Free Circle of Six by Randy Jurgensen

Daley in the eye. Nothing else was said. Seedman had to stifle a laugh. Murphy was a bland colorless man who was about as passionate and fiery as overdone asparagus.
    Daley got the message loud and clear. A diluted insipid press release wasalready being drafted, and he was going to have nothing to do with it.
    Codd stood in front of the glass doors. For a second it looked like he was watching over his bloodied men, wondering how he would lead his troops out of this, how to bolster their confidence, pick up the pieces. For a second he looked like a general overseeing a battlefield, caring for his men. Then he tilted his head a little, carefully matted down an errant hair on his head, and patted around the sides of his mouth. He double-checked his reflection before turning around and straightening out his jacket. Then he walked out. The meeting was over.
    Someone in the hallway said, “Ten-hut!” The wounded men in the hall stood at attention as Codd walked through. Daley lagged behind, looking at the ragged uniforms, all scattered around the halls of St. Luke's like broken and discarded blue puppets.
    The bus pulled up to the ER entrance of St. Luke's. I felt Louie Delessio grab me under my arm. I tried to stand. A group of cops were waiting by a gurney. I fell to one knee and began throwing up all the bile and coffee in my stomach. I felt more arms around my midsection. “No, I have to walk in.”
    The words were slurred and thick. Louie steadied me as I made it off the bus. I tried to clean the blood from my face, but all that did was smear it. “Don't let him see me Louie, don't fucking do it...”
    My knees buckled, and then there was nothing but black.
    Flashes of fluorescents were popping overhead, on-off-on-off-on-off. I was being wheeled in on the gurney. Faces appeared above me, nurses, doctors, cops from the past, the last one...dad. I tried to get up. “No, no, no, I'm okay, Dad. It's not that bad. I'm alright.”
    His voice was strained, “I'm right here, Son, Dad's not leaving.”
    He looked around at the staff and said, “This is my son.”
    I felt his hand lift off my chest. Suddenly I was alone in a room. A bright light was switched on. Everything was eerie, quiet, and soft blue. I saw more faces above me. A lone nurse appeared. I heard myself speak, “Am I shot bad, Ma'am?”
    It echoed a thousand times. I was scared. She smiled, and I remember how comforting her beautiful face was. She said in a voice so calm you'd have thought it was a summer breeze, “You're not shot. You're going to be okay.”
    A pinch on my wrist, and then a warm opiate haze embraced my body, spiraling me into a world of nothingness.
    The mosque was now completely encircled by no-nonsense Fruit ofIslam soldiers, spilling into the street five deep. More kept coming, from the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, New Jersey, and Connecticut, carloads of them, mustering and waiting for orders. The entire NYPD presence was now consigned to the outer corners of 116th and 117th Street, where a total of twenty black officers stood. The rest of the NYPD was forced to remain south of 114th Street and north of 120th Street. The streets were lost to chaos.
    The Nation of Islam in New York had more than 5,000 associates. Total membership in the United States was 50,000 strong. Had the Nation of Islam begun mobilizing all of its members to New York, the NYPD would've been greatly outnumbered. If that had happened, we'd have needed martial law.
    Government by the army in the greatest city in the world would have been the equivalent to political suicide for more than just Lindsay. Louis Farrakhan must have known this. He had the city of New York and the Lindsay administration over a barrel. Farrakhan was going to use this tragedy as his own personal forum. He could heighten his public profile and place himself at the top of the Nation of Islam. As he got stronger, the NYPD became weaker.
    Minister Farrakhan bartered with Congressman Charles Rangel and