The Stray

"Who did you bring us?"

"Santos, Koontz, Peterson and Cob."

"Santos? But that's great! As long as that one doesn't stop the discipline, he's a hoot!" Handicott was half polemic for its own sake and half sarcasm.

"See if you can rein him in, Stone. I don't want any messes tonight," Kenney cut Kenney short.

"How do we go about this?" asked Mason.

"We'll split into three teams: me and five of my guys go in the front; Kenney and five others go through the back while you and yours watch the perimeter," Handicott explained.

He had gone all that way to hold up the snot.

"Who's the stockman?" he asked. There was a little boy in a mackintosh and hat, strutting beside one of the patrol cars, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

"Oh, that one? That's Clarkson, or Chalkson. He works at the Daily. There's an air of scoop about this investigation and you know how it is: the bosses don't want to miss a chance." replied Handicott.

"Does he come in with either team?"

"We've been clear on that: he can't get near it until it's all over."

"Do I have to vouch for him?"

"Just try not to shoot him."

Stone rolled up the lapels of his raincoat and went to the sergeant who, with an iron fist and a grim look, held the troops. He asked to confer with his officers: he wanted to calm the minds of the most violent and investigate the state of mind of the other two. For Peterson and Cob it was their first night-time operation. They were usually assigned to traffic and neighbourhood watch. The recruits were never given an area that was too dangerous, they were always given the less hot areas. Not that there were many in those years, not even that warm. There was Washington Square, Gramercy Park and Grand Central, oases of comfort in the midst of endless deserts of misery. Koontz and Santos, on the other hand, had been in Homicide with Mason for about two years, and they had done their homework. Perhaps too much: Santos had hardened himself to such a point that, with difficulty, he could be distinguished from one of those individuals he was hunting. They called him the 'hound', because of his boxer's grunt and his bull-like size. Koontz, on the other hand, was a cold-hearted tough guy who never stopped before the end, cunning and quick of thought, sharp and fleeting in his features.

"Shall we go, boss?" asked Santos, anxiously. "I'm freezing. I need to get some exercise."

"Not tonight, sorry."

"How?"

"We're here in support."

"Not operational?" intervened Koontz.

"That's right."

"Can't these half-breeds get by without calling us to watch that they don't get too dirty while they eat?"

"That's right, Santos."

"Orders, sir?" asked Peterson.

"The orders are to stay behind me. I don't want any cowboys. If you see anything that Detective Handicott or Kenney's team missed, report it to me. Nothing else."

"What a rip-off." complained Santos again.

"Yeah, starvation pay, no booze and now brothels under lockdown. Hard times," Mason commented sarcastically.

In Harlem Bridge, between Second Avenue and East 124th Street, in the vicinity of Cuvillier Park, Kenney and Handicott had been working for months on a luxury prostitution ring which, according to the investigation, included, among the many prestigious names of New York high society, also bigwigs from the worlds of finance and politics. A business that converged on the building which twenty Manhattan agents were observing that evening in a mixture of tension, euphoria and adrenalin.

On your marks!" said Kenney, reaching the back of the building with his men. At the same moment, Handicott's team also snuck under the first-floor windows. Synchronizing the break-in, ten officers and two detectives catapulted inside. The rain could not fully cover the din of smashing doors, surprised screams, and shuffling escapes. The front of the building lit up like a Christmas tree.

"A hell of an operation," commented Santos, standing next to him, disappointedly. Without replying, Mason continued to scan the rain-slicked darkness.

"When you can't work with your hands, you work with your mouth, Santos. That's your problem," Koontz replied.

"You want to know who I learned to work with my mouth from?"

"I don't think this is the time for..." tried to make Cob listen to him.

"No one asked you, it seems!" scolded Santos.

"Don't mind him: he hates getting wet. His uniform gets soaked and itchy," said Koontz.

"What's that over there, sir?" Peterson sought Stone's attention.

"You all seem a little nervous. Smoke a few cartons of cigarettes each before you come to work. Koontz is well stocked; he'll get them for you. Anyway, gentlemen, if you're cold, now's your chance." Mason pointed to the team two black shadows on the outline of the building come down clinging to the eaves. "Santos, you take Cob and Peterson and join the gentlemen who are fighting it out. Koontz and I will go around and cut them off."

The three set off at full speed, irons in hand. The first fugitive, having landed on the lawn, had climbed over the fence and disappeared from view. Peterson pounced on the second, making him lose his grip on the gutter, while Santos, who could have been in charge of the arrest, continued the hunt. Mason and Koontz, on the other hand, continued with their backs to the wall. Koontz, who had drawn his revolver, followed Mason, flattened against the wall. They both crouched under a window. The light was out: neither wanted to give an easy target to an agent with a sensitive trigger and an anxious hand.

"Shall we continue?" asked Koontz, improving his grip on the gun.

"One moment."

"The coast is clear," he insisted.

"The light's out."

"There's no one there."

"It's a raid, Koontz. Everything must be checked. It's the fundamentals."

"Maybe they haven't gotten in yet.

"That's the ground floor. You don't leave a floor until you've cleared it. That's a mistake that can cost you."

"That's not our job."

"My job is to get home tonight, preferably without a ball in my back. Check my left, I'll cover your right. Wait for my signal."

At the same moment that Mason was preparing to start the sweep a low squeak came to him from inside. He looked at Koontz and realised he hadn't imagined it. What is more suspicious than a sinister sound is the silence that follows it.

"Are you able to kick in the lock?"

"Sure."