Like Slow Sweet Molasses (35 page)

“What’s
your impression?”

The
pager lights blinked red before the buzzing started pre-empting her answer.

Sam
repeated the question.

“I’ll
reserve final analysis until after I’ve eaten my steak.” His bushy eyebrows
slid into one. “But, so far—so good.” Her head tilted back as she laughed at
the anxious masks shielding their faces.

“I
like her, Chance.” He let loose a howl of laughter. “Ya’ll come back,” he
invited, leaving more chuckles behind as he moved on to satisfy his other
patrons and they headed off to the restaurant.

They
rode in companionable silence all the way back to the city full as ticks from
the most palatable and tender rib-eye steaks ever enjoyed. The oldies station
he tuned to had an affinity for Motown during this hour, loading the airwaves
with smooth, easy-listening music. Chance approached Angela’s neighborhood from
an alternate direction giving her an idea for the perfect end to the perfect
evening. As he turned off the main thoroughfare, she coddled the hand
manipulating the shift luring his eyes to hers.

“One
more stop?” she asked innocently.

He
twisted his long fingers between the soft ones holding his on the lever. “It’s
late and you have school tomorrow.”

“I
know,” agreement spilled out sweetly. “It’s a quick one.”

“I…have
a very early morning.” His exaggerated yawn was to prove his point. “An all day
training OP and that’s a lot to put on a middle-aged man.” He badmouthed his
stamina. “I need my rest.”

She
found humor in his pitiful plea but no sympathy. “It’s not out of the way,
Chance.”

Ahead,
in the middle of the block, was the reason for all the whoopla she made. “The
store, Angel? You want a slush this late at night?”

“It’s
barely,” she commented taking in the time on her wristwatch, “eleven-fifty. The
store closes at midnight.”

“What
the heck?”

He
parallel parked as close as possible because the neighborhood quick stop had no
on-site parking. “I deserve something special for this.” His grope on her
jacket piloted her in for a spine-tingling kiss.

“Hmmm.
That was tasty.” Angela smacked her mouth demonstrably. “But I still want that
slush.”

“Stop
whining and come on,” he gave in.

As
he prepared to release her, the advancing headlights in his rearview mirror
blacked out. He started to think maybe the car turned off. That proved false as
the street lights hit the shiny grill on the front giving away its location.
Chance stopped Angela as she fumbled for her door handle, pushing her down in
the seat, instead.

“Chance?”

“Shh.”
The elongated one syllable word acquired life in the night.

He
also scooted down while removing the bulb from the top of the car. Watching in
the side mirror, he saw it glide eel-like in the darkness reflecting light every
few feet. His fist slammed the side console to pop out an invisible gun perch.

“Chance,
what’s going on?” she whispered nervously, unbridled emotions contracting the
scalp on the crown of her head.

“Open
the glove box and get the walkie-talkie.”

“Wh-what
are you doing, Chance?” She hadn’t moved and watched him do a speedy check of
his weapon.

“Do
as I say, Angela.” His voice, gruff and stern, brooked no patience for
questions.

All
indications added up to her disliking the encroaching events. “I’ve changed my
mind. Let’s go,” she pleaded. “I-I don’t want it, now.”

“Sorry,
Angel. I can’t do that.” Chance reached behind to get the cap thrown on the
back seat to slap it on his head. “I have a job to do.”

“But,
you can. Just start up…a-and let’s leave.”

“Push
that button on the side to transmit. Release it to listen. Got it?”

“No,
I don’t
got it
,” she bit out frantically.

“Tell
dispatch there’s a code 14 at—,” he looked for a street sign. “Crap! What’s the
name of this street and the store?”

“Eighth
St. Market on Eighth Street.”

“Tell
them that.” He maintained his surveillance of the vehicle as he snapped
instructions. No one exited as of yet. “Tell them there’s a plainclothesman at
the scene with a civilian. Got that?”

“I
want to go home,” she yelled driving him to clamp a hand over her mouth.

“You’re
going to give us away, Angela, if you don’t control yourself. Do you understand
me?” he snarled giving her a little shake. “Well, do you?”

Her
head shook up and down and he unmuzzled her mouth.

“Sit
up.” She popped up on command and her cheeks glistened wet. He kissed her
there. “I have to crawl over you to get to your door. Here are the keys. Lock
yourself in and stay put no matter what you hear.”

He
barked too many instructions for comprehension in her state of confusion. “I
don’t understand.”

“There’s
a robbery about to go down.” Chance squeezed into place at the door. “You’re
safe as long as your presence remains unknown. Now, do you understand me?” She
reacted like a bobble head doll. “Stay down and stay put.” One more kiss and he
was smoke in the air as he drifted through the night, shielding himself from
shrub to shrub en route to the store.

“Chance!”
Angela shrieked under her breath. “Chance!” she cried, monitoring his progress
while mashing the button, panicking when he vanished from sight.

Chance
bent low and knuckled his way in the shadows to prevent detection. He stumbled
over a weighty branch and cursed the night, rethinking to determine it a
blessing in disguise and a handy addition to his arsenal. He could see the
driver as he approached, barely, for the windows were nearly coal black. There
was no sign of the passenger, so, he assumed the action was already underway.
He neared the side fence debating how to get closer without stepping out into
the light and becoming a bull’s eye himself when the area went partially black
and the yelling started inside.

It
was the diversion he needed.

Chance
plastered himself against the wall, keeping an eye out for the accomplice, then
inched his way to the entrance where the door suddenly flew open and a body
ejected from the interior—the arm outstretched and flashes blazing from the
gun.

The
blast of sirens whooping closer scared the getaway driver into premature
motion, whipping the robber into a frenzy as he jetted to catch up.

“Police!
Drop your weapon.” Chance hollered at the masked bandit from the safety of the
shadows, roaring the order in back to back commands. “Policia! Suelta tu arma!”

The
thief twirled following the sound’s origination, telepathing his intentions to
Chance. A beating cadence disturbed the night as the thick piece of wood
whirled in the air before hitting its mark. But, instead of the gunman losing
his grip on the gun, he yowled as impact forced the weapon to discharge wildly
into the blackness.

Angela’s
insides shriveled at the popping reiterations exploding the ebony atmosphere.

Chance
pounced, given the opportunity to gain control of the situation, about the same
time as the scream that slit his heart in two. He faltered, took his eyes off
the culprit and to his horror watched her fall flat on her face in the grassy
right-of-way at the street. A big mistake for now he and the perpetrator were
engrossed in mortal hand-to-hand combat where only the best man would win. The
mask of death that slithered over his face was in stark opposition to the vows
to uphold the law and his knee wailed into his combatant’s soft side—in
skillful repetition and with deadly force.

He
didn’t see or hear the officers coming—the ones who dragged him off the man
writhing painfully on the ground, knees drawn up tighter than a ball of twine.
Chance did hear the alarm by the foghorn voiced officer primed to squelch any
movement as he stood over Angela’s body, his firearm pointed downward.

“We
got the lookout over here!” he chanted with enough exhilaration to incite mob
activity.

Chance
observed the rush of adrenaline from where they had him subdued.

“She’s
with me!” He broke free of their hold and with his badge held high overhead
dodged their intended restraints. “Holster your weapon!”

His
red-rimmed eyes took on the attributes of hell’s devil silently speaking to the
significance of the younger officer yielding to a higher ranking authority.
Chance stood over her, fighting for the return of his composure, checking the
progress underway at the store and guiltily scrutinizing the surrounding area
of her body for telltale signs of her demise or evidence of survival.

“She
moved, sir.”

He
hadn’t seen her stir.

“Chance?”

His
name, no more than a sigh, coupled his knees to the ground beside her and the
flat of his hand to her prone body. “Angela, where are you hurt?”

Angela’s
brain began to calculate the extent of her injuries. The tiny crawling ants
biting their way out of her body informed her of the results as she stimulated
her system by moving. “Hurt?” she repeated dumbfounded.

Curiosity
seekers, kept at bay by the yellow police tape, crowded the line pushing the
envelope to the limit to get a view of the happenings. A camera snapped. In his
opinion, that was a bad omen.

“Sit
up.” Chance lent a hand in her accomplishing that feat. “We’re going to take a
deep breath and get you to your feet. Ready?”

She
slipped a look at him happy with what she saw.

“Easy…easy.”

It
was a fluke she was unharmed in the melee. She realized this although her mind
skipped scenes worse than a needle grooved on a vinyl record. “I’m going home,
now.” The idea seemed plausible as she took a step—in the wrong direction.

“Angel?”
Chance called and she faced him. “I’ll take you home.”

“No.
No, Chance.” She timidly negated his offer, half-aware of the problems she
caused, obviously jumpy from the flood of movement and crush of blue uniforms.
“You have a job to do.”

He
immediately diagnosed her dazed and confused state. Nevertheless, she turned
the tables on him with the words he spoke at the beginning of the episode.
Lights slashed the night, casting a wicked blanket of anticipation over the
event. The mood from the crowd rolled in like a wave, and all over a helpless
disoriented Angela. Turning to the officer who glared in disgust at the
exchange, Chance snapped, “Disperse that group and send them on their way.”

He
led Angela, holding her closely, to the outer realms away from the
investigative team roaming the premises. Each bat of her bewildered eyes
printed a lasting impression of her involvement in tonight’s series of events.
The jittery lurches of her body worried him—a lot.

Chance
shed his jacket to drape her shoulders.

“Finish
your job,” she began, looking like she could take flight at any minute. “I’ll
walk home.” Angela stated matter-of-factly, “It’s not too far. Really.” And
like he had no inkling where she lived, “Only a couple of blocks from here.”

“I
can’t let you do that, Angel. You’re in shock.”

Pacing,
“I’m going…home and you can’t stop me.” Her meltdown started.

“Alright,
I’ll take you right now. Just let me talk to the detectives before we leave,”
he begged, hindering her on one of her turnaround trips. “Look at me.” She did.
“Will you do that for me? Wait?”

The
bobble head doll was back.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chance
let them into her home a little after one a.m. with the only sounds being the
brassy clink of her keys and the refrigerator’s gentle hum. Soft lighting in
the living room was a welcome change from the throbbing flashes of disco ball
brightness at the scene. Locking the storm door, he closed the front door
quietly and rested his head against the wooden panel unsure of what his next
move should be. A flip of his body allowed him to see Angela’s imprecise steps
take her across the room, up the stairs and into her bedroom where she purged
his jacket at the door.