Free Sons of the City by Scott Flander

usual, and also a Cowboys baseball cap, so it looked like he happened to be on his way to a game at Veterans Stadium when he got sidetracked. The Cowboys weren’t particularly popular in Philly, and more than a few people in the crowd were glaring at his cap and shirt.
    Doc told me that about an hour before, someone had called Southwest Detectives and suggested that cops check the trunk of a Lexus at 75th and Pine. When asked why, the caller had replied, “All right, don’t check, I don’t fuckin’ care, when the neighbors start complaining about the smell, don’t come fuckin’ crying to me.” Then he slammed down the phone.
    “Wonderful,” I told Doc. “An anonymous caller with an attitude.”
    Michelle was looking at the trunk of the Lexus. “Any idea who’s inside?” she asked.
    Doc shook his head. “We checked the VIN. Car’s stolen.”
    As Doc took off to talk to Lanier, Michelle and I gazed at the Lexus.
    “Hell of a coffin,” I said aloud.
    Considering that we were in Westmount, it was a good bet this was Bravelli’s work. But who was inside? One thing for sure, a lot of people had come to find out. The spectators, at least three hundred strong, had pressed so close that Lanier had ordered barricades put up, yellow-and-blue police sawhorses. People had gathered behind them four-deep, craning for a view.
    It was wild—men, women, even children were everywhere, hanging from windows, peering down from roofs, standing on newspaper boxes, perched on traffic lights. One young neighborhood guy had even set up a lawn chair on the top of his car, and was sitting there drinking a bottle of beer and listening to rock music on his car radio.
    Lanier came over to where we were standing, and looked at my battered face with mock alarm.
    “Forget to wear your seat belt again?” he asked.
    One thing about trying to bust somebody’s balls, you have to at least be friendly with the guy or it doesn’t work. I just looked at Lanier and shook my head.
    By now, though, he had turned his attention to Michelle. He noticed her nameplate, and asked, “Are you any relation?”
    “This is the Commissioner’s daughter,” I said. I was hoping they wouldn’t shake hands, but they did.
    “Captain Lanier,” I explained cheerfully to Michelle, “was the fine commander who had me transferred out of the Organized Crime Unit.”
    “C’mon, let’s not get into this now,” said Lanier.
    “I had my own squad,” I told Michelle. “And we were doing great, we were closing in on Mickey Bravelli. We had witnesses, evidence, wiretaps, everything.”
    “C’mon, Eddie …”
    “But then anonymous calls started coming in saying that I was taking money from the mob. Isn’t that right, Captain?”
    I turned to Michelle. “Instead of treating the calls like bullshit, which they were, Captain Lanier dutifully reported them to his bosses. The next thing I know, I’m pushing a patrol car around West Philadelphia.”
    “It was a little more complicated than that,” Lanier said to Michelle.
    “It wasn’t any more complicated than that,” I said.
    Lanier hesitated. He was obviously reluctant to leave things where they stood, but he knew arguing with me wasn’t going to get anywhere.
    He smiled at Michelle. “Nice meeting you, but it’s time for me to get to work.”
    He turned and walked back over to the Lexus, where he was joined by Doc and the other detectives. The new activity was sending a surge of electricity through the crowd. Knots of young guys, who had been standing around bullshitting, turned in unison toward the barricade.
    Lanier called for a nearby police wagon to be brought behind the Lexus. He wanted to at least partially block the crowd’s view, and the crowd didn’t like it. As the wagon pulled into place, people started booing, like they were at a ball game and the center fielder had just dropped the ball.
    “Hey, c’mon, let us see!” people were yelling, as they pushed and shoved to get a view again.