Revolver by Duane Swierczynski Read Free Book Online Page A

begin.
    “I think I see them!” Wildey says.
    Stan can’t see a damn thing. North Philadelphia looks very different from up here. Maybe that’s because everything seems to be on fire.
    But they reach the end of the block and see nothing. Maybe the couch-tossers went downstairs again. Broke into another place.
    A voice comes cutting through the noise. Stan doesn’t know who it is. Did one of these murzyns steal a bullhorn?
    “Huh,” Wildey says. “That’s Georgie Woods.”
    The bewildered look on Stan’s face leads Wildey to explain.
    “Georgie Woods, man—WDAS? The DJ?”
    Stan has no idea who he’s talking about. He stands on the roof, fists on his hips, and listens to the man plead.
    “Please get off the streets,” the voice bellows. “If you have problems, this is no way to solve them!”
    That’s for goddamn sure, Stan thinks.
    “The woman you heard about is fine,” the voice says. “No one was killed tonight! Please get off the streets!”
    They continue to search the rooftops for another half hour but there are no signs of the sofa-tossers, nor any proof of their existence. If they had rags and cans of fuel, they must have taken it with them.
    “Really wanted to slap the cuffs on those bastards,” Wildey mutters.
    Stan will bet Taney does, too.
    By dawn people have grown tired of smashing windows and looting and setting fires and wander back to their homes. Like a tide receding off the shores. Cops are still wired with adrenaline, but there’s no one to chase, no one to yell at. Just emptied, hollowed-out stores. When the owners return and see what’s happened here, they’re going to weep.
    Stan tells Wildey he’ll see him later. Wildey nods, does a half-wave.
    “Get some sleep while you can. This ain’t over. We’re gonna hunt down and catch these guys. Throwing a goddamn couch on us!”
    We, huh, Stan thinks.
      
    Stan feels like hell the next afternoon. He’s at the age where messing with sleep patterns throws his body into total chaos. His deepest bones ache. His stomach is leery about processing anything, and reminds him with belches and other alarming sounds. The world appears to have been draped in gauze, yet sounds and sensations are sharper than ever. Like his headache, for instance. Or Jimmy’s records, which are loud, even though they’re being played on the other side of the house.
    Yet he’s up, getting dressed, preparing himself to head back into the burning Jungle. Jimmy pokes his head into the bedroom just as Stan is pulling on a fresh white T-shirt.
    “You were out pretty late, Pop. Was it bad?”
    “Well, it wasn’t good. But I think the worst is over.”
    “Think we’re still going to the game on Tuesday?”
    Stan looks at his boy. “We’re going, ” he assures him. But he doesn’t want to admit that he’s not really sure, because he’s got this sneaking suspicion the whole thing may boil up again. And again. And again. Until the murzyns have destroyed everything in North Philly.
    Downstairs Stan pours tomato and clam juice over some ice and throws a shot of vodka in there, too. Drinks it down and makes another. Rosie pretends not to see, offers to make him some eggs and pork roll. Stan shakes his head. He doesn’t want anything to eat right now.
    He also doesn’t want to tell Rosie and the boy about the fireball couch. But Rosie will talk to Taney’s wife at some point today and then she’ll be pissed at him for not telling her.
    But of course Rosie gets pissed anyway, because two sentences into his story—which downplays the danger as much as he can—she’s off on a tear, slapping him on the shoulder for not telling her earlier. Earlier? How much earlier did she want to know? Good morning, Rosie, some murzyns dropped a burning couch on Billy Taney, hey, you feel like making me some eggs?
    Rosie makes a beeline to the phone just as Jimmy enters the kitchen, having heard enough of the story.
    “They dropped a couch on you?”
    “No, not me or