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Twenty-Three
Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Chríst
—Gerard Manley Hopkins,
from “As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme”
Roman had walked around the block a time or two, but despite what Da had always claimed, it hadn’t improved his mood, nor made any brilliant solutions jump into his mind. By the time he slammed back into his apartment, he could still only see two choices.
Run like a coward for the sake of Ma and still likely end up in a ditch, in some other city, at some other gang’s hands. Or make his stand here, now, and take a few mafiosi down with him.
He strode back through the dingy little hall to his dingy little room and pulled open the drawer that actually had his clothes tucked neatly away. For once, he bypassed the picture of Sabina and reached instead for the silver chain, the cool medallion that should have been warm against his chest.
St. Michael soared in the center of the oval, his wings outstretched, the sword of justice raised in one hand and scales in the other. Roman had always clung to that image—that justice wasn’t just balance, but also a sword. It was a vengeful angel, smiting the wicked. Even when the wicked smote back. That wasn’t when the good guys ran—it was when they fought their hardest.
He slipped the necklace back over his head, pausing to kiss it like Da had always done, and then tucked it under his shirt.
He had done a lot of things Ma wouldn’t like, a lot of things that would make Da shake his head. But he wasn’t a coward. He wasn’t on the graft. He wasn’t going to give up on justice just because he fell for the wrong girl.
If the Mafia was going to mow him down, at least he’d go out fighting.
A fist pounded on his door just as he was switching off the light. Maybe it would be Cliff. If so, he’d tell him to get out of town, go report back to Washington. Let them know he’d fought till the last and deliver whatever was left of him tomorrow to Ma.
He should write her a note. Send her a wire. Something. Something to let her know he loved her, that he was sorry he’d let her down. And Sally. He looked around at the order she’d brought, could see her red-lipped smile all through the place. That blood money still sitting in his account in New York needed to be withdrawn, for Sally’s sake. Maybe someone, at least, could escape from this place.
The knocking grew louder, more insistent. Well, at least that proved it wasn’t the Mafia. They weren’t big on drawing attention to themselves before an assault. “Coming!” He turned back to the door and tugged it open. But it wasn’t his partner standing outside.
The man was of average height, ruddy complexion, and mediocre looks. It took Roman all of three seconds to place him. “You’re one of Bannigan’s detectives. Norton, isn’t it?”
The detective smiled. “Good memory. Yeah, that’s me. Bannigan sent me over. We got wind of a plan of Manny’s that might be of interest to you.”
Roman snorted. “Yeah, you think? Maybe that he’s planning on killing me?”
“How’d you guess?” Norton sighed and shook his head. “From what we could gather, he’s fed up with your investigation. Plans on sending a group over tonight to take you out.”
He swung the door a little wider and stepped aside so Norton could come in. “So you’re what? Backup? Or are you just warning me so I can leave?”
“Neither. The boss thinks this is our chance to bring down some of Manny’s top guys. Our tip says they’re meeting up at Ava’s Place any time now. If we go over there…”
For a second, Roman could only stare at him. Help. Actual help. No one in law enforcement had offered him any since the first disastrous arrest, and the sudden outstretched hand sent a surge of hope through him.
Maybe he’d make it home to Ma after all.
Roman lunged for his holster and stepped outside. “Let’s go.”
Sabina ran up the street as the car pulled away from Roman’s building, heading in the other direction, Sally a step behind her. Sabina hadn’t recognized the driver, but her instincts screamed, “Cop!”
“Okay, that tears it.” Sally hopped on one foot as she fussed with the other shoe. “Next time we go chasing after that idiot, I’m wearing men’s trousers and boots. These stupid pumps about broke my ankle.”
Sabina tried to suck air enough into her lungs to answer. Though what would she say? She didn’t want there to be a next time—she just wanted Roman to live through this time.
Heavy footfalls sounded behind them, and they both spun around. Roman’s partner—Cliff, wasn’t it?—pounded to a halt a step away. He cursed, loudly and vehemently. “Tell me he wasn’t with Detective Norton.”
