Florida Firefight Read Free Page B

trivia the way some people collected stamps, remembered something he had read: Nearly 60 percent of the people who flunked out of medical school or doctorate programs went into law.
    The legal system, it seemed—like too many public school systems—was being run by people without the talent to do anything else. And the politicians were worse.
    Even though it was cold, Hawker was working up a good sweat. Instead of running his usual three miles, he decided to stretch it to five and build up a good appetite for the mysterious dinner with Jacob Montgomery Hayes. Hayes, oddly enough, was the only one who had come to his defense after the shootings. When he was interviewed, Hayes had called the politician involved a naive idiot for trying to bargain with the Guatemalan, and he had praised Hawker for acting without orders. “People in this city ought to get down on their knees and thank God for tough cops like Lieutenant Hawker, who know how to judge the risks and will put their careers on the line to save lives. If Hawker hadn’t acted, we would be mourning twelve dead kids instead of two.”
    Hawker had dropped Hayes a simple note thanking him and telling him his son Jake had died trying to save the life of the girl.
    He had heard nothing more. Until now.
    As Hawker jogged down Halsted Court, planning to swing southwest on Archer and back home, he suddenly decided to cut through Peoria Green, a large park with woods and grass too often inhabited by drug addicts and muggers. He had seen three rough-looking guys in their late teens or early twenties enter the park, and his cop instincts told him to follow.
    He was glad he did.
    The three punks had seen something in the park Hawker hadn’t: an older, prosperous-looking couple on a morning walk. They must have been in their late sixties, but they were holding hands like high school sweethearts.
    The punks brushed passed them, knocking the woman down on the slippery grass. The old man sputtered and raised his fists as if to fight them. But then he seemed to remember he was closer to seventy than twenty-seven, and he went meekly to his wife’s aid.
    It was pathetic to watch.
    One of the punks kicked him as he bent over, and the man fell on his face. Another harassed the woman, kicking her legs out every time she tried to get to her feet. The woman was shocked and in tears, and the kid was laughing. “What’sa matter, you old whore; you clumsy or something, bitch?”
    Hawker got there just as they slid the old man’s wallet from his pants. When the punks saw him coming, they stood shoulder to shoulder in a show of strength.
    â€œWhat’cha think you doing, motherfucker? You best get your sorry ass out of here before we slap that fucking smile off your face.”
    Still running, still smiling, Hawker charged the biggest one. It froze the three of them for an instant, and Hawker veered at the last moment and hit one of the other punks with a straight right that split his face and sent him unconscious to the ground.
    He turned to the biggest of them. “I’m still smiling, asshole,” he hissed.
    The two punks began to back away, holding their hands out. “Hey, man, we was just shitting around. Didn’t mean no harm …”
    Hawker grabbed the mouthy one by the shirt collar and slammed him into a tree. When the kid tried to fight back, Hawker buried his fist in his solar plexus.
    His partner disappeared into the trees like a frightened dog.
    â€œYou like to kick old folks in the butt, hey, asshole?” Hawker whispered, nose to nose with him. “Well, let’s just see how much you like it.”
    â€œWhat’cha mean, mister—”
    The old man had helped his wife to her feet, and the two stood in the light snow watching. They looked broken and embarrassed and defeated.
    â€œSir?” Hawker called. “Would you mind stepping over here for a second?”
    The old man released his wife’s hand