Free The Wolves of Fairmount Park by Dennis Tafoya Page B

put a hand out and the guy took it, as if for a second it was a misunderstanding or an accident and he was going to help, but the guy just jerked his arm out straight and used it like a lever to push him back against the passenger door of the Volvo.
    Orlando straightened up and the guy opened the back door and shoved him in, holding his head down the way cops always did, though up close this guy didn’t seem like he was actually on the job, and Orlando had never been thrown into the backseat of a Volvo station wagon by a cop. There were beer cans on the floor that rolled under his feet and a smell of mildew as if the windows had been left open in the rain.
    The guy crowded in next to him, Orlando massaging histhroat and finally getting a rasping gust of air into his lungs. The guy watched him choke for a minute, breaking off to look up and down the street, to see if they were being watched. His eyes were bright, the skin of his brow beneath the red hair a stark white, and the guy was nodding, as if he were having some kind of dialogue in his head.
    â€œYou’re Orlando Donovan.”
    It wasn’t a question, and Orlando backed up against the door and nodded, coughing and rubbing at his neck.
    â€œBrendan Donovan’s brother.” The guy cocked his head, appraising. “Yeah, I can see it. They used to call you Little Brother, right? That was your name?”
    Orlando extended his neck, opening his swollen airway. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Some people used to call me that.”
    â€œYour brother keeps you out of the shit, huh?”
    Orlando made a face. “What? Brendan?”
    The guy shook his head, then gave Orlando an open-handed slap that caught him across the temple and rang in the car. “Don’t lie to me.”
    â€œShit. I’m not lying. I don’t even know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
    The detective raised a fist this time but telegraphed it, and Orlando could roll with the blow as the guy tried to hit him hard in the chest. It hurt, but he let himself bounce off the door and it didn’t land the way it might have if the guy weren’t so wired that Orlando didn’t see it coming. He had been hit before, by people who knew what they were doing.
    â€œYou’re a junkie, and your brother keeps you from getting locked up for all the shit you do.”
    â€œYou’re out of the loop, man. I don’t see Brendan anymore. I just did a month in Northeast Philly. If anyone’s looking out for me, they suck at it.”
    â€œYou cannot lie to me, understand?”
    â€œOkay, okay.” Orlando held up a hand and looked around, watching people go by on the street. If he just pushed open the door, would this lunatic chase him down? “You’re not a cop, are you?”
    The guy leaned in and squeezed Orlando’s knee hard. Orlando screwed up his face and leaned into it, trying to give the guy nothing.
    â€œClose enough, shitbag. Close enough.” The detective went into his jacket and came out with a small black gun. This time he was fast. The gun was out, and Orlando had the time to think
magic trick,
and the guy backhanded Orlando across the temple and he went out.
    When he came to himself the car was moving and his hands were cinched together with flexcuffs in front of his chest, the whiplike ends smacking his face when he lifted his hands to touch his forehead and find the tender egg-shaped lump there. He was jammed down onto the narrow floor space and he tried to pull himself up but his body was slow and his head pounded in a way that made sparks and lines arc across his eyes.
    â€œDon’t move around too much, you’ll puke.” The guy turned his head slightly to talk to him, and the car swerved and then took a hard left that pinned Orlando against the seat for a minute.
    Orlando slowly pulled himself up, using his pinioned hands and grabbing a frayed seat belt. There were cans and bottles beneath him