overhang of the desk.
He was smiling. A strong, handsome kid dressed in blue and black with dead eyes and a gun as his mouthpiece. A gun he was leveling at her again.
"This gonna be fun, ho'." He gave her a big smile. And then, before Molly could even close her eyes or start praying along with her secretary, he froze. Turned. Began to topple.
Only then did Molly hear the double sounds of a pistol shot and a deep, laconic voice.
"Police. Halt."
The gang-banger hit the floor like a felled tree, his eyes still open, and the secretary beneath Molly wet her pants. Molly damn near did the same thing.
"You okay?" a voice asked over her head.
It took that to make her realize that she'd closed her eyes after all. It was all she could do to breathe, much less respond. All she could see were those eyes. Dead, hard, cold eyes in a seventeen-year-old. God, what had this country done to its children?
"Yo, ladies, you okay?"
Molly opened her eyes again to find that there were two of them, one black, one white. Both as closed-off and controlled as the youth they'd shot. Both so similar to each other in civilian dress, grooming, and demeanor, that Molly wouldn't have needed them to announce their occupations to know. Cops the world over looked alike.
"I think so," she said, trying her best to straighten up.
She thought to check the boy on the floor. One look at the back of his head took care of that. The policeman hadn't taken a chance. Molly realized she was glad.
She got as far as her butt and stayed there. So far, not one of the secretaries seemed the least inclined to follow even that far.
"Ms. Burke?" the black cop addressed her, his expression never changing.
Molly allowed her surprise.
"Can I help you?" she asked, and realized that her voice was even less impressive than on the horn. Soon she was going to start squeaking like an asthmatic pigeon.
The white cop flipped a badge as the black cop reholstered his gun. "Detectives Martin and Jones from intelligence. We needed to talk to you."
"As soon as we take care of all this," the other one put in, bending to check out the young man he'd just brought down.
Just as he did, three security officers armed with everything from 9 mms to riot guns rounded the desk at a run. Their first reaction was to take aim at the black man bent over the black youth. Their second, upon seeing the badge the white cop flashed them, was to come to a screeching halt. Only then did Molly think to announce an all clear. She pulled the mike back into her lap and hit the switch.
"Billie Burke to the desk, please. Billie Burke."
Billie Burke being the actress who had played the Good Witch of the North in The Wizard of Oz. The witch who had sung to the Munchkins, "Come out, come out, wherever you are."
Who said a crisis couldn't be creative?
* * *
"You piss him off, or what?" the homicide detective asked.
Molly tried to take another drink from a cup of coffee that was sloshing like a pool in an earthquake. The crisis had caught up with her so hard she couldn't hold still.
"Not unless he was dating the lady at the front desk," she said, swallowing back the bile that kept trying to work its way loose. It had already made it three times, and she was not in the mood to make it a fourth.
They were sitting back in the lounge, a converted linen closet that held a bulletin board full of notices, secondhand furniture from the Salvation Army resale shop, and a microwave. On the back wall where nobody who shouldn't could see it, was the hand inscribed plaque left by one of the first trauma residents to make it through Grace's program. Traumaland. It read. From the slime to the ridiculous.
Molly couldn't agree more. She was sharing her shakes with the now-familiar intelligence team, a homicide guy she didn't know very well, the shooting team from the metropolitan police, and, for good measure, Kevin McCaully, who'd just happened to be the death investigator on for her big moment.
Every one of them had
He was smiling. A strong, handsome kid dressed in blue and black with dead eyes and a gun as his mouthpiece. A gun he was leveling at her again.
"This gonna be fun, ho'." He gave her a big smile. And then, before Molly could even close her eyes or start praying along with her secretary, he froze. Turned. Began to topple.
Only then did Molly hear the double sounds of a pistol shot and a deep, laconic voice.
"Police. Halt."
The gang-banger hit the floor like a felled tree, his eyes still open, and the secretary beneath Molly wet her pants. Molly damn near did the same thing.
"You okay?" a voice asked over her head.
It took that to make her realize that she'd closed her eyes after all. It was all she could do to breathe, much less respond. All she could see were those eyes. Dead, hard, cold eyes in a seventeen-year-old. God, what had this country done to its children?
"Yo, ladies, you okay?"
Molly opened her eyes again to find that there were two of them, one black, one white. Both as closed-off and controlled as the youth they'd shot. Both so similar to each other in civilian dress, grooming, and demeanor, that Molly wouldn't have needed them to announce their occupations to know. Cops the world over looked alike.
"I think so," she said, trying her best to straighten up.
She thought to check the boy on the floor. One look at the back of his head took care of that. The policeman hadn't taken a chance. Molly realized she was glad.
She got as far as her butt and stayed there. So far, not one of the secretaries seemed the least inclined to follow even that far.
"Ms. Burke?" the black cop addressed her, his expression never changing.
Molly allowed her surprise.
"Can I help you?" she asked, and realized that her voice was even less impressive than on the horn. Soon she was going to start squeaking like an asthmatic pigeon.
The white cop flipped a badge as the black cop reholstered his gun. "Detectives Martin and Jones from intelligence. We needed to talk to you."
"As soon as we take care of all this," the other one put in, bending to check out the young man he'd just brought down.
Just as he did, three security officers armed with everything from 9 mms to riot guns rounded the desk at a run. Their first reaction was to take aim at the black man bent over the black youth. Their second, upon seeing the badge the white cop flashed them, was to come to a screeching halt. Only then did Molly think to announce an all clear. She pulled the mike back into her lap and hit the switch.
"Billie Burke to the desk, please. Billie Burke."
Billie Burke being the actress who had played the Good Witch of the North in The Wizard of Oz. The witch who had sung to the Munchkins, "Come out, come out, wherever you are."
Who said a crisis couldn't be creative?
* * *
"You piss him off, or what?" the homicide detective asked.
Molly tried to take another drink from a cup of coffee that was sloshing like a pool in an earthquake. The crisis had caught up with her so hard she couldn't hold still.
"Not unless he was dating the lady at the front desk," she said, swallowing back the bile that kept trying to work its way loose. It had already made it three times, and she was not in the mood to make it a fourth.
They were sitting back in the lounge, a converted linen closet that held a bulletin board full of notices, secondhand furniture from the Salvation Army resale shop, and a microwave. On the back wall where nobody who shouldn't could see it, was the hand inscribed plaque left by one of the first trauma residents to make it through Grace's program. Traumaland. It read. From the slime to the ridiculous.
Molly couldn't agree more. She was sharing her shakes with the now-familiar intelligence team, a homicide guy she didn't know very well, the shooting team from the metropolitan police, and, for good measure, Kevin McCaully, who'd just happened to be the death investigator on for her big moment.
Every one of them had
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