sky bruised purple with the promise of storm, one of those summer
squalls that settled in and turned day to night. Jason had the passenger’s side window open, his elbow on the frame, arm out
and planing. He’d tilt his hand down and his arm would dive, then point it up and his arm would rise. The hair on his forearm
was struggling to stand, and he could smell ozone on the breeze.

‘Worked out well,’ Jason said. ‘Washington’s party being to night, I mean. For him letting us use his car.’

Cruz nodded, flipped the turn signal of the borrowed Honda.

‘Of course, I wish we could go to the thing.’ Talking to fill the stony silence. Out his window the world moved past: a cell-phone
store, a closed hardware shop, a burnt-out two-flat plastered with posters. ‘Half a million dollars. Jesus, that’s a lot of
money. Wouldn’t mind being able to write that check.’

He glanced over at her, the way she drove staring straight ahead. Strong, in de pen dent, but something brittle in the pose
as well. And why the hell not? One minute they’re about to make love, the next he’s pushing her away. ‘Look, Elena, I’m sorry
–’

‘Forget it.’ Her voice was calm.

‘No, I mean it. That wasn’t the way I planned – I mean, not planned, but you know, wanted, things to happen.’ He sighed. ‘It’s
just –’

‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘It’s not a big deal.’

‘Right,’ he said, feeling strangely sick. They rode in silence through electric air.

On the right they passed a school, brick, three stories, dark against dark skies. The bottom levels of the building showed
clean spots where graffiti had been sandblasted. Opposite was a row of cracker-jack two-flats and a barren lot, fenced off
and untended, the grass waist high.

‘I wish we had a gun, at least.’

‘You keep saying that.’

‘I keep meaning it.’

‘You know the worst thing I learned,’ Cruz said, her voice abrupt in that change-the-subject way, ‘when I joined Gang Intel?’

He fought the urge to say,
That your partner was selling arms to gangbangers?
, afraid it would come off the wrong way. ‘What?’

‘One of the best ways to gauge the power of a gang is to see how many schools fall on their territory.’

‘Seriously?’

‘The Latin Saints, for example. Their area is pretty small compared to some of the others. And Hispanic gangs don’t deal in
narcotics as much, so they aren’t as well funded. But you know what they have?’

‘Schools?’

‘Schools. Two high schools and a junior high. They
recruit shorties right out of recess. Use the young ones to carry dope, money. Or to do shootings. They have a tattoo, a
stick figure, and you gotta earn it. I stopped this kid one time, maybe sixteen, he had one the length of his forearm. I asked
what he did for it, you know what he said?’ She paused. ‘He said, “A few things.”’

He didn’t know what to say to that, let the moment stretch. Then, ‘This is Damen’.

‘I know.’ She braked at the stop sign. Looked at him, her eyes narrow. ‘You’re sure it will be there?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Because this is an awfully big risk.’

‘I’m sure.’
I have to be.

She stared, the darkening skies hiding her features, all but a glint of lost light from her eyes. Finally she shrugged. Turned
the corner.

Damen Avenue, just like three days ago. Had it been only three days? Three days since he’d turned onto the street with his
nephew in his car, feeling smug and sure and looking forward to rubbing his brother’s nose in his failings. Three days since
he found the still-smoking horror that had been Michael’s bar; three days since his brother’s dream had turned into their
nightmare.

Damen Avenue, just like before but nothing at all like before.

She stopped the car across from the burned hulk of the bar. The clouds had painted the streets twilight. The special in the
window of the storefront diner was now a half-slab and greens, six bucks. He was rolling
up his window as the first drops of rain plinked against the roof. They sat for a moment watching it begin. Heavy, pregnant
drops that exploded on the hood of the car. Two, five, twenty, a hundred, and then hissing sheets that blurred the world.
Lightning glowed behind them, followed by thunder like someone rolling heavy furniture across a wooden floor.

‘Maybe,’ Jason said, ‘this is a good omen.’

She looked at him sourly.

He opened the door and was soaked to the skin before he could close it. Mist rose from the blacktop, the day’s heat steaming.
Jason slicked his bangs out of his eyes, then popped the trunk, took out the old crow-bar they’d borrowed from Washington’s
basement. Its heft was a comfort as they crossed the deserted street.

The police tape fluttered yellow, the only color he could see in this sudden purgatory. Beyond it lay the charred and bubbled
ruins where his brother had died. The rain was already collecting in scorched hollows, sweeping loose ash into a black lake.
Jason stared, feeling something like a head rush, his thighs weak and vision blurry.

His brother had died here. Right here, alone and scared.

Thunder cracked again, closer this time, and the rain lashed down harder.

‘You want an engraved invitation?’ Cruz stood with hip cocked.

‘I was just…’ He shook his head. ‘Michael was my older brother. He saved my butt so many times when
we were kids.’ Rain beat goosebumps into his skin. ‘I just wonder if at the last moment, Michael was praying I would come
save his.’

Cruz softened, left the tape and stepped in front of him, her features traced by the light from the diner windows. She opened
her mouth, closed it, then said, ‘Are you all right?’

He nodded, slowly. Tightened his grip on the crow-bar.

She put one hand up to cup his cheek. Her palm was warm, and the ridge of her thumb fell tingling across his lips. She nodded
toward the wreckage. ‘Come on. Let’s finish this. For him.’

He figured the first step was the hardest, so he made himself take it. Then he turned and held the tape up for Cruz. She started
carefully through the debris. Her clothing was soaked, and ash clung to her pant legs as she wound her way into the center
of the building. A few blackened steel girders supported a skeleton of the ceiling, and the darkness fell across her in patterns.
She twisted the flashlight in her hand and a thin beam of wavering light fell on the ruined floor. ‘Where is it?’

Jason gestured with the crowbar, walked past her. ‘Back here.’ He climbed gingerly onto a pile of twisted lumber, testing
to be sure it would hold his weight, then scrambled to where blackened bricks marked the entrance to the back room.

Rubble lay in scattered piles, chunks of brick and mortar. It took him a minute to get his bearings,
and then he pointed. ‘There.’ A metal lip shone beneath a section of wall. He and Cruz each took an end and heaved, tipped
the stone up and over to fall with a splash and a crack. The trap hatch was a scorched square of metal thirty inches to a
side, with a ring in the center. The heat had warped the metal, and Jason didn’t bother with the pull-ring. Instead he slid
the crowbar into the crack and shoved. The metal shivered, but didn’t give. He grabbed a chunk of brick and concrete, and
pounded the bar in deeper. Then he took a breath and wrapped his hands on the cold iron bar.

Cruz squatted beside him, her hands above and below his, skin warm in the cold rain. He smiled, said, ‘Ready?’, and then heaved
back on the bar, his feet scrabbling at the rocky earth for purchase.

For a long moment nothing happened. Then with a pop like the top off a bottle of beer, the hatch gave, swinging back on bent
hinges to crack on the stone, revealing a square hole silent as the grave. The first inches of steep metal Navy stairs faded
swiftly into a play of shadows and rain.

Past that, nothing.

Jason set the crowbar on the stack of bricks. His bangs had fallen across his eyes again, and he slicked them back, hands
trembling, though whether it was from effort or tension, he couldn’t have said.

Down that hole was everything they needed.

Or nothing but ghosts.

He took the flashlight from his pocket, grabbed the lip of the trap hatch, and started down.

Jason sits on the ridge in full kit
–
desert BDUs, body armor, M4 carbine, spare 5.56 ammo, helmet with NODs, sidearm, Gerber knife, Wiley X ballistic sunglasses,
first aid kit, gallon of water, sixty, seventy pounds in all
–
and watches the house burn.

Flame runs like water, spills in hungry shades of orange and yellow. The heat warps the world into twists and spires. Greasy
black smoke pours out windows. The warmth on his face is a pulse, a brush of sun.

He has his iPod going, only the left earphone in, Björk singing over shimmering tones that all is full of love, that you have
to trust it, her dreamy voice a fantastical counterpoint to the angry roar and crackle of flame. Down the hill, Jones macks
for the camera, rifle in one hand, a thumb jerking toward the flame, as Kaye frames the shot with the digital camera.

‘I was talking to that guy,’ Martinez points, then pats an ammo pouch on his flak jacket, pulls a pack of Miamis, Iraqi knockoffs
of Marlboro Reds. Lights one with a Zippo, takes a drag. ‘He told me the people lived here were Sunnis, that’s why they got
burned out.’

‘They work for Saddam?’

‘Nah. Just Sunnis, somebody didn’t want ’em around.’

Jason nods, swatting at a fly buzzing his ear. He does a silent count of his men, Jones, Campbell, Kaye, Frieden, Crist,
Flumignan, Borcherts, Paoletti, Rosemoor, and Martinez, ten. ‘Too bad.’