The Diehard by Jon A. Jackson Read Free Book Online

said. “There are all kinds of bad girls, though. Jane could be a bad girl at times.”
    “How about yourself?”
    “Janey and I were friends. We had a lot in common.”
    “How about older men?” Mulheisen asked.
    “You mean as opposed to young men with wide hips?”
    “That's right.”
    “Are you going to ask me to dinner, Sergeant?”
    Mulheisen sat back in his chair and thought about that one. He had no business asking a woman like Lou Spencer to dinner. His type was more the older and affectionate divorcee who hung out in downtown bars. On the other hand, even a beauty like Jane Clippert had been an occasional bar cruiser. He stood up and drained off his bourbon.
    “Have you ever been married, Miss Spencer?”
    “No,” she said. She looked up at him from the low stool.
    “Why not?”
    “None of your business,” she said. “How about yourself?”
    “No,” he said.
    “Are you queer, or something?”
    “Maybe I will ask you to dinner, Miss Spencer.”
    She smiled. “My name is Lou. And you are . . . ?”
    “Mul.”
    “When do we eat, Mul?”
    “I'll let you know,” he said, and walked out of the room. The maid waited in the foyer with his coat.
    “How do you get along with these people?” he asked her. He regretted the question the minute he spoke it. The maid didn't answer. She helped him into his coat.

Seven
    On the afternoon of December seventeenth, another heavy, gloomy snow fell on Detroit and was ground into gray mush by thousands of tires. The mounted cops of the city's one remaining mounted division clopped carefully up Woodward Avenue toward the stables on Bethune Street. The tops of the Penobscot Building, the Fisher Building and the David Stott were lost in the low overcast.
    An old Polish woman in Hamtramck, a city completely enclosed by Detroit, was knocked down in an alley. Her grocery cart was dumped and the bread and eggs stomped. She lay in fear while the boys ransacked her purse. They threw it at her and ran away. She felt lucky.
    On the west side, the driver of a semi waited for several minutes on McNichols for a chance to turn onto Livernois. Just when it looked like he would make it at last, a young man in a Corvette cut in front of him and stopped for the traffic light. The trucker leaned out his window and shouted abuse at the Corvette. The young man rolled down his window and made an obscene gesture. That was it for the trucker. He climbed down out of his rig. The young man got a pistol out of his glove compartment. The trucker ran back to his cab for his own pistol. The young manleaped from his car and raced across the sluggish traffic of Livernois with the truck driver in hot pursuit.
    A squad car skidded to a halt and an officer got out and ran after the two armed citizens, his own .38 in his hand. Officer Duncan, driver of the squad car, noticed another man, apparently a bystander, run after the other three. Officer Duncan radioed for help.
    The Big Four were cruising on Seven Mile Road when they heard the call: “Man with a gun, McNichols and Livernois, officer needs assistance.” The uniformed driver of the Big Four's Chrysler put his foot down.
    Dennis Noell was the honcho of this crew. He was six-five, two hundred forty pounds and had a nose like the prow of a ship. The whole squad was large and intimidating and they carried an armament of axe handles, tommy guns, a Stoner rifle, sawed-off shotguns, and .44 Magnums on their hips. Noell had the Stoner rifle.
    They pulled off Livernois just before McNichols when Noell spotted an officer, gun in hand, running down an alley. Noell didn't see the first two men, but he saw the fourth. That man was following the officer and he had a gun.
    “What the fuck?” Noell said. He went after the man. When he hit the alley the cop was gone but the man was running. “Stop!” Noell shouted.
    The man stopped and turned. He looked back at Noell. “Put it down,” Noell yelled. He held the Stoner to his shoulder.
    The man fired a