Free Soul Patch by Reed Farrel Coleman Page B

had disappeared behind the heavy metal doors, I rolled slowly into traffic, making certain to get caught at the first red light. My tail was four cars back in the right hand lane, the same lane as me. I scanned the cross street for oncoming cars and, seeing it was clear, put my foot to the floor. With tires smoking, I swerved across the left lane, through the red light, and onto the cross street.
    With my foot still hard on the pedal, I drove a further three blocks before making a sharp left down a dead end street that ran perpendicular to the Belt Parkway. About a hundred feet from the dead end, I backed up an empty driveway until the houses on either side obscured my car from view. I waited. Either they would give up before cruising this street or, as I hoped, they would roll down the street, distracted, annoyed, simply going through the motions rather than searching for me under every stone.
    Neither hearing it nor seeing it, I sort of sensed their car coming. Then I caught a glimpse of its nose as it rolled down the block. Went right past me. As it passed, I pulled out of the driveway, slammed on the brakes and put it in park. In a moot display, the cop at the wheel of the Chevy threw it in reverse. Too little too late. My car was widthwise
across the street, making it impossible for the cops to turn around or back up past me. I hopped out and strolled up to the driver’s side window of the unmarked car, rapping my knuckles against the glass. The sun was strong and the refraction off the glass made it difficult for me to make out the face of the person at the wheel.
    When the window disappeared halfway into the door, I recognized the driver. I had seen her face on the backs of my eyelids and suspended in the dark air above my bed only a few hours ago. But before I could react, Detective Melendez threw her door open, smacking it hard into my bad knee. Reflexively, I backed up and bent down to rub it. Big mistake. Melendez and her partner were out of the car and on me like wolves on a crippled lamb.
    “All right, dickweed, you know the drill,” said Bronx Irish as he threw me into the side of their car.
    Still favoring my bad leg, I hit the car awkwardly, the right side of my rib cage taking the full force of impact. Hurt like a son of a bitch and it didn’t do much for my respiration.
    “Assume the position,” she barked.
    Still trying to catch my breath, I was slow to follow her instructions. Big mistake number two. My arms were being yanked up and thrust forward, palms slapped down on the hood of the Chevy. Bronx Irish kicked my legs apart and back. He frisked me, removing my wallet and .38.
    “So, Mr. Prager,” Detective Melendez said, “you always speed like that in a school zone?” It was a question for which she wanted no answer. “That was quite a display of stupidity you put on back there.”
    “I noticed I was being followed. How was I supposed to know you were cops?”
    “Don’t be such an asshole, Prager,” said Bronx Irish. “What should I do with him, Carmella?”
    “Cuff him and throw him in the back.”
    “Hey, I—”
    “Shut the fuck up!” she cut me off. “Keys in the car?”
    “What?”
    “Are your fucking keys in the car, Prager?”
    “Yes, Detective.”
    “John, you take care of him. I’ll park his car right.”

    Bronx Irish cuffed me and slid me into the rear of the unmarked Chevy. He got into the passenger seat. As we waited for Melendez to reposition my car, I tried striking up a conversation.
    “What part of the Bronx you from, Detective?”
    “Pelham.”
    “Am I allowed to ask your last name?”
    “Murphy.”
    “John Murphy, now there’s a rare name on the NYPD.”
    I could see him smile.
    “What were you guys tailing me for?” I wondered.
    “You’ll see,” he said. “We didn’t wanna discuss it in front a your little girl. We were waiting for you to come out, and then you come out with your kid. So we figured—”
    Just then, Detective Melendez opened the