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Bill Tasker massaged the cramp in his
thigh as he peered out the small rectangular window cut into the
door of the walk-in freezer. His leg pain too his mind off his
black eye he’d gotten a few hours before. His breath formed
clouds on the thick, pockmarked glass that looked out on the main
floor of Remy’s Quick Stop. The thirty-degree air kept the
others quiet, waiting for the FBI’s information to pan out.
Tasker thought, some big-time task force on robbery. Four grown
men spending the past two hours waiting for someone to rob a convenience
store. This sucked. As the only State cop on the task force he
fell in between the natural friction of the locals toward the
Feds.
“Tell us about your eye, Billy,”
said Tom Dooley, the FBI representative to the task force.
“Just an accident,” said Tasker,
not turning from the window.
Dooley laughed. “Yeah, I had an
accident like that once. My wife accidentally caught me with my
girlfriend.”
Even Tasker laughed at that one.
Dooley tapped him on the shoulder and
asked, “How old was she?”
“Ten.”
“Ten, that’s not right.”
“It was my daughter.”
“I guess that’s all right
in Florida, but we find it unacceptable.”
Tasker waited for the other cops to stop
laughing and said, “I was showing her how to fast pitch
a softball and she caught on quick.”
Dooley said, “Or you can’t
catch for shit.”
Tasker nodded, chuckling a little as he
kept his watch.
A minute later Tasker saw a young white,
gang-banger, wearing a ripped, hooded sweatshirt, stride in through
the front door. Having on something like this in Miami’s
eighty-degree night air meant you were either on a serious weight
loss program or an armed robber hiding your Smith and Wesson ATM
card.
Tasker let a small smile spread across
his face as he realized at least they’d make an arrest.
The little moments like this were what made him glad he didn’t
follow his dad into the dry cleaning business. He felt the almost
conformable sensation of his heart picking up a beat.
"Stand-by. We may have a live one,"
croaked Tasker, his face plastered to the tiny window.
The other three men sprang up toward the
door, jockeying for position.
"Look out, Rick, I'm the one who
needs to see what the hell is going on," said Dooley, elbowing
past the Metro-Dade cop. He already had his Smith and Wesson model
13 in his hand. Dooley tried to muscle Tasker out of the way too.
"Hang on, Tom." Tasker said,
still staring out the window. "I know I'm not a Fed, but
I think I'm capable of watching a damn street robber." A
slight shift of his six-foot frame sent the portly FBI man back
a step, slipping on a pebble of ice. Turning his attention back
to the store, Tasker watched the suspect act like he was looking
at a magazine while the last customer paid for her gigantic soda
and microwaved burrito. The suspected robber's sweatshirt had
pockets up front and the sleeves whacked off. A tattoo of a pitchfork
on his right arm identified him as a member of the Folk Nation
of street gangs. No way this jerk-off would be interested in PC
Computing. His eyes darted toward the clerk over the top of the
magazine. A big lump filled the right pocket of the ratty sweatshirt.
In a calm, almost sleepy voice, City of
Miami Detective Derrick Sutter, asked, "What's it look like,
Bill?"
Tasker’s right hand tightened on
the grip of his Beretta still locked in his leather hip holster.
"The clerk even knows this is the one. We'll wait a second
to let him move up to the counter, then give him the shock of
his life." Tasker's heart raced like it did any time he had
a couple of minutes to think about things like this. "He's
making his move. Get ready." Tasker made sure he said it
slow and steady. He didn't want these guys too hyper when they
popped out of the freezer.
The robber walked to the counter, dropping
his hand to his pocket. Tasker shoved the door wide, shouting,
"Police, don't move."
Immediately, three shots echoed in the
little store, slugging his eardrum like a fist. What did this
guy have, a cannon? Tasker slid to a stop, diving for cover behind
a low ice cream cooler as Rick Bema fell in behind him, unashamed
of pushing his face hard into the seat of Tasker’s jeans.
Dooley pivoted on the heels of his penny loafers, his girth shifting,
giving him momentum and leaped back into the freezer, his belly
jiggling under his button down oxford shirt and cheap, polyester
blend sport coat. He yelled from inside, “The son-of-a-bitch-cocksucker
is shooting.”
Tasker ignored the flustered FBI man.
He turned his head, still down low behind the image of a big Dove
Bar and barked in a harsh whisper, "Rick, cover the end of
the aisle." He watched the Metro-Dade detective scurry down
the aisle, keeping his head well below the top shelf of candy.
Tasker gripped his Beretta tight in both
hands and peeked around the cooler quickly. As he dropped back
behind his cover he analyzed the image he just saw. The clerk
was still standing and he had the gun. A big gun. "Hold
your fire," yelled Tasker. He looked to make certain Bema
heard him. No one moved in the freezer. Tasker popped out from
the cooler again, making sure of what he saw. The dark skinned
clerk had a blue steel, forty-four magnum revolver in his hand
pointing at the ceiling, smoke drifting up from the barrel in
a light wisp.
Tasker stayed behind the Dove Bar and
spoke very precisely, "Put the gun on the counter and step
away from it."
"No, no. It is okay officer. I handle
the situation," said the man in a heavy, singsong Pakistani
accent.
"Listen to me. Drop the gun right
now," Tasker said, slowly articulating each syllable.
The clerk tossed the gun on the counter
top and moved toward the register. "You don't need to be
nasty. I am not the criminal."
Tasker stood up, seeing Sutter and Dooley
at the freezer opening and Bema coming up the other aisle. The
young guy in the sweat suit lay on the floor with blood gushing
from what was left of the top of his head. Tasker kicked the small
revolver from the dead man's hand and watched it spin across the
floor as he thought about the other three times he had taken a
gun from a dead man’s hand.
"Fuck me," said Sutter quietly
from behind him.
Rick Bema crossed himself with the barrel
of his gun.
Tasker felt something on his neck and
looked up at the clumps of flesh and blood stuck to the ceiling,
dripping down in swirling little wads. This didn't work out like
they had planned.
"What the fuck you do that for, Hadji?"
asked Dooley, stepping toward the tall, thin clerk.
"I was thinking I would be of assistance
and save you the trouble of shooting this boil of a man."
The clerk smiled.
"You should have waited for us,"
Tasker didn't want to get into right now, but he had given the
clerk explicit instructions. This would cause him some stomach
trouble when he sat down to explain it.
"I do not even get a thanks for my
civic duty?"
"You might get a foot up your damn
ass is what you might get," said Derrick Sutter, slamming
his Glock with silver painted grips into his holster.
Tasker heard the sirens coming toward
them. The get-away car was long gone. The outside surveillance
missed them all together. A crowd gathered at the front door.
Tom Dooley looked up from the corpse to
his partners. "On the bright side, it's an early night."
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