I repeat the info to Hitchens as we race past festival goers and show him the photograph. He curses a blue streak as he grabs my phone, then taps his ear again, barely winded.
“BOLO update and correction. Suspect is Seaward Dennis, seventeen-year-old white male—repeat seventeen, not mid-thirties. Six foot one, very fit, short, medium brown hair, hazel eyes, small dark mole above his left eyebrow, Roman nose. He’s a senior at Austin High School, varsity quarterback, so look for a school T-shirt, jacket, anything.”
Breathing heavily, I lean over and point out another feature.
“Also, looks like he’s had surgery for a cleft palate. Look for a scar between his lip and nose.”
Hitchens and I put on the afterburners, made difficult by thegrowing number of people on Congress. With the cheerful crowds gathering around the stage, backlit by the capitol building under a setting sun, it’s a scene out of a postcard.
Or a nightmare.
Several uniformed officers converge on Congress from various side streets. We are still running, a block and a half out, and then suddenly, I’m on the ground, hit by someone darting out of the alley to the right. I look up to find the face of a terrified teenager. Wearing a suspiciously bulky jacket and sporting a scarred lip.
Before I can act, he’s up and running back down the alley he came out of.
“Hitchens!” I haul myself to a sitting position and point. “Dennis!”
Hitchens turns on a dime and heads toward the alley. Dennis gets about ten yards before Hitchens takes him down with a wet crunch. I almost feel for the kid as blood gushes from a badly broken nose down the front of his letterman. Nearby officers swarm our location, and one pulls a rather nasty-looking rifle from Dennis’s jacket.
Sidling up to Hitchens, who is slapping cuffs on the kid, I slip my phone from his front pocket—nice try, Detective—and turn to leave.
“Where the fuck are you going?”
“The fuck out of here,” I answer, sending him a two-finger salute.
He opens his mouth to say something, but I turn and race back in the direction of my car. Downhill-ish is faster than uphill-ish, and the officer from before is busy yelling at some underage drinkers on the walking trail under the bridge. I sneak past him and jump into my Mustang, firing up the engine before turning the car around, careful to avoid people on the road as the concert starts.
Navigating out of the busy area, I try to catch my breath as Ikeep one eye on the road in front of me and one eye on the scene I’m gunning away from.
Fuck.
I don’t think the good detective got my real name, but here’s hoping he isn’t a fan of social media.
6
RAMI
Thank Godfor the Pecan Street Festival. I didn’t want to go home after humiliating myself at Valentine’s, so I spent the better part of the day wandering—moping, really—through the various booths, buying art, more greenery, and some hand-thrown pots for the apartment.
I’d have stayed for the musical acts, but the cousins are about to show up for dinner, and they’d razz me till the end of time if I ducked out of the “celebration.”
The walk back to the condo takes a lot longer than the walk to the festival, so by the time I get home and set aside my purchases, I’m done.
“How’s it going, broseph?” Maya asks as I sink into the coma couch, despondent.
“What a fucking nightmare.”
“The festival?”
“No. My life.”
“Wait, are you sick?” Maya asks. “Your voice sounds terrible.”
Er…
“Nah. I just have a dry throat.”
“Here, have a beer, cuz,” Maverick says, tossing a Shiner in my direction-ish.
