The Promise

There were children in swimsuits. The fire hydrant down the block was still open, its nozzle pouring a cascade of water into the street, and whereas not a moment earlier the kids had been splashing and running through the artificial waterfall, they had now drifted up the street to where the real action was. Outside the building where the blue-and-white Emergency Service truck and motor-patrol cars were angled into the curb, there were also men in tank tops and women in halters, most of them wearing shorts, milling around behind the barricades the police had set up. It was a hot night at the end of one of the hottest days of the summer; the temperature at ten FM. was still hovering in the mid-90s. There would have been people in the streets even without the promise of vast and unexpected entertainment.

In this city, during the first six months of the year, more than 1200 murders had been committed. Tonight, in a cluttered neighborhood once almost exclusively Hispanic but now a volatile mix of Hispanic, Vietnamese, Korean, Afghan and Iranian, an 84-year-old man from Guayama, Puerto Rico, sat with his eight-year-old American-born granddaughter on his knee; a shotgun was in his right hand and the barrel of the gun rested on the girl's shoulder, angled toward her ear.

Inspector William Cullen Brady had put a Spanish-speaking member of his team on the door, but so far, the old man had said only five words, and those in English: "Go away, I'll kill her."

It was suffocatingly hot in the hallway where the negotiating team had "contained" the old man and his granddaughter. The narrow hallway, with its admixture of exotic cooking smells, now contained at least three dozen police officers, not counting those who had spilled over onto the fire stairs or those who were massed in the apartment down the hall, which the police had requisitioned as a command post. There were cops all over the rooftops, too, and cops and firemen spreading safety nets below, just in case the old man decided to throw his granddaughter out the window.

The cop working the door was Emilio Garcia, and he spoke Spanish fluently, but the old man wasn't having any of it. The old man insisted on speaking English, a rather limited English at that, litanizing the same five words over and over again, "Go away, I'll kill her." This was a touchy situation here. The apartment was in a housing project where only last week the Tactical Narcotics Team had blown away four people in a raid, three of them known drug dealers, but the fourth—unfortunately—a 15-year-old boy who'd been in the apartment delivering a case of beer from the local supermarket.

The kid had been black.

This meant that one of the city's foremost agitators had rounded up all the usual yellers and screamers and had picketed both the project and the local precinct, shouting police brutality and racism and no justice, no peace and all the usual slogans designed to create more friction than already existed in a festering city on the edge of open warfare. He was here tonight, too, wearing a red fez and a purple shirt open to the waist, revealing a bold gold chain with a crucifix dangling from it; the man was a minister of God, after all.

The guy inside the apartment was a Puerto Rican, which made him a member of the city's second largest minority group, and if anything happened to him or that little girl sitting on his lap, if any of these policemen exercised the same bad judgment as had their colleagues from T.N.T., there would be bloody hell to pay. So anyone even remotely connected with the police department—including the Traffic Department people in their brown uniforms—was tiptoeing, especially Emilio Garcia, who was afraid he might say something that would cause the little girl's head to explode into the hallway in a shower of gristle and blood.

"Oye me," Garcia said. "Quiero ayu-darte."

"Go away," the old man said, "I'll kill her."

Down the hall, Dr. Michael Goodman was talking to the man's daughter-in-law, an attractive woman in her mid-40s, wearing sandals, a blue mini and a red tube top, and speaking rapid, accent-free English. She had insisted that the old man speak English now that he was here in America and living in her home. Eileen Burke, the female trainee with the negotiating team, wondered if this was why he refused to speak Spanish with their talker at the door.

She was standing with the other trainees in a rough circle around the woman and Dr. Goodman, just outside the open door to the command-post apartment, where Inspector Brady was in heavy discussion with Deputy Inspector Di Santis of the Emergency Service. Nobody wanted this one to flare out of control. They were debating whether they should pull Garcia off the door. They had thought that a Spanish-speaking negotiator would be their best bet, but now....

"Any reason why he's doing this?" Goodman asked the woman.

"Because he's crazy," she said.

Her name was Gerry Valdez. She had already told Goodman that her husband's name was Joey and the old man's name was Armando. Valdez, of course. All of them Valdez, including the little girl on the old man's lap, Pamela Valdez. And when were they going to go in there and get her?

"We're trying to talk to your father-in-law right this minute," Goodman assured her.

"Never mind talking to him, why don't you just shoot him? Before he hurts my daughter."

"That's what we're trying to make sure of," Goodman said. "That nobody gets hurt."

He was translating the jargon they'd had drummed into them for 12 hours a day for the past month or more, time and a half for sure. Never mind containment, never mind establishing lines of communication or giving assurances of nonviolence, just cut to the chase, dish it out dean and fast, we're trying to talk to him, we're trying to make sure nobody gets hurt here.

"Not him, not anybody," Goodman said, just in case the woman didn't yet understand that nobody was going in there with guns blazing like Rambo.

From down the hall, Garcia was signaling. Hand kept low at his side so that the old man in the apartment wouldn't see it, wouldn't spook and pull the shotgun trigger. But signaling distinctly and urgently, somebody get over here, will you, please?

Gerry Valdez was telling Goodman and the assembled trainees that her father-in-law was a sex maniac. She'd caught him several times fondling her daughters, or at least trying to fondle them. That was what had started it all today. She had caught him at it again, and she had threatened to ship him back to the goddamn island if he didn't quit, and the old man had got the shotgun out of where Joey kept it in the closet and had grabbed Pamela, the youngest one, the eight-year-old, and had yelled he was going to kill her unless everybody left them alone.

Goodman was thinking they had a serious problem here.

Brady was coming back up the hall with Garcia. There was no one at the door now. Just a lot of uniformed cops milling around down the hall, waiting for God only knew what.

"Mike?" Brady said. "Talk to you a minute?"

The three went inside the command-post apartment. Brady closed the door behind them.

Gerry Valdez began telling the trainees that she didn't really think the old man was a sex maniac, it was just that he was getting senile, you know? He was 84 years old, he sometimes forgot himself, forgot he wasn't still a little boy chasing little girls along the beach, you know? It was really a pity and a shame, but at the same time, she didn't want him fooling around with her kids, that was child abuse, wasn't it?

Eileen guessed it was.

She wondered what they were talking about inside that apartment.

•

Were it not for the shotgun, it would have been comical.

The old man wanted a girl.

"What do you mean, a girl?" Goodman said.

"He told me he'd trade his granddaughter for a girl," Garcia said.

"A girl?"

"He said if we send in a girl, he'll give us his granddaughter."

"A girl?" Goodman said again.

This was unheard of. In all his years of hostage negotiation, Goodman had never had anyone request a girl. He'd had takers who'd asked for cigarettes or beer or a jet plane to Miami or, in one instance, spaghetti with red clam sauce, but he had never had anyone ask for a girl. This was something new in the annals of hostage negotiation. An 84-year-old man asking for a girl.

"You mean he wants a girl?" he said, shaking his head, unwilling to believe it.

"A girl," Garcia said.

"Did he tell you this in Spanish or in English?" Brady asked.

"In Spanish."

"Then there was no mistake."

"No mistake. 'Una chiquita,' he said. I'm sure he meant a hooker."

"He wants a hooker."

"Yes."

"The old goat wants a hooker," Brady said.

"Yes."

"Mike?" Brady said.

Goodman looked amused. But it wasn't funny.

"Can we send out for a hooker?" Brady said.

"And a dozen red roses," Goodman said, still looking amused.

"Mike," Brady said warningly.

"It's just I never heard of such a request," Goodman said.

"Can we get him a goddamn hooker or not?" Brady said. "Swap him a hooker for the little girl?"

"Absolutely not," Goodman said. "We never give them another hostage, that's a hard-and-fast rule. If we sent a hooker in there and she got blown away, you know what the media would do with that, don't you?"

"Yeah," Brady said glumly.

Garcia had been the talker on the door so far, and he didn't want anything to go wrong here. Garcia was only a detective/second, he didn't want any heavy stuff coming down on him. Brady was the boss. Goodman was a civilian shrink who didn't matter, but Brady was rank. So Garcia waited for whatever he might decree.

"We've got a girl right here," Brady said.

He was referring to the woman police officer in his training program.

•

"So what do you say, Burke?" he asked.

"Sir?"

"You want to go in there or not?"

"If the shotgun comes out, I go in," Eileen said.

"That's not the deal we made with him," Brady said.

"What was the deal?"

"He sends out his granddaughter, we send in a girl."

"Then what?"

"Then the kid is safe," Brady said.

"How about me? Am I safe?"

Brady looked at her. "We can't send in a real hooker," he said.

"I realize that. I'm asking if you're swapping my life for the kid's, sir. That's what I'm asking."

(continued on page 207)The Promise(continued from page 134)

"It's up to you to calm him down, get that shotgun away from him."

"How do I calm him down?" Eileen asked.

"We've had run-throughs on situations like this one," Brady said.

"Not exactly, sir, no, sir. We didn't do any run-throughs on a man expecting a hooker and getting a talker instead."

"This is only a variation on a classic hostage situation," Brady said.

"I don't think so, sir. I think he may get very upset when he finds out I'm really a cop. I think he may decide to use that gun when he—"

"There's no reason for him to know you're a cop," Brady said.

"Oh? Do I lie to him, sir? I thought once we established communication, we told the truth all the way down the line."

"In this instance, we can bend the truth a little."

Goodman looked at him.

"Inspector," he said, "I think we may be confusing Detective Bur—"

"I'm certainly not trying to confuse her," Brady said. "But I've got an eight-year-old girl in there with a crazy old man who wants a hooker or he's going to blow her away. Now, do I give him a hooker or don't I? That's the only pertinent question at this moment in time."

"I'm not a hooker, sir," Eileen said.

"I realize that. The point is, Detective Burke, are you willing to impersonate a prostitute in order to save that little girl's life?"

How about my life? Eileen thought.

"Sir," she said, "how do you suggest I get that shotgun away from him? Once I'm inside, and he realizes I'm a police negotiator and not a hooker, how do I get him to give up that shotgun?"

"Now, I understand the risks, don't you think I understand the risks? I've been in this game a long time now...."

Game, Eileen thought.

"And when I say I don't want anyone hurt, I mean anyone. I'm not asking you to do anything I wouldn't do myself...."

Then go do it yourself, Eileen thought.

"But the situation has reached this point in time where we've got to make a decision. We've got to either satisfy the old man's desire or risk his killing that little girl. He's given us ten minutes and eight of those minutes are gone. So what would you like us to do, Detective?"

"Sir, you're asking me to go in there unarmed...."

"That's what we promised. No guns, no one gets hurt."

"But he does have a gun, sir."

"They always have guns," Brady said.

"Or knives. They always have weapons of some sort, yes."

"A double-barreled shotgun, sir."

"Yes, that's the situation," Brady said.

"I'd have to be crazy, right?" Eileen said.

"Well, that's for you to decide, that's the nature of the work." Brady looked at his watch. "What do you say, Burke, we're almost out of time here. Yes or no? Believe me, there are plenty of female police officers in this city who'd be happy to work with this team."

Female police officers, she thought.

Are yon a man or a mouse?

Bullshit, she thought.

"We negotiate before I go in," she said.

Brady looked at her.

"I work the door. The old man can believe what he wants, but nobody's going inside that apartment until he hands over the little girl and the shotgun. Take it or leave it."

He kept looking at her.

She figured whichever way this went, she'd be off the team tomorrow morning, he'd get rid of her.

"Take it or leave it?" Brady said.

Or maybe get rid of her right this minute.

"Yes, sir," she said. "Take it or leave it."

Both you and the old man, she thought.

"If anything happens to that girl..." Brady said, and let the sentence trail.

•

The old man liked the redhead. It was a pity she couldn't speak Spanish, but at his age, he couldn't expect perfection. Enough that she had eyes as green as the sea and breasts as softly rolling as the hills of his native land. Freckles sprinkled like gold dust on her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose. A beauty. He was a very lucky man.

"We have to talk," she said. "My name is Eileen."

The door to apartment 5L was open just a crack, the night chain holding it. He could see her face and her body in the narrow opening. He knew she could see the shotgun against his granddaughter's ear. His finger was inside the trigger guard. There were two shells in the shotgun. His son always kept the shotgun loaded in the closet.

"What is there to talk about?" he asked.

"About my coming in there," she said.

She had been taught not to lie to them. She would try not to lie to him now. She would not say she was a hooker. But neither would she say she wasn't.

"I can't come in there as long as you have that gun in your hands," she said.

In the crack between door and door-jamb, she could see him smiling wisely. A wrinkled old man with a gray-white beard stubble, a terrified little dark-eyed girl on his lap, the double barrel of a shotgun against her head. If anything happened to that little girl....

"I'm afraid to come in while you have that gun in your hands," Eileen said.

"Yes," the old man said.

What the hell does that mean? she wondered.

"But that is precisely why they've sent you to me, verdad?" he asked. "Because I have this gun in my hands."

Heavily accented English, but clearly understandable. And perfectly logical, too. The only reason they were submitting to the old man's wishes was that he had a gun. Give up the gun, he'd give up his power to negotiate.

"Your granddaughter must be frightened, too," she said.

"I love my granddaughter," he said.

"Yes, but I'm sure she's terrified of that gun."

"No, she's all right. You're all right, aren't you, querida?" he said to the girl, and chucked her under the chin with his free hand. "Besides, I will let her go when you come in here," he said. "That is our understanding, eh? You come in, I let her go. Everybody's happy."

"Except me," she said, and smiled.

She knew she had a good smile.

"Well, I will certainly do my best to make you happy," the old man said flirtatiously.

"Not if you have a gun in your hands. I'm afraid of guns."

"Once you're in here," he said, "I'll let the little girl go. Then we can lock the door, and I'll put down the gun."

Oh, sure, she thought, Fat-Chance Department.

"I'll make you very happy," he said.

Oh, yes, she thought, I'm sure.

"Listen to me," she said, her voice lowering conspiratorially. "Why don't you send out the little girl?"

Hostage first, weapon later.

All according to the book.

"When you come in, the little girl goes out," he said. "That was the deal."

"Yes, but when they made the deal with me, I didn't know about the gun."

"A pretty girl like you?" he said, flirtatiously again. "Afraid of a little gun?"

Gently, he nudged the girl's temple with the barrel of the shotgun. The girl winced.

Don't let it go off, Eileen thought, Please, God.

"I really am afraid," she said. "That's why, if you send out the girl, we can talk about the gun. Privately. Just two."

"Tell me what else we do privately."

"First send out the little girl," Eileen said.

"No. You come in here and then you can tell me what we'll do privately."

"Why don't you take the chain off the door?" she said.

"Why should I?"

"So I can see you better."

"Why do you want to see me?"

"It's just difficult to talk this way."

"I find it easy to talk this way," he said.

You stubborn bastard, she thought.

"Don't you want to see me better?" she asked.

"Yes, that would be nice."

"So take off the chain," she said. "Open the door a little wider."

"Are you a policeman?" he asked.

Flat out.

So what now?

"No, I'm not a policeman," she said.

The absolute truth. A police woman, yes. A policeperson, yes. But not a policeman. She guessed she could live with that.

"Because if you're a policeman," he said, "I'll kill the little girl."

Which she could not live with.

"No," she said again, "I'm not a policeman. You wanted a woman...."

"Yes."

"Well, I'm a woman."

In the wedge between door and jamb, she saw him smile again.

"Come in here and show me what kind of woman you are," he said.

"I'll come in if you take the chain off the door...."

She hesitated.

"And put down the gun."

Silence.

"Then I'll come in," she said.

Another silence.

"You want a lot," he said.

"Yes."

"I'll give you a lot," he said, and winked.

"I hope so," she said, and winked back.

Double meanings flying like spears in the sultry night air.

"Open your blouse," he said.

"No."

"Let me see your breasts."

"No," she said. "Take off the chain."

Silence.

"All right," he said.

She waited. He leaned forward. Did not get out of the chair. The little girl still on his lap. The shotgun still to her head. His finger still inside the trigger guard. Leaned forward, reached out with his left hand and slid the chain along its track until it fell free. She wondered if she should shove the door inward, try knocking him off the chair. He was so old, so frail. But the shotgun was young, the shotgun was a leveler of age.

Gently, with the toe of her foot, she eased the door open just a trifle wider. She could see the old man more completely now, a blue wall behind him deep inside the apartment, blue wall and blue eyes and gray hair and grizzled gray beard. He was looking directly into her eyes, an anticipatory smile on his face.

"Hello," she said.

"You're even prettier than I thought," he said.

"Thank you. Do you remember our deal?"

"Yes, you're coming in here."

"Only after you let the little girl go and put down the gun."

"Yes, I know."

"So do you want to let her go now?"

"How do I know you'll come in here to me?"

"I said I would. I gave you my word."

"And are you a woman of your word?"

"I try to be."

Which meant she would break her word if he made a move to harm her or the little girl. She was unarmed....

That's what we promise. No guns, no one gets hurt....

But there were backup cops to her right, and all she had to do was signal for them to storm the door. She hoped the old man wouldn't do anything foolish.

"So let her come out now, OK?" she said.

"Pamela?" he said. And then, in Spanish, "Do you want to go outside now, querida? Do you want to leave Grandpa here with the nice lady?"

Pamela nodded gravely, too terrified to cry or to show relief. She knew this was her grandfather, but she also knew this was a gun. She nodded. Yes, I want to go outside. Please let me go outside, Grandpa.

"Go on, then," he said in English, and looked to Eileen for approval.

Eileen nodded.

"Come on, sweetheart," she said, and extended her arms to the little girl. "Come on out here before your grandfather changes his mind."

Pamela scrambled off his lap and out into the hall. Eileen clasped her into her arms, swung her around and planted her securely in the arms of an Emergency Service cop, who swooped her up and hurried off down the hall with her.

Now there was only the old man and his gun.

No bargaining power anymore. If they wanted to blow him away, they could do so without any fear that a hostage was at risk. But that wasn't the name of the game. And she had given him her word.

"Now put down the gun," she said.

He had swung the shotgun toward the opening in the door. It sat in his lap, his finger still inside the trigger guard, the barrels angled up toward Eileen's head. He could not see the policemen in the hallway to her right. But he knew she had passed the girl on to someone, he knew she was not alone.

"Who's out there with you?" he asked.

"Policemen," she said. "Do you want to put down the gun, Mr. Valdez?"

"Do they have guns, these policemen?"

"Yes."

The truth. Tell him the truth.

"If I put down the gun, how do I know they won't shoot me?"

"I promise you we won't hurt you."

A slip.

We. Identifying herself as a cop.

But he hadn't caught it. Or had he?

"I promise you none of the policemen out here will hurt you."

Correcting it. Or compounding it. Which? How smart was he? Blue eyes studying her now, searching her face. Could he trust her?

"How do I know they won't shoot me? I made—"

"Because I—"

"A lot of trouble for everybody," he said.

"Yes, you did. But I promise they won't shoot you. No one will hurt you if you put down the gun. I promise you. I give you my word."

"Will they forget the trouble I made for everybody?"

She could not promise him this. There'd be the weapons charge; and God knew what other charges there'd be on top of that. He wouldn't walk away from this clean, that wasn't the way it worked, the promises didn't extend that far. He was only a senile old man, true, who thought he was still six years old and playing doctor under the coconut palms—but he'd broken the law, broken several laws, in fact, and these were policemen here, sworn to uphold those laws.

"They'll help you," she said. "They'll try to help you."

Which was true. Psychiatric observation, therapy, whatever seemed indicated.

But the shotgun was still in his lap, angled up at her.

"Come on," she said, "let's put down the gun, OK?"

"Tell them I want to see them. The policemen in the hall."

"I don't have any authority to tell policemen what to do."

"Ask them," he said. "Do you have authority to ask them?"

The smile on his face again.

Was he toying with her?

"He wants to see who's out here," she shouted down the hall to Brady, who was standing behind four Emergency Service cops with riot guns in their hands and sidearms strapped to their waists. The E.S. cops were all wearing ceramic vests. So what do you say, Inspector? she thought. Want to come in the water?

That's what we promise. No guns, no one gets hurt.

Except that now it was showtime.

"Let him see you," Brady said to the E.S. men.

They lumbered down the hall in their heavy vests, toting their heavy guns, lining up against the wall behind Eileen, where the old man could see them.

"Are there any others?" he asked.

"Yes, but not right here," she said. "All the way down the hall."

"Tell them to put down their guns."

"I can't give them orders," Eileen said.

"Tell the other one. The one you were talking to."

Eileen nodded, turned away from the door and shouted, "Inspector Brady!"

"Yes?"

"He wants them to put down their guns."

Silence.

"Or I'll shoot you," the old man said.

"Or he'll shoot me," she called to Brady, and then smiled and said to the old man, "You wouldn't do that, would you?"

"Yes, I would," he said, returning the smile.

"He means it," she shouted.

Behind her, the E.S. cops were beginning to fidget. Any one of them had a clear shot at the old bastard sitting there in full view with the shotgun in his lap. If they put down their guns, there was no guarantee that he wouldn't start blasting away. A ceramic vest was a very handy tool in a situation like this one, but you couldn't pull a ceramic vest over your head. The E.S. cops were hoping this dizzy redhead and her boss knew what the hell they were doing.

"Put down your guns, men!" Brady called.

"Now, just a second, Bill!" another voice shouted.

Deputy Inspector Di Santis, in command of the Emergency Service, came from behind Brady to stand beside him in the hallway. Eileen could hear them arguing. She hoped the old man's ears weren't as good as hers. Di Santis was saying he was willing to go along with all this negotiating nonsense up to a point, but that point did not include standing four of his men against a wall for a firing squad. Brady answered him in a voice Eileen could not hear. Di Santis lowered his voice, too. Eileen could not hear what either of them was saying now. Inside the apartment, the old man was watching her. She suddenly knew that he would, in fact, shoot her if the men behind her didn't put down their guns.

"What do you say, Inspector?" she called. "The man here's getting itchy."

Valdez smiled.

He knew what itchy meant.

She smiled back.

Little joke they were sharing here. The man's getting itchy, he's going to blow my goddamn head off, aren't you, darling? Smiling.

"Inspector?"

The whispers stopped. Eileen waited. Somebody—perhaps her or the old man or one or more of the cops standing behind her—was going to get hurt in the next few seconds, unless....

"All right, men, do what Inspector Brady says."

Di Santis.

Behind her, one of the E.S. cops muttered something, a word in Spanish that made the old man's smile widen. She heard the heavy weapons being placed on the floor....

"The other guns, too," the old man said.

"He wants the sidearms, too!" she yelled down the hall.

"All your weapons, men!" Di Santis shouted.

More muttering behind her, in English this time, soft grumbles of protest. She had been dealt a completely new hand, but the old man was still holding all the cards.

"Now you," Eileen told him.

"No," he said. "Come inside here."

"You promised me," she said.

"No," he said, smiling. "You're the one who made all the promises."

Which was true.

I promise they won't shoot you.

No one will hurt you....

"If you put down the gun," she reminded him.

"No."

Shaking his head.

"I promised that no one would hurt you if you put down the gun," she said.

"No one can hurt me," he said, smiling. "No one has a gun now but me."

Which was also true.

"Well, I thought I could trust you," she said, "but I see I can't."

"You can trust me," he said. "Open your blouse."

"No," she said.

"Open your goddamn blouse," one of the E.S. cops whispered urgently.

She ignored him. "I'm going to leave now," she told the old man. "You broke your word, so I'm leaving. I can't promise what these men will do when I'm gone."

"They'll do nothing," he said. "I have the gun."

"There are others down the hall," she said. "I can't promise you anything anymore. I'm going now."

"No!" he said.

She hesitated.

"Please," he said.

Their eyes met.

"You promised," he said.

She knew what she'd promised. She'd promised she would go in to him if he put down the gun. She had given him her word. She was a woman of her word.

"Put down the gun," she said.

"I'll kill you if you don't come in here," he said.

"Put down the gun."

"I'll kill you."

"Then how will I be able to come in?" she asked, and the old man burst out laughing, because the logic of the situation had suddenly become absurdly clear to him. If he killed her, she could not go in to him; it was as simple as that. She burst out laughing, too. Surprised, some of the E.S. cops behind her began laughing, tentatively at first, and then a bit more boldly. Down the hall, Eileen heard someone whisper, "They're laughing." Someone else whispered, "What?" This seemed funny, too. The cops in their ceramic vests were laughing harder, like armored knights who'd been told their powerful king was, in fact, impotent. Defenseless, their weapons and holsters and cartridge belts on the floor at their feet, contained here in this stifling hot hallway, they quaked with laughter, thinking how silly it would be if the old man actually did kill the redhead, thereby making it impossible for her to go in to him. The old man was thinking the same thing, how silly all of this had suddenly become, thinking, too, that maybe he should just put down the gun and get it over with, all the trouble he'd caused here, his blue eyes squinched up, tears of laughter running down his wrinkled face into his grizzled gray beard. Down the hall, there were puzzled whispers again.

"Oh, dear," Eileen said, laughing.

"iDios mio!" the old man said, laughing.

Any one of the E.S. cops could have picked up a gun and shot him in that moment. He had lowered the shotgun, it sat across his lap like a walking stick. Eileen took a tentative step into the room, reaching for it.

"No!" the old man snapped, and the gun came up, pointing at her head.

"Aw, come on," she said, and grimaced in disappointment like a little girl.

He looked at her. The tears were still streaming down his face. He could still remember how funny this had seemed a moment ago.

"Mr. Valdez?" she said.

He kept looking at her.

"Please let me have the gun."

Still looking at her. Weeping now. For all the laughter that was gone. For all those days on the beach long ago.

"Please?" she said.

For all the pretty little girls, gone now.

He nodded.

She held out her hands, palms up.

He put the gun into her hands.

Their eyes locked.

She went into the apartment, the gun hanging loose at her side, the barrels pointing toward the floor, and she leaned into the old man where he sat frail and weeping in the hard-backed chair, and she kissed him on his grizzled cheek and whispered, "Thank you," and wondered if she'd kept her promise to him after all.

" 'I've got a little girl in there with a crazy old man who wants a hooker. Do I give him one or not?' "