In the Wrong Hands, стр. 35

Gordy looked on.  Traci had done it.  The target was in place.  He readied the brick and balanced himself.  Arthur wanted him to use a whole brick, but Gordy could neither get his hand around it nor carry it on the bike without toppling over, so they had to break it in half.

It would do the trick.

The handlebars wobbled as he struggled to work up his momentum.  Like a steam train pulling out of a station, he felt himself working towards break-neck speed.  All he had to do was hit the shamrock with the brick.  He couldn’t see it yet, but he knew it was there.  There wouldn’t be much time to think, and there was no second chance.  Missing was not an option.  The wind caused by his forward motion made his eyes tear.  Through the fluid, the window came into view.  The little green target was beautiful and, thankfully, obvious.  He slowed down just enough to focus and, with all the nerd-strength he could muster, backhanded the brick into the glass.  It was a direct hit.  He saw it. He heard it. He felt it.  His eyes continued to well up, only now with pride.  He skidded to a stop and turned to see Traci’s reaction.  It was not congratulatory as he’d hoped.  She was irritated and mouthing something.

“Will you fuck a goat?!”

After a few confused seconds he realized that what she actually said was “Will you fucking go?!”

And he went.  He went just quickly enough that Reilly would see him head for the bridge and the surprise waiting for him in the scrap yard.

Everyone else in the bar heard two sounds:  the crash of the window, and the brick landing on the table.  Kevin Reilly heard nothing.  He only saw the writing on the brick.  Had he not lifted his arm to down the last of his pint, the thing would have shattered his wrist.  It was perfectly placed.  One moment he was lost in thought about a horrible mistake he’d made; the next he was looking down at a broken brownstone brick with three words etched into its surface:  EAT SHIT REILLY.  He didn’t connect it with any particular person or action.  He’d made plenty of enemies around town in his chosen profession.  He stood immediately as did his large brother.  Next, he heard Jimmy Cutillo.

“Those sons of bitches!”

Everyone in the bar headed for the door.  Jimmy, with baseball bat in hand, got there first.  The man weighed 300 pounds if he weighed an ounce and could still move like lightning if he had to break up a fight or chase after vandals.  In true managerial form, he put on a loud but friendly voice and insisted everyone stay in the bar and continue enjoying themselves.

“The Reilly boys and I will take care of this.  Next round is on the house!  Angie!  Tend bar!  Don’t let anyone drink without ID!”

Everyone complied.  No one messed with Jimmy…ever.

Reilly found himself outside.  He could hear his brother breathing heavily, the way he always did when he was pumped to rip someone’s lungs out.  All three of them tried to get a bead on their surroundings. He reached for his cell phone and discovered that he’d left it on the table inside.

A woman’s voice cut through the frenzy.

“He went that way!”

The fantasy woman with the hinky ID was on her cell phone across the street and two short blocks towards the bridge.  Could she have done it?  No.   Third Street was four lanes wide.  She wouldn’t have been able to cover that distance so quickly--not in that skirt and those heels.  No way.  Kevin Reilly shouted to her.

“Are you calling the police?”

“Yes, sir.  I am!”

All four of them looked down the street just in time to see a kid on a bike take a left and head for the Industrial Avenue Bridge.  Jimmy’s ‘65 Fleetwood was parked in its regular VIP spot.  The three men bolted for it, and Kevin shouted to the woman again.

“Tell them to send cars to the Industrial Complex.  Tell them it’s me!  Detective Kevin Goddam Reilly!  Word it like that!”

She nodded and called Arthur.  She had every intention of calling the cops…in about fifteen minutes.  They would be too late…just like they were for Jeremy.  Oddly, Arthur didn’t answer.

The Fleetwood squealed out of its spot and front-heavily fishtailed all the way down Third Street.  The front of the car made the left towards the complex, but the back almost didn’t. Kevin and Jimmy were pissed.  Ian was psyched.  He all but hollered, “Yee haw,” as they caught air, speeding over the bridge.  They screeched to a stop under the spot-lit shadows of the scrap yard.  The kid was nowhere to be seen.  Kevin thought quickly.  A left would have taken him to Franklin Village.  No kid would ride his bike through the Village at that time of night.

“Take a right, Jimmy!”

Another squeal and a fishtail pointed them towards the gated entrance.  They slowed to take the curve.  That’s when they saw the bike.  It was abandoned on the ground.  No doubt the kid heard the squeals and shit himself.  Kevin signaled for Jimmy to stop the car.

“He jumped the fence!  I’m gonna follow him.  Go around to the north side in case he makes it through.  You coming, Ian?”

“You bet your pasty Irish ass I’m coming!”

Traci’s plan, for the moment, was working.

Kevin and Ian had been jumping fences since they were in diapers.  The action appeared almost choreographed, from the leap at the fence to the dramatic billowing as their feet simultaneously hit the dirt road on the other side.  Then it was a sprint.  The kid couldn’t have been that far ahead.  They had to either catch him or flush him out.  Either option required speed and a load of shouting.

Then…noise.

There was activity a short distance ahead of them.  They saw it at the same time and stopped in their tracks.  The head of one of the people involved