CHAPTER TWO

      JIMMY STRAIGHTENED, dropped his hands to his sides and took a few breaths to get control of his voice. “Lose the gun, Tomas. The police are on their way.”

      A siren in the distance backed him up. Some of the regulars on the street had noticed the commotion and were coming to investigate. Just what they needed—more targets.

      “Go to hell,” the boy snarled. “These bastards were gonna kill us.” He pointed the gun at the guy sitting on his friend’s back. “Get off him. Now.” The man hesitated, then jerked at the sound of the hammer being pulled back. “Or I’ll blow you off.”

      With a final shove at his captive’s shoulders, the creep scrabbled onto the sidewalk and backed up, crabwise, against the building.

      Tomas nodded his approval. “Good idea. Now you—” he turned to the man with the knife “—drop the friggin’ knife before I friggin’ shoot your hand off. Good. You okay, Harlow?”

      The other boy staggered to his feet, wiping blood off his face. “I’m okay.”

      Jimmy could see Emma staring out the car window behind Tomas, her eyes wide with shock and, probably, terror. He started to sweat, thinking what a bullet could do to the thin shield of glass. “Nothing’s going to happen now, Tomas. Put the weapon away.”

      As Harlow limped up beside the Indian boy, blue lights flashed at the corner. “Come on, Tommy. You want to keep that piece, you’d better stash it before the cops see you carrying.” He glanced at Jimmy, his eyebrow quirked. “Mr. Falcon’s not gonna give us away, right?”

      “I didn’t see a gun…unless I count to five and it’s still in his hand.”

      Tomas dropped the pistol into a pocket of his camouflage jacket just as a department vehicle pulled up behind the Jag. A couple of uniforms Jimmy didn’t know got out, each with a hand on his weapon and the other hand holding his stick.

      Great. This explanation would have gone down easier with somebody he’d worked beside. “Evening, Officers.”

      The taller one just looked him over. “What’s going on?”

      “These guys jumped us in the alley.” Tomas spoke before anybody else could. “Practically killed us with that knife there.” He kicked the weapon with his toe.

      “Sure.” The cop looked back at Jimmy. “Who are you?”

      “Jimmy Falcon. I own The Indigo.” He nodded toward the nightclub. “I was about to take a friend home when these guys rolled out of the alley. I stayed to keep the numbers even.”

      Finally the outlaws on the ground got their share of attention. The shorter cop glanced at Harlow. “You say these three attacked you?”

      “Yeah.”

      “You didn’t, like, attack first?” He began to sound bored. “What were you doing in the alley, anyway?”

      Both Harlow and Tomas cut their gazes Jimmy’s way. “Just hanging out,” Harlow said in his Texas-flavored accent. “That ain’t a crime.”

      “Uh-huh. You buying or selling?”

      “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

      The shorter cop pushed at one of the thugs with the toe of his boot. “This one’s out cold.” Bending over, he patted down the body. “Don’t think he’s carrying anything besides a pack of gum.”

      “Check out the rest of them,” his partner ordered.

      The other two dealers gave up bags of coke and weed, and a couple of dimes of heroin. Jimmy saw Harlow swallow hard as the small plastic sacks dropped into an evidence container.

      Two minutes later the Saturday-night special was out in the open again. The short cop balanced it on his palm. “Nice toy. You got a permit, son?”

      Tomas told the cop what he could do with the permit.

      Using a speed and expertise Jimmy remembered from his days on the force, the cops slammed Harlow and Tomas up against the side of the police cruiser, patted them down again and cuffed them.

      Emma sprang out of the Jag like a lioness in the African bush. “Don’t be so rough! They’re only boys!”

      Jimmy caught her arm and pulled her back. “Stay out of it, Emma. These guys know what they’re dealing with. You don’t.” Another police car pulled up, and the three pushers, who—Jimmy had reason to know—had been in and out of jail for years, got their own sets of bracelets.

      Emma turned on Jimmy. “I saw them earlier tonight as I was coming to see you. They were hungry. They’re young and homeless. They need help, not more violence.”

      The cops exchanged derisive grins.

      “They’re drug addicts.” With a hand on each of her arms, Jimmy pulled her farther away from the scene. “The whole mess is about selling and buying drugs. Let the police sort it out.”

      She struggled against his grip. “How do you know that?”

      “Because they hang around here a lot. Because they hit on me and my customers…” He watched her cheeks flush. “Damn. You gave them money.”

      “I told them to get something to eat!”

      “We did, too,” Harlow called. “Meat loaf and potatoes and corn. Thanks, lady.” A cop shoved him into the cruiser and closed the door before he could say anything else.

      Yet a third cop strolled over. “You’re Falcon?”

      “Yeah. This is Emma Garrett.” He released her, reluctantly. “She called in the incident from the car.”

      “What’s going to be done with those boys?” Emma wanted to know. “Where are you taking them?”

      “Detention.” The officer—his name tag said Havers—made a note on his pad.

      “Jail?” Her voice squeaked on the single syllable.

      Jimmy