Joe's Point of View

In the movies, thin panes of sugar glass break into tiny pieces. The sparkly dust virtually disappears as the main character continues to battle heroically. Maybe there are a few traces of blood if the makeup artist is on her game. But in reality, most people can't even get through the solid wood construction of the window frame, let alone a double pane of insulated glass. Jumping out a window is stupid. It's ridiculous. But, it seems well worth the effort as soon as automatic weapons become involved.

I only had two thoughts. The first was, "get out." The second was, "fire escape". I had used this fire escape once before when Sy had unexpected company. It was narrow, barely wide enough for our prone bodies. The back of Sy's apartment building faced the back of another apartment building. The narrow space between was 10 feet at most. The windows of the facing building were boarded up.

I had taken out the glass with my left arm and the window frame with my ribs. I took the impact on the gridiron with my back. The breath was knocked out of me. Bullets were whizzing right over us. There was no way to stand or leap. No chance to climb down. Someone would be pointing a big gun out that window in a matter of seconds.

Without hesitation, and without looking down, I pulled our legs and feet the rest of the way through the window as I rolled us hard off the edge, tucking Stephanie's head into my chest. Shards of glass dug deeper into my arm, and the metal edge of the fire escape scraped deeply down my left side, tearing my shirt and jeans, all the way down to my ankle.

We were falling awkwardly, head first. I thought we were dead. Bullets were coming through the window now, ricocheting between the brick exteriors. I rolled as hard as I could, almost righting us to horizontal before impact.

Here's the other thing I was trying not to think about as we fell. This space between the buildings wasn't really an alley. It was more of a trash dump. People had been tossing their garbage and unwanted furniture out these windows for years. And junkies were using it for everything. There were dirty needles, used condoms, fecal matter, and vomit down there. Which attracted rodents. And the mess had all been rained on and set on fire and fermented in the summer sun. It was like jumping head first into an open sewer, if not worse.

We landed hard, plowing into three feet of garbage. Steph landed on top of me, forcing me to expel what little air had been left in my lungs. And then there was silence. Time to change the clip, I thought. That takes about three, four seconds for a professional under stress who thinks he's got the upper hand.

I sucked in a breath, feeling the damage to my ribs respond with a stabbing pain. I shoved Stephanie to her feet, picked up the first heavy stick of wood I saw, and smashed it through the weathered plywood covering the nearest window of the opposite building. I tossed the table leg and pulled the sheet of plywood free, letting it fall. I grabbed Stephanie like a sack of potatoes and tossed her head-first through the hole. I nearly dropped her. I was slipping in garbage. It was like trying to run underwater. Every second ticked by in slow motion.

I was going to make a dive for the window when I heard the slide ratchet back on the automatic. I wasn't going to make it.

Suddenly, Stephanie appeared in the open window, providing cover fire. She had managed to hang onto my gun. The shooter was so surprised he dropped the automatic weapon. It clattered onto the fire escape as I dove past Stephanie into the empty apartment. It was dark inside. The alley was in shadow. We made for the opposite wall, feeling for the door, and made our way to a hallway. I kicked down a door to an apartment across the hall and we tore through that apartment to a boarded up window facing the street. Stephanie was out of bullets, but she used the barrel of the gun as a claw hammer, tearing at the sheet of plywood until I could get a hand hold. I ripped the boards away, and we scrambled out.

"Barnhardt!" she screamed, racing towards Joyce's idling vehicle. I couldn't believe she was still following us.

I was limping, but staying on Steph's tail as she dove into the backseat.

"What the hell?" Joyce yelled.

"Drive!" she screamed at Joyce.

I guess I must have looked bad, because she put her foot to the floor and tore out, leaving tracks.

"Hospital," Stephanie ordered.

"No shit," Joyce said, looking back at me in her rear view mirror.

My only focus now was on breathing. There wasn't a place on my body that wasn't in pain. Steph didn't know where to try to touch me.

"What can I do?" she asked.

"I'm all right," I choked out. "Just need a minute."

Three hours later, I woke up in the emergency room.

I was looking up at Louise Malinowski. Louise went to school with us back in the day. Now she was an ER nurse.

"Hey, Joe," she said smiling.

"Hey," I whispered. "Where's Steph?"

"Right here," she said. I could hear her voice, but I was too tired to look around. I felt her take my hand, and I closed my eyes. The room had started spinning a little.

"I'll get the doctor," Louise said.

""What happened?" I asked.

"You lost a lot of blood. They've been stitching you up, and pumping some more blood into you."

"Surgery?" I asked.

"I guess you could say it was minor surgery," she said. She wasn't joking.

"Mr. Morelli." A doctor addressing you formal is never a good sign.

"I know. Broken ribs, lacerations, blood loss," I said. The words had become like a chant in my head, repeating with each breath I took.

"I think we've got all the glass out of your arm. You've got 257 stitches, up and down your left side. None of the arteries were hit, but you were bleeding profusely from multiple wounds when you were admitted. You have been in and out of consciousness. We had to sedate you. And the ribs are just cracked, not broken."

"Oh, good," I said, trying to sound relieved.

"We'd like to keep you overnight," he said.

"Nope. I'm good," I said. After a few seconds struggle, I realized I couldn't sit up, and relaxed back onto the bed.

"You're strapped down," Steph told me.

"Oh, good," I said, trying to sound relieved. "Am I high?" I asked.

"Just a little," Louise said. "Do you need more?"

"Nope. I'm good," I said. I could hear sniggering, but I was strangely ambivalent.

I felt the restraints fall away, but I didn't try to get up again.

"Eddie's here," Steph told me.

"Gazarra?"

"Yeah."

"Am I naked?" I asked. It seemed like a reasonable question.

"Um. No," Steph said.

"Do you want to be?" Louise asked.

I heard Steph smack her in the arm. "Back off," she said.

That got me smiling.

Moments later, Stephanie and I were recounting the afternoon's events to Gazarra. I could hear his pen scratching on his notebook.

"Were you able to ID the shooter?" Eddie asked.

"It was DeChooch," I told him.

"What?" Steph gasped. "Ronald?"

"No. Eddie DeChooch," I said, feeling super calm despite Steph's growing agitation. "Did they give me morphine?"

"A little," Steph said.

"Maybe this isn't the bet time to be taking an official statement," Gazarra suggested. He clicked the pen closed and slipped the notebook back in his shirt pocket.

"Joe, what did you mean Sy got DeChooch out of prison?"

"Say what?" Eddie asked, clicking the pen open again.

"Sy Bernstein was responsible for springing DeChooch. He was going to let DeChooch take the fall when he off'd O'Brien," I said.

"How did you come to that conclusion?"

"One, DeChooch didn't just walk out of the pen. Someone helped him out. Two, it wasn't family money that did it. Three, I saw it on Sy's face when I put it to him."

"Why did Sy want to murder O'Brien?" Steph asked.

"O'Brien was on the take. We know this from his wife. And I knew from Sy from before. Sy was a defense attorney. He represented scum. He specialized in armed robbery and kidnapping and extortion."

"He specialized in working for the family," Gazarra surmised.

"So, how it worked was the family would pay Sy a healthy sum, and Sy was supposed to grease the right palms with it. Get the job done."

"But Sy got greedy," Steph remembered.

"Yeah. Sy wasn't paying O'Brien the going rate. So O'Brien correctly assumed Sy was lining his own pockets with O'Brien's share. So, after negotiations failed, O'Brien had Sy disbarred."

"How?" she asked.

'O'Brien allowed us to record Sy bribing him. Sy was convicted, and disbarred. And he didn't dare rat out O'Brien."

"That's motive," Gazarra agreed.

"Yeah. And he had opportunity," I continued.

"Ryan Perin," Steph guessed.

"But he needed money," Gazarra said. "Where'd he get the money?"

"After all those years defending armed robbers, he knows how to case a joint," I said. "Check the activity for the past month. I'll bet you see a pattern."

Gazarra pulled the daily report from his pocket and unfolded it. "How about...three bank night drop heists, two liquor store robberies, and a check cashing place? All of the descriptions could be a match for Sy."

"Any or all," I agreed.

"But, what was his plan?" Steph wondered "Spring DeChooch? Then what?"

"Off DeChooch. Make it look like an accident," I suggested.

"Easier said than done," Steph muttered. I could hear the eye roll.

"That plan obviously went wrong," Gazarra agreed.

"OK, let's start over," Steph said. "I'm DeChooch. I get a visit from Ryan Perin, offering to help break me out of prison."

"More likely, Perin paid a visit to another inmate who passed it along. That way, there is no record when we pull DeChooch's file," Eddie told her.

"Perin probably told DeChooch he was working on Anthony Thumb's orders. That's what Eddie told Ronald," I said, filling in the blanks.

"But Thumbs had nothing to do with it," She realized.

"Right."

"Ok. So, I believe Perin. I get out of prison. Then what?"

"Perin would have given DeChooch a time and place to meet. It would need to take place after O'Brien's disappearance. Sometime after the Tuesday before last."

"But, DeChooch either forgot, or missed his meeting, or just didn't go," she reasoned.

"Something like that," I agreed.

"OK. So, I'm Sy. I robbed several places to get the cash. I pay Perin to spring DeChooch. I kill O'Brien. I arrange for DeChooch to have an accident, to take the heat off me, but it goes sideways. Now, I'm trying to find and kill DeChooch?"

"Sounds logical," I said.

"Not to me it doesn't," Eddie argued. "Why was DeChooch shooting up Sy's apartment?"

"Easy. He figured out it wasn't Thumbs helping him out. He went to the source. He got the truth from Perin," I explained.

"And from Perin, he showed up at Sy's."

"So, he killed Sy for trying to frame him for murder," Steph agreed.

"Best I can figure," I said, yawning.

"So, now Sy's dead. Perin might be. DeChooch is in the wind. And we still don't have any idea where O'Brien is," Steph summarized.

"Where did he get an automatic weapon?" Gazarra asked.

"Perin's probably helping run guns," I suggested. "He's very agreeable these days, and he needs that kind of cash to support his habit. It's out of control."

"OK. I'll get an APB out on DeChooch, and I'll get this over to Bell. He's on the scene," Gazarra said, getting up to leave. "You get some rest."

I heard him hug Steph goodbye.

"Thanks, Eddie," she said.

"Take care of him," he told her.

"Yeah." She sat back down beside my bed.

"I love you," I said, slurring the words just a little.

"You saved my life," she whispered, taking my hand again. She lay her face in my palm and kissed it.

"You saved my life," I corrected her. "Are we going home now?" I asked.

"We don't have a car," she reminded me.

"What? No Rangeman vehicle?"

"Not this time," she said. "He called to see if you were okay."

"Did he sound disappointed?" I asked, not entirely joking.

"He sounded concerned," she said. "About you," she added.

"Call your Dad," I told her.

Two hours later, Stephanie and Frank were leading me down the dock to the boathouse. Bob was running circles around us, barking. He knew something was up. He just didn't know what.

"Untie us," I said to Frank. "I think we'll spend the night down river." It was already dark. I didn't want DeChooch finding us in the middle of the night. I couldn't move fast enough to defend. The drugs would wear off by morning. Then I'd just be sore and tired.

Frank tossed the lines onto the deck. I leaned on Steph and little as she guided me to the wheel. I cranked the engine, and it sputtered to life. I gave it some gas, and let it idle a few minutes. Steph waved to Frank. Then I hit the lights, and our little barge started down river.

"Is that my car?" I asked, looking over the back deck.

"Hey, yeah," she said, smiling.

Rangeman delivery. Great. Now I was going to have to sweep for bugs again.