Free Gladyss of the Hunt by Arthur Nersesian Page A

I?” Youngblood winced, holding his scalp. “And why would I deliberately kill my best earner?”
    â€œLet’s see, that was around twenty years ago,” Sergeant Bernie replied, “Lily would’ve been near forty now. She’d probably have two kids and a husband somewhere in Elmhurst.”
    â€œI’m not the only one here who wasted someone,” Youngblood answered, loud enough for the few bystanders to hear.
    Crazed, Sergeant Farrell pulled the guy backwards over his knee, knocking him to the ground again, then he bent his knee on the guy’s chest. He leaned slowly on Youngblood’s turkey gobbler with his other knee. A crowd started forming.
    â€œLily told me she wanted a little boy and girl, so that’s two other people you killed.” He smacked the old guy in the face. At that point I heard someone in the crowd mutter, “police brutality.”
    â€œCome on Bernie, we’ve got an audience,” I nudged.
    â€œTake a fucking look at a killer,” Bernie yelled to me, but really to the surrounding crowd. “he used to beat up on innocent white girls for a living.”
    â€œThe AIDS would’ve killed her by now anyway.” Old Youngblood mumbled, squeezing out from under him and struggling to his feet. “It got them all in the end.”
    Bernie made a pained expression, then smacked the former pimp upside his skull, knocking a small flesh-colored wedge out of the old man’s head.
    â€œI know what you did in Bushwick,” the ex-con squealed. “You wasted Tyrone saying it was a holdup, but we both know he never woulda drawn on you!”
    When a pair of Port Authority cops came out of the bus station, I showed them my badge and explained that a drunk and disorderly situation had turned into resisting arrest. Bernie backed off, and the ex-con spat bloody saliva on the icy sidewalk. With the PA cops and the crowd watching, we couldn’t just let the guy walk, so I pushed Youngblood against a wall and read him his rights.
    As I cuffed him, I saw Bernie pick up the thing that had fallen out of Youngblood’s head.
    â€œGive it here,” I said, before he could stomp on it. He tossed me a waxy hearing aid.
    Somehow I sensed that I was now doing his old partner’s job—reining Bernie in. After a minute, when most of the people had dispersed, I uncuffed Youngblood and handed him the hearing aid. The former pimp grabbed the one shopping bag that wasn’t ripped apart and scooped up a handful of the bagged socks. Several packages had disappeared into the black slush in the gutter. Then he hurried off down the block.
    â€œIsn’t this the kind of shit that got you assigned to desk duty in the first place?” I said to Bernie.
    Silently he led us back to the car. As we were heading downtown, his cell phone rang and he answered it, even though he was driving. From the awkwardness of his tone, I figured he was talking with his estranged wife. In a clear, somber tone, he started talking about his failures as a husband. I quickly pulled out my cell and called my brother.
    Seeing my name on his display, without even letting me say hello, Carl began: “I know that sometimes I get a little manic, and you’re always the first to warn me, but this time it’s you. You went from one extreme to the other with this scorpion guy.”
    â€œStop calling him that, asshole!” I shouted. Bernie looked over and abruptly ended his conversation.
    â€œAll right, I’m sorry,” my brother replied. “I just worry about you. Are you still in that weird cult?”
    When I’d told Carl about Kundalini and its alleged psychic properties, he insisted that it was dangerous and said I should stop attending immediately.
    â€œIt’s just yoga,” I said, and told him I had to go.
    â€œAnnie discovered our Jane Doe is one Nelly Linquist,” Bernie said. Apparently it wasn’t his wife but his fellow