Revolver by Duane Swierczynski Read Free Book Online Page B

Wildey—just Billy.”
    “Who’s Wildey?”
    “Some guy they partnered up with us last night.”
    Jimmy takes a seat across from his dad. Their rectangular table takes up most of the floor space in the kitchen. You have to shimmy around the table to do anything else in there, like open the fridge or check something in the oven. Stan never could understand why they need a table in the kitchen, because they have a perfectly good one in the dining room. But Rosie is stubborn. The dining room table is for holidays and entertaining; otherwise, they take their meals in the kitchen.
    “Did you see who did it?” young Jimmy asks.
    “No.”
    “You’ll catch ’em, Dad.”
    “Yeah, you think?”
      
    “Hey, partner. Welcome back to Hell.”
    Stan grunts.
    While daylight seemed to send the worst of the looters into hiding, the fast-approaching evening has fired them up again. Even more cops were brought in for tonight’s shifts, yet somehow, in all the chaos, Wildey found him again.
    Wildey is waiting for him at the rendezvous point. “Hey, Stan. How’s Taney?”
    Stan shakes his head. He honestly doesn’t know—he’s a little ashamed that he hasn’t thought of Taney much today. But that Irish bastard is tough. What’s a flaming couch to a man like that?
    “My wife talked to his wife,” Stan says. “I think he’ll be okay.”
    “You ready to do some hunting?”
    “What do you mean?”
    Wildey smirks. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna let some guys throw a motherfuckin’ couch on us and just get away with it.”
    “Jesus, you sound like Jimmy.”
    “Who?”
    “Never mind.”
    A few hours after dark the riot is in full swing again. Rioters: throwing bottles, bricks, launching more furniture off the roofs. Scrambling to start fires. Smashing any remaining windows that by some miracle weren’t smashed the night before. Stan swears the word must have gotten out to neighboring areas. Free shit on Columbia Avenue! Bring your own bricks and bats, take whatever you want.
    Tonight, though, their marching orders are different.
    Tonight Deputy Commissioner Rizzo spreads word through the ranks: Take no prisoners. The club is trump. Meaning: Use your baton to stop any and all looting. “Beat ’em and leave ’em.” No arrests. And if some bastard has the stone to take a shot at you, then you shoot back. He doesn’t care what Leary said.
    Wildey glances over at Stan.
    “Tonight’s gonna be interesting.”
    Stan’s about to ask what he means when a police inspector walks up to him and taps his nameplate.
    “Walczak. Stick your badge and your name in your pocket. Tell your partner to do the same.”
    “What for?”
    The inspector stops and turns on his heel. A hairy fireplug of a man, he’s clearly used to snapping orders without anyone questioning him.
    “Just do it.”
    All the other uniforms in the area have apparently gotten the same word, because they’re shoving all pieces of ID into their pants pockets.
    “No,” Stan says.
    “What the fuck do you mean, no? Take ’em off! Orders from the deputy commissioner.”
    “I’m not taking my name off.”
    The inspector’s face goes red. But he’s apparently all hair and no backbone. He stalks away without another word. Stan catches Wildey staring at him.
    “What? You want me to take it off?”
    “Not at all,” Wildey says, smiling. “C’mon. We’d better get in there.”
    “Yeah. Just don’t do anything stupid like last night.”
    “I say we hit the roof again. See what we see.”
    “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.”
      
    Tonight’s assignment: search the rooftops to look for bottle-throwers—or worse, guys with guns. Wildey gestures to Stan: Follow me . Wildey tries to kick in a door next to Hollywood Shoes. The door won’t yield. He tries again, putting more body weight into it, but Wildey’s a lean, wiry guy. He could shoot himself out of a cannon pointed at that door and nothing would happen.
    “Move out of the way.”
    Stan