Detective

course they were looking at me. They wouldn’t keep talking while I was in the room. They were all just waiting for me to leave.
    Somehow I got the phone apart. I got the mouthpiece off, palmed the bug. So far, so good. But there was the other one under the desk. Not to mention the stuff in my toolbox.
    I heard the faint sound of tires on gravel from the driveway, the sound of a car pulling in. Oh Christ! Not the police. Not now. Not yet.
    I heard another one. Pulling in, coming to a stop. Hadn’t they heard it too? I risked a glance. No one seemed to have heard but me. Had I imagined it? No, I’d just been listening for it, expecting it.
    The sound again. A third car pulling in. It’s real all right. It’s happening. Get on with it. Get it done.
    I bent down behind the desk. And then I heard Tony’s voice, clear as a bell. “Wait a fucking minute!” he murmured as if in awe.
    I couldn’t help it. I looked up. He was staring straight at me, wide-eyed. There was no mistaking that look. Total recall. I’d been made.
    Tony’s hand flashed toward the inside of his coat. I stood like a statue. I should have been diving for my toolbox, but for that split second I was frozen in time. I could see it happen. The gun coming out of his holster, first the butt appearing clutched in his hand, then the barrel clearing the fabric of his coat, swinging around and aiming at me. His finger tightening on the trigger, the sound, the flash, the bullet smashing into my chest.
    It didn’t happen. At that instant there came the unmistakable squeal of brakes from out front, and then, god help me, one lone siren. Thank god for the one asshole cop in the bunch.
    That one siren did the trick. They drew their guns all right, but not at me. They drew them and rushed for the door. All of them. Even Tony. Revenge is a hell of a good motivation, but fear beats it every time. Thank god for man’s instinct to survive.
    I bent down and ripped the bug from the bottom of the desk. I opened my toolbox, took out Pedro’s gun and razor, and Albrect’s kilo of coke. I pulled the desk drawer open, popped them in, and pulled it closed. Good. Even the stupidest cop couldn’t help finding them.
    I heard gunfire coming from the front of the house. All in all, it seemed a great time to get the hell out of there.
    I ran to the window. It opened easily. There was a screen, but it slid open too. I pushed my toolbox through, climbed through after it, and dropped to the ground.
    I had just picked up my toolbox and started around the house, when I heard someone bark, “Freeze!” Jesus Christ! You mean people say that in real life?
    I froze. The cop walked up to me. He seemed young. At least he seemed younger than I was. Right then I felt about a hundred and five.
    “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
    I looked at him as if he were an idiot. “Fixing the phone,” I said. “The phones are out.”
    “Well, you’re not fixing it now.”
    “Hey, that’s my job.”
    There came fresh gunfire from the front of the house.
    “You hear that?” the cop said. “You deaf? Now get the hell out of here.”
    God bless police psychology. If I’d tried to leave he’d have held me. He hurried back toward the front of the house. I cut into the next-door neighbor’s yard and walked out to the road.
    There were five police cars surrounding the place. Cops were stationed everywhere out front, and guns were blazing. It seemed like an awfully good time to get the hell out of there, but I didn’t want to leave any trace. Anything that would give the cops the idea the phone had been wired. Anything that might start them thinking.
    So I hooked on my belt and started up the pole again. No one noticed. Everyone’s attention was quite well riveted on the ground. I reached the top, settled in, began to work on my splice.
    I was still there when the news crews arrived. I have no idea how they get wind of these things—someone must tip them off—but they sure arrived fast. The shootout was still on when the first crews arrived, and the police had to keep pushing them back so they themselves wouldn’t become the fatalities on which they were about to report.
    By the time the last crew arrived it was over. Those poor slobs were still setting up as the police led the handcuffed prisoners out of the house. Tall, Dark, and Ugly and Floridian #1 came first, along with Tony’s driver. I hadn’t even known he was there, and I still didn’t know his name, but it