Revolver by Duane Swierczynski Read Free Book Online

across the street. A women’s shoe store. Somebody will get to it sooner or later, he’s sure.
    But it’s a good thing Stan looks at that window at that exact moment, because he can see their own reflections as they move down the avenue.
    And two stories above them—a huge, flaming mass that is just beginning its descent. He can practically feel the heat on the top of his head as he looks up.
      
    Later Stan will think about his impulse in that moment. He barely has time to see the fireball and yell the word shit, let alone push both of his partners out of the way. So why does he pick the new guy?
    Stan throws his shoulder at Wildey, knocking him off his feet. The fireball—or whatever the hell it is, a meteor maybe—slams into the pavement behind him so close Stan thinks it’s burned off the backs of his shoes. Forward momentum carries him over Wildey’s body and Stan throws his hands out. His palms scrape roadway, then his elbows take most of the impact of his fall, followed by the rest of his body. It’s an ungraceful landing. But at least he isn’t pummeled by the flaming object that dropped down from the heavens.
    Which is when he realizes—oh no, Taney.
    “Mother- fucker, ” Wildey mumbles, still clearly dazed. He’s looking at his bleeding palms as Stan climbs to his feet to look for his partner. Finally he recognizes the object that almost took all of them out.
    It’s a couch. A couch that someone set ablaze and heaved off the roof. Had to take at least two of them, probably more, to lift that thing over the edge.
    Partially pinned under that couch is Officer Billy Taney.
    “Come on, help me!” Stan is shouting, pulling Wildey all the way to his feet. Wildey looking at the burning couch as if he doesn’t exactly know what he is seeing.
    “Is that a couch?”
    “Taney’s under there!”
    Being cooked alive. All Stan can see are two arms. Hands splayed, fingers trembling. Stan and Wildey exchange quick glances, unsure of what to do. They’re going to have to touch this burning couch to pull it off Taney. There’s no question that they’re going to do it—Taney’s under there. But they need it noted for the mutual record.
    “Shit,” Wildey says.
    “Let’s do it. One, two…”
    “Wait!”
    “Wait for what?”
    “Kick it over!”
    Stan understands immediately. Much, much better idea. Both men nudge the toes of their right shoes under the burning furniture and lift .
    The couch rolls backward, revealing a moaning and charred Taney. Moaning is good. Moaning means Taney is still alive.
    “Get an ambulance,” Stan says, kneeling down.
    Wildey nods twice, eyes still fixed on Taney, who looks like an action figure belonging to a pair of sadistic children. Limbs all akimbo, uniform ripped, skin smoking.
    “Wildey, go!”
    But by now other officers are swarming to the scene. Word travels through the ranks at synapse speed. Niggers dropped a couch on Billy Taney! Somebody says an ambulance is on its way.
    Stan touches the back of Taney’s head. He can feel the sharp edges of the man’s recent haircut. His skin is hot. He’s still moaning.
    “Hang on there, Billy,” Stan says, not daring to move him. All he can do is pat the back of Taney’s head until help arrives. What city has this city become? After a time Stan hears a sharp voice, cutting through the din.
    “Officer Walczak.”
    “What’s that, Wildey.”
    “How about we go catch the sons a bitches who did this?”
      
    This is stupid, this is stupid, this is stupid, Stan thinks as he runs along the rooftops above Columbia Avenue, looking for the people who would be crazy enough to toss a burning couch on top of three cops.
    But there is no stopping Wildey. The only thing Stan could do was follow him—through the broken door, up the two flights of stairs to the fire escape and then the roof.
    As they run, tar sticks to the bottoms of their shoes. Stan can hardly see where the roofs end and the gaping holes between buildings