Behind her, the ES cops were beginning to fidget. Any one of them had a clear shot at the old bastard sitting there in full view with the shotgun in his lap. If they put down their guns, as he was now asking them to do, there was no guarantee that he wouldn't start blasting away. A ceramic vest was a very handy tool in a situation like this one, but you couldn't pull a ceramic vest over your head. If he cut loose at this range, nobody outside that door was safe. The ES cops were hoping this dizzy redhead and her boss knew what the hell they were doing.
"Put down your guns, men," Brady called.
"Now just a second, Bill!" another voice shouted.
Deputy Inspector John Di Santis, in command of the Emergency Service, and coming from behind Brady now to stand beside him in the hallway. Eileen could hear them arguing. She hoped the old man's ears weren't as good as hers. Di Santis was saying he was willing to go along with all this negotiating shit up to a point, but that point did not include standing four of his men against a wall for a firing squad. Brady answered him in a voice Eileen could not hear. Made aware, Di Santis lowered his voice, too. Eileen could not hear what either of them were saying now. Their whispers cascaded down the hallway. White-water whispers. Inside the apartment, the old man was watching her. She suddenly knew that he would in fact shoot her if the men behind her didn't put down their guns.
"What do you say, Inspector?" she called. "The man here's getting itchy."
Valdez smiled.
He knew what itchy meant.
She smiled back.
Little joke they were sharing here. The man's getting itchy, he's going to blow off my goddamn head, aren't you, darling? Smiling.
"Inspector?"
The whispers stopped. Eileen waited. Somebody - either her or the old man or one or more of the cops standing behind her - was going to get hurt in the next few seconds, unless . . .
"All right, men, do what Inspector Brady says."
Di Santis.
Behind her, one of the ES cops muttered something Eileen couldn't understand, a word in Spanish that made the old man's smile widen. She heard the heavy weapons being placed on the floor . . .
"The other guns, too," the old man said.
"He wants the sidearms, too!" she yelled down the hall.
"All your weapons, men!" Di Santis shouted.
More muttering behind her, in English this time, soft grumbles of protest. They had been dealt a completely new hand, but the old man was still holding all the cards.
"Now you," Eileen told him.
"No," he said. "Come inside here."
"You promised me," she said.
"No," he said, smiling. "You're the one who made all the promises."
Which was true.
I promise they won't shoot you.
No one will hurt you . . .
"If you put down the gun," she reminded him.
"No."
Shaking his head.
"I promised that no one would hurt you if you put down the gun," she said.
"No one can hurt me, anyway," he said, smiling. "No one has a gun now but me."
Which was also true.
"Well, I thought I could trust you," she said, "but I see I can't."
"You can trust me," he said. "Open your blouse."
"No," she said.
"Open your goddamn blouse," one of the ES cops whispered urgently.
She ignored him. "I'm going to leave now," she told the old man. "You broke your word, so I'm leaving. I can't promise what these men will do when I'm gone."
"They'll do nothing," he said. "I have the gun."
"There are others down the hall," she said. "I can't promise you anything anymore. I'm going now."
"No!" he said. - She hesitated.
"Please," he said.
Their eyes met.
"You promised," he said.
She knew what she'd promised. She'd promised that no one would be hurt. She'd promised she would go in to him if he put down the gun. She had given him her word. She was a woman of her word.
"Put down the gun," she said.
"I'll kill you if you don't come in here," he said.
"Put down the gun."
"I'll kill you."
