The walkie-talkie lying on the seat beside him. Dispatcher trying to raise…
"Boy One."
Answering.
"10-21 at one-one-four-one Oliver, near Sixth. Apartment four-two. 10-21 at one-one-four-one Oliver, near Sixth. See the lady."
"What was that apartment again?"
"Four-two."
"Rolling."
A burglary past, couple of blocks down and to the south. No need for a detective on the scene. If it had been a 10-30, an armed robbery in progress, or even a 10-34, an assault in progress, he'd have responded along with the blues. He guessed. Sometimes it was better not to stick your nose into too many things. A 10-13—an assist officer—sure. Man called in for help, you got to the scene fast,
Ran uptown on the Stem for a couple of blocks, made a right turn at random, heading south toward the park. He'd swing onto Grover there, parallel the park for a while, then run north to the river, come back down Silvermine, take a run around the Oval, then back south on…
Up ahead.
Four teenagers.
Running into the building on the corner.
Just a glimpse of them.
Blue jeans and denim jackets.
Something in their hands.
Trouble?
Shit, he thought.
He eased the car over. No parking spaces on the street, he double-parked in front of the building and picked up the walkie-talkie.
"Eight-Seven," he said, "D.D. Four."
Calling home, identifying himself. One of the six unmarked sedans used by the Detective Division.
"Go ahead, Four."
"Genero," he said. "10-51, four in number, at twelve-seven-teen North Eleventh."
"Stay in touch, Genero."
He'd identified the four teenagers as a roving band, a non-crime incident, and he hoped that was what it turned out to be. Getting out of the car, he pulled back the flap of his jacket and was clipping the walkie-talkie to his belt when a loud whooshing sound erupted from inside the building. He almost dropped the walkie-talkie. He looked up sharply. Flames! In the lobby there! And running out of the building, the four teenagers, one of them still carrying in his right hand what looked like a Molotov cocktail. Instinctively, Genero yelled, "Stop! Police!" and yanked his service revolver from its holster.
The kids hesitated for only a moment.
"Police!" he shouted again.
The one with the firebomb held a Zippo lighter to the wick and hurled the bottle at Genero.
The bottle crashed at his feet. Flames sprang up from the sidewalk. He threw both hands up to protect his face, and then immediately stepped back and brought his right hand down again, pistol level, firing into the wall of fire, through the wall of fire, two quick shots in succession.
Somebody screamed.
And suddenly they were on him. They jumped through the names like circus performers, three of them hitting him almost simultaneously, knocking him to the pavement. He rolled away from the fire, tried to roll away from their kicks. He brought the gun hand up again, fired again, three shots gone now, heard someone grunt. Don't waste any, he thought, and one of them kicked him in the head. He went blank for an instant. His finger tightened reflexively on the trigger. The gun exploded wild, close to his own ear. He blinked his eyes. He was going. He fought unconsciousness. Someone kicked him in the shoulder, and the sharp pain rocketed into his brain and brought him back. Four shots gone, he thought. Make the next ones count. He rolled away again. He blinked them into focus. Only two of them on their feet now. The third one flat on his back near the entrance to the building. Fourth one lying on the sidewalk dangerously close to the fire. He'd hammered two of them, but there were still two to go, and only two shots left in the gun.
His heart was pounding.
But he took his time.
Waited till the lead kicker was almost on him, and then shot for his chest.
Second one right behind him, almost knocked off his feet when his buddy blew back into him. Genero fired again. Took the second one in the left shoulder, sent him spinning around and staggering back toward the wall of the building.
Genero could hardly breathe.
He got to his feet, fanned the empty gun at them.
Nobody seemed to be going anywhere.
He backed off a pace, pulled cartridges from his belt, loaded them into the cylinder, counting… four, five, six and ready again.
"Move and you're dead," he whispered, and yanked the walkie-talkie from his belt.
Detective/Third Grade Richard Genero had come of age on the eve of All Hallows' Day.
The school custodian who answered the night bell was the same one who'd locked Sebastian the Great's tricks in a storeroom earlier this afternoon. Peering through the grilled upper glass panel of the door at the back of the building, he recognized Hawes at once, unlocked the door, and let him in.
" 'Evening, Mr. Buono," Hawes said.
"Hey, how you doing?" Buono said.
He was a man in his late sixties, thinning gray hair, thin gray mustache over his upper lip. Pale blue eyes, somewhat bulbous nose. He was wearing coveralls. A flashlight was in one of the pockets. He clipped his ring of keys to a loop on the pocket.
