“Kenny!”
“Maybe. Thought we should take a look. My source tells me there's gonna be a yard sale at two-seventy Jackson. That's the house facing us with the broken front window.”
I squinted at the street. A rusted Bonneville sat up on blocks two houses down from 270. The rest of the world was empty of life. All houses were dark.
“We're not interested in busting up this business deal,” Ranger said. “We're going to stay here and be nice and quiet and try to get a look at the white guy. If it's Kenny, we'll follow him.”
“It's pretty dark to make an identification.”
Ranger handed me a pair of binoculars. “Night scope.”
Of course.
We were heading into the second hour of waiting when a panel van cruised down Jackson. Seconds later the van reappeared and parked.
I trained the scope on the driver. “He seems to be white,” I told Ranger, “but he's wearing a ski mask. I can't see him.”
A BMW sedan slid into place behind the van. Four brothers got out of the BMW and walked to the van. Ranger had his window down, and the sound of the side door to the van swinging open carried across the street to the alley. Voices were muffled. Someone laughed. Minutes passed. One of the brothers shuffled between the van and the Beemer carrying a large wooden box. He popped the trunk, stored the box, returned to the van, and repeated the procedure with a second wooden box.
Suddenly the door to the house with the car on blocks crashed open and cops bolted out, yelling instructions, guns drawn, running for the Beemer. A police car barreled down the street and swerved to a stop. The four brothers scattered. Shots were fired. The van revved up and jumped away from the curb.
“Don't lose sight of the van,” Ranger shouted, sprinting back to the Bronco. “I'll be right behind you.”
I slammed the Buick into drive and pressed my foot to the floor. I shot out of the alley as the van roared past, and realized too late that the van was being pursued by another car. There was a lot of screeching tires and cussing on my part, and the car in pursuit bounced off the Buick with a good solid whump. A little red flasher popped off the roof of the car and sailed away into the night like a shooting star. I'd hardly felt the impact, but the other car, which I assumed was a cop car, had been propelled a good fifteen feet.
I saw the van's taillights disappearing down the street and debated following. Probably not a good idea, I decided. Might not look good to leave the scene after trashi
ng one of Trenton's finest unmarked.
I was fishing in my pocketbook, looking for my driver's license, when the door was opened and I was yanked out and onto my feet by none other than Joe Morelli. We stared at each other in openmouthed astonishment for a beat, barely able to believe our eyes.
“I don't believe this,” Morelli yelled. “I don't fucking believe this. What do you do, sit in bed at night and think about ways to fuck up my life?”
“Don't flatter yourself.”
“You almost killed me!”
“You're overreacting. And it wasn't personal. I didn't even know that was your car.” If I'd known I wouldn't have hung around. “Besides, you don't hear me whining and complaining because you got in my way. I would have caught him if it hadn't been for you.”
Morelli passed a hand over his eyes. “I should have moved out of state when I had the chance. I should have stayed in the navy.”
I looked over at his car. Part of the rear quarter panel had been ripped away, and the back bumper lay on the ground. “It's not so bad,” I said. “Probably you can still drive it.”
We both turned our attention to Big Blue. There wasn't so much as a scratch on it.
“It's a Buick,” I said, by way of apology. “It's a loaner.”
Morelli looked off into space. “Shit.”
A patrol car pulled up behind Morelli. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Wonderful.” Morelli said. “I'm fucking fine.”
The patrol car left.
“A Buick,” Morelli said. “Just like old times.”
When I was eighteen I'd sort of run over Morelli with a similar car.