Calumet City Read Free

just less so. Two more EMTs have Eric Jackson standing, but not under his own power. He looks loopy but his feet are moving, scuffing past the youngest of the dead GDs. I squeegee water and slick back my hair, trying to find steady, then recognize the sprawled body; I know the dead boy’s mother.
    I turn back to help Cisco and his EMT. The fireman in my face says, "Strip," then points to another fellow like they do this all the time, "Give her a jacket."
    I give him the finger.
In your fucking dreams, homes
. He shrugs at stupid and joins firemen running across the alley. Cisco’s on a gurney. My eyes jump to the gasolined six-flat expecting flames. No flames; no occupants died. Deep breath—
c’mon, baby, slow it down
. Dying in a fire is a bad way to go, old people especially. They seem to just curl up in a corner and wait for it to take them. More sirens; our uniforms have the perimeter of the whole block. Our own small army, like every cop in 6 and 7 is here. It’s a weird picture for the citizens and always is—the ghetto’s rhythm just floating along, then BANG, 5-0 every-damn-where. Makes you wonder what the vibe’s like after we’re gone.
    Sonny’s at my shoulder, his pistol pointed at the pavement. "You all right, P?"
    "Huh? Eric’s okay, right?"
    "Vest stopped it at the shoulder, knocked the fuck out of him, though. Dislocated it."
    I spin to find Cisco. Sonny watches Cisco waving weak as he’s put in the ambulance and says Cisco’s gonna be off work a while, but he’s too educated to die. My knees weaken as the adrenaline dies off and Sonny grabs my collar. I fracture a smile and don’t knock his hand away. "Lotta bullets for some stereo equipment."
    Sonny appears to be having similar thoughts but doesn’t share. "Gonna be more medals for this, P; soaked in fuckin’ gasoline and evac-ing a building." He shakes his head, tilting toward Ireland like he does after five beers. "I’m hatin’ to admit it, but you a gutsy bit a skirt," and he headlocks me to his vest, a tear in his eye. I know Sonny Barrett; it’s definitely the gasoline.
    Within minutes Gilbert Court is surrounded by angry citizens. Three media trucks arrive followed by the Homicide dicks who’ll run the crime scene while OPS—Office of Professional Standards—watches, waiting to write up the officer-involved shootings. An OPS officer’s already eyeing me and my shotgun. This means it will be a long day of interviews after the dicks clear the scene.
    The crime-scene techs arrive while the uniforms push back taunting citizens, then string miles of yellow tape. I notice our Watch LT from 6. He’s the lieutenant who runs our shift, an "empty-holster motherfucker" it has been said by those less respectful than I. He and an assistant state’s attorney are shoulder-to-shoulder, arms folded, second-guessing our actions. The black bodies aren’t covered and look strangely potent on the pavement. Now they’re focal, not random and nameless. They’re connected to consequences and careers. A black woman I know calls me to the tape.
    "Why you kill those boys, Patti Black?"
    Although it seems really simple, it isn’t. "You know, Drea. When they shoot at us, we’re gonna shoot back." I point at the two converted TEC-9s in the street. "Those aren’t TV machine guns."
    The boy next to her isn’t four feet tall. He’s watching from under the tape and says, "Like on TV?" Drea shoos him away but he just loops her hips and tugs at my jeans. "You all wet."
    I squat and my knees hold. His little hand squeezes water from my sweatshirt and he laughs. I point at the fireman. "That man gave me a shower. Thought I smelled bad."
    The boy squints. Drea says, "That’s Ruth Ann’s boy, Robert. Ain’t it?"
    I nod, imagining Ruth Ann’s face on her porch twenty minutes from now when they come to tell her Robert’s dead. He’ll be her third. I wince and tell the pavement: "Really hate it shit like this has to happen."
    And I do.
    Our Watch LT has