spent time at the front desk, where they considered, shook their heads, and told Molly how lucky she was. She hadn't argued. After about an hour of intense activity along a work lane that was still packed to the rafters, most of the rest of the gathered forces were milling around waiting for evidence to finish, while the intelligence team and homicide sat back with Molly, who was around waiting for her legs to work.
"What gang did he belong to?" she asked.
Martin looked up. "That boy was a bad fucker. Name's Mustaffa. Belongs to one of the Hoover offshoots."
Molly nodded. Wondered if she should bring Bone into this. Wondered whether this cop would ruin her uneasy alliance with a boy who still had a spark left in his eye. Cops saw gang-bangers for the crimes they committed. Molly could still, sometimes, see the children searching for a place to belong, a family to call their own A flag they could show with pride.
She understood how the cops felt. But she understood how the kids felt, too. At least the very young ones, who still had a small chance at survival.
"It was my fault," Sasha said, walking in, her ashen face frozen into stone to prevent betraying emotion. In defiance of every hospital and city ordinance, she was working on a cigarette. As hard as she was pulling on the thing, she must have left a smoke trail halfway down the hall, which would explain why Georgia Prendergast followed her into the room at warp speed.
"This is a no-smoking area," she informed Sasha in arch tones. Georgia, a chunky little bleached blond who had her blue-shadowed eye on the administrative suite, loved nothing more than impressing the people who could promote her by ratting on the ones who couldn't.
Sasha didn't even bother to turn around to confront the interloper. "This is also a no-kill zone," she countered icily, "but we've already shot that to hell tonight. And since everybody's already here, I bet they wouldn't mind making it a deuce now rather than having to come all the way back out again."
She glared at all three policemen, who just shrugged agreeably. The homicide guy was even obliging enough to pull out a clean DD-5 form and click open his pen. Sensing that a frontal attack wasn't going to do her any good, Georgia beat a strategic retreat.
Sasha never condescended to notice. Her attention was equally divided between Molly and Phillip Morris.
"She's running right home to the nursing supervisor to tell on you," Molly warned her.
Sasha took care of the last of her cigarette and ground it out in an emesis basin. "I'll eat her liver."
The police shifted around to continue their questioning. It wasn't yet meant to be, though. From behind Sasha, another country was heard from.
"Hey, Chernobyl, was that you in the Gunfight at the O. K. Corral up there?"
Only one person had the guts to call Sasha Chernobyl. He wedged his way through the crowd at the door and grinned for everybody in the room. "We on the news," he announced. "Of course, you man James here jus' happen to be there when the cameras showed up. The hospital now owes me time and a half for public relations."
"Of course they do," Sasha retorted.
James wasn't in the least intimidated. In fact, he broadened his grin to exhibit his two prize gold crowns. Short, black, bald, and round, James was the evening pharmacy supervisor. He was also the proud holder of the best collection of reggae in the city, which seemed to follow him long after the radio was switched off. He never stopped moving, and he always moved to the beat of invisible drums.
"We're kind of busy here," one of the cops informed him.
He didn't bother to answer. "Oh, it was you, Miss Molly."
As in, "Good Golly Miss Molly." James had a nickname for everybody he supplied.
"It was me, James."
His nod was brisk. "Fearsome. Real fearsome. You need a little help wit' you nerves? Your man James is holdin', just like always."
Everybody on the couch but Molly went right on point.
"We're police," Martin
"What gang did he belong to?" she asked.
Martin looked up. "That boy was a bad fucker. Name's Mustaffa. Belongs to one of the Hoover offshoots."
Molly nodded. Wondered if she should bring Bone into this. Wondered whether this cop would ruin her uneasy alliance with a boy who still had a spark left in his eye. Cops saw gang-bangers for the crimes they committed. Molly could still, sometimes, see the children searching for a place to belong, a family to call their own A flag they could show with pride.
She understood how the cops felt. But she understood how the kids felt, too. At least the very young ones, who still had a small chance at survival.
"It was my fault," Sasha said, walking in, her ashen face frozen into stone to prevent betraying emotion. In defiance of every hospital and city ordinance, she was working on a cigarette. As hard as she was pulling on the thing, she must have left a smoke trail halfway down the hall, which would explain why Georgia Prendergast followed her into the room at warp speed.
"This is a no-smoking area," she informed Sasha in arch tones. Georgia, a chunky little bleached blond who had her blue-shadowed eye on the administrative suite, loved nothing more than impressing the people who could promote her by ratting on the ones who couldn't.
Sasha didn't even bother to turn around to confront the interloper. "This is also a no-kill zone," she countered icily, "but we've already shot that to hell tonight. And since everybody's already here, I bet they wouldn't mind making it a deuce now rather than having to come all the way back out again."
She glared at all three policemen, who just shrugged agreeably. The homicide guy was even obliging enough to pull out a clean DD-5 form and click open his pen. Sensing that a frontal attack wasn't going to do her any good, Georgia beat a strategic retreat.
Sasha never condescended to notice. Her attention was equally divided between Molly and Phillip Morris.
"She's running right home to the nursing supervisor to tell on you," Molly warned her.
Sasha took care of the last of her cigarette and ground it out in an emesis basin. "I'll eat her liver."
The police shifted around to continue their questioning. It wasn't yet meant to be, though. From behind Sasha, another country was heard from.
"Hey, Chernobyl, was that you in the Gunfight at the O. K. Corral up there?"
Only one person had the guts to call Sasha Chernobyl. He wedged his way through the crowd at the door and grinned for everybody in the room. "We on the news," he announced. "Of course, you man James here jus' happen to be there when the cameras showed up. The hospital now owes me time and a half for public relations."
"Of course they do," Sasha retorted.
James wasn't in the least intimidated. In fact, he broadened his grin to exhibit his two prize gold crowns. Short, black, bald, and round, James was the evening pharmacy supervisor. He was also the proud holder of the best collection of reggae in the city, which seemed to follow him long after the radio was switched off. He never stopped moving, and he always moved to the beat of invisible drums.
"We're kind of busy here," one of the cops informed him.
He didn't bother to answer. "Oh, it was you, Miss Molly."
As in, "Good Golly Miss Molly." James had a nickname for everybody he supplied.
"It was me, James."
His nod was brisk. "Fearsome. Real fearsome. You need a little help wit' you nerves? Your man James is holdin', just like always."
Everybody on the couch but Molly went right on point.
"We're police," Martin
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