The Last Witness (Badge of Honor 11)

Héctor looked at the heavier of the two.

“Tito?”

Ricky saw that Tito was grinning.

“That scrawny-ass Jamaican bastard came up to Juan demanding weed,” Tito then said. “I told him to get him and his stinky ass homies off our street. Then he took a swing at me—and missed ’cause he’s fucked up and all—and then the other two started coming across the street at us, and Juan pulled his nine out.”

“That didn’t stop the fuckers,” Juan picked up, holding his right arm straight out, his palm parallel to the floor with his finger and thumb mimicking a pistol. “So I squeezed off a pop at ’em.”

Héctor exchanged a look with Ricky.

Told you, Ricky thought.

“One?” Héctor challenged. “We heard more.”

Juan shrugged. “Maybe three, four. That got ’em turned around.”

Chubby Tito started laughing.

“What?” Héctor snapped.

“You shoulda seen that Jamaican dude then. I never thought he could get that scrawny ass runnin’ that fast!”

Juan said, “Sure did. Ran right past the others. Left ’em.”

“Did they see you come here?” Héctor said.

“Never looked back,” Juan said.

“Assholes and elbows, that’s all we saw,” Tito added.

Héctor looked between them, then turned to Jaime.

“Go get the motorcycle. Take it around back.” He pointed at the Kawasaki motorcycle by the door. “Then take that one out back. And call in more lookouts.”

Jaime nodded and started for the door.

“You two,” Héctor said to the teenagers. “Come with me.”

[FIVE]

Forty minutes later, Tito and Juan, in different winter coats than earlier and now wearing helmets, sat on the idling Kawasaki in South Philly. They waited on the sidewalk that edged Girard Park, Juan with his gloved hands on the handlebar grips, chubby Tito on the higher seat behind him, holding a small cardboard box with UNCLE OOGIE’S PIZZERIA printed on the lid.

Tito was getting parts of his face, helmet, and gloves greasy while more or less successfully stuffing a steaming slice of Italian sausage and peppers in his mouth.

They had been there not quite five minutes, looking at the well-kept duplexes lining the opposite side of the street, when Juan nodded in the direction of an overweight girl walking down the sidewalk. She was maybe fourteen or fifteen.

“Thi

nk she’s one?” Juan said.

“Shit,” Tito mumbled, trying to finish the chewy slice.

She approached the duplex with the address that Héctor had written on the outside of the folded notepaper. Juan had it in his coat pocket.

“She is,” Juan said. “Get ready.”

“Shit,” Tito said again, then swallowed hard.