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CHAPTER 1 - 12:50 P.M.
(Jack Delaney)
Jack Delaney ignored the rules.
Red lights were only temporary distractions, stop signs for the most part didn't
exist, and posted speed limits were merely suggested guidelines. The ambulance tires
screamed against hot asphalt.
The life of a girl was at stake, or so Jack's dispatcher had told him. The girl being
in jeopardy wasn't the real reason for Jack's hurried driving though. It was just an excuse.
Calls like this were second nature. Jack could practically do them with his eyes
closed. And the type of people generally involved in these incidents had a propensity to
exaggerate. Supposed life-threatening situations often turned out to be nothing more than
a sprained ankle or a broken bone.
The ambulance slammed into a pothole and its siren died, probably shorting out
from impact. A gray Plymouth Reliant froze in between two lanes, forcing Jack to veer
into oncoming traffic. He pounded hard on the horn and grimaced at the tearing sound
his emergency vehicle made as it clipped a mirror off a truck. The siren whined back to
life.
"Jack, you gotta slow down!" cried Monte Jones, Jack's partner. "Stop, man!"
Jack gripped the steering wheel tighter, really bearing down on the gas pedal.
This was no time to stop. The engine roared and Jack felt his mind running in about a
thousand different directions.
Over the course of the past several days, he had broken up with his most recent
girlfriend, Marla DeCoco, and gotten back together with his ex, Leah Carter. He was
worried about both women.
I hope I'm doing the right thing by being with her again. I mean, we're so
different. From different worlds almost, and she definitely wants to have this kid. I just
hope I can handle everything.
Jack looked straight ahead, trying to focus on the road. Another woman he had to
contend with was his mother. She was a high-and-mighty, holier-than-thou Christian lady
who would never approve of Jack giving things another try with Leah. When she found
out, she'd probably kick him out of the house.
"What's your problem today? Slow down!"
"I can't."
"But you're gonna kill somebody," whined Monte.
"That's not my fault," said Jack, welcoming the chance to argue and change his
train of thought. "You took way too long at the convenience store. We didn't stop to use
the bathroom, just to grab a soda."
"I had to take a shit. So sue me."
Monte was blacker than black. His ebony skin was so dark a chocolate color that
it looked likely to melt. He looked as if he'd been drawn over with a new Crayola
Crayon, African Hues.
"You heard me yelling for you to hurry," said Jack. "You knew we got a call, and
you didn't even answer me."
Monte laughed. "Come off it, Jack. We're gonna get there in plenty of time.
Why is this call such a big deal all the sudden?"
"Why's it a big deal? What, you can neglect somebody's cry for help and just go
on like it doesn't matter? Like life is great? What're you, some kind of animal?"
"Gimme a break, man!" yelled Monte. "These people are the animals, not me.
They're the ones who live in the projects, remember?"
"That doesn't mean anything."
"Yes, it does, Jack. They don't live like us. They have no respect or value for
anything. I'll tell ya, honestly, I don't care if they live or die, 'cause they'd kill you or me
just as quick as they'd look at either one of us."
Some days Jack would agree. In past conversations with Monte he had, but today
he felt a need to keep things going. To play devil's advocate. "That's a garbage
philosophy," he said.
"No, it's truth. Listen, man, sometimes I lay in bed and dream about building a
fence around 'em. Locking 'em all in together. It'd solve a lot of our problems. We
could just let 'em kill each other."
The green and white Capital District Emergency Services vehicle was doing sixty
down the narrow city streets. Jack swung his head around, sweat flying from his
forehead. He stared Monte in the face and knew he was taking their conversation much
too seriously - it was always the same old thing with Monte - but he couldn't bring
himself to dismiss it.
"You're crazy," said Jack. "Absolutely crazy."
"Mark my words, man, it's gonna happen. You just wait."
"I'm still waiting for you to get a new line, Monte."
"Whatever. The first time the daughter or wife of some famous politician gets
raped and killed by these junkies, you'll see. Watch how the government cracks down
then. It'll be like Alcatraz around here, complete segregation. They'll be locked in. And if
they dare to leave the confined area, like to go to a suburban spot -- they'll go straight to
jail. Without a trial even. And I can't wait."
Jack took his eyes off Monte. He had the ambulance pushing seventy now,
hugging the middle of the road. Upper Central Avenue turned into a blur of State Street
as Albany became Schenectady. As they moved further up State Street, the Schenectady
buildings and houses began to look older and closer together -- generally more run down
than those in Albany.
"Why're you such a racist?" asked Jack.
"I'm not. I'm just calling a spade a spade. The people around here aren't like us."
"Yeah, OK. I know all about it." Jack made sure to inflect plenty of sarcasm into
his tone. "I've certainly heard it from you before."
"But you obviously don't know. Maybe it's just because you've never been around
'em. I have, and trust me, they're different. The way they grow up does something to
them."
"Then how are they different? Gimme specifics!"
"These assholes collect unemployment all year long," shouted Monte. "And then
they stand out on the corner day after day, scamming the shit out of us. This is where
your taxes go, man. And what about the babies? C'mon, Jack, these people are like
rabbits. That's all they do, they screw, just so they can have freaking kids that turn out
like them. It's a vicious cycle. And personally, I'm sick of it."
God, that sounds a lot like Leah's family. Or like something my mother and the
people at her church would say. It's amazing, for people who pray so often, all the
Christians I know have very little empathy.
Jack slowed the ambulance down. He turned left a couple times, crossing over to
Albany Street. Buildings, almost all residences, crowded the skyline. Large groups of
people sat on almost every porch. Blacks and Puerto Ricans filled the sidewalks, milling
around. Some were just talking and visiting. Others were drinking. Others were selling
drugs or sex.
Jack scanned the street, trying to catch an address. He watched a young man
maneuver an electric wheelchair up to a guy wearing a nylon sweatsuit, probably a drug
dealer. The cripple held out his hand and the dealer pushed him away. The man in the
wheelchair rolled on, his black balding skull shining with sweat. He rammed into a metal
trashcan and spilled garbage onto the sidewalk. A gang of people walking nearby turned
away from him as he leaned down and picked two cans out of the rubbish. He held them
up over the street, letting liquid drip to the ground. The drug dealer laughed at him.
"Goddamn porch monkeys," muttered Monte. "Look at all these lazy spics and
niggers," he said. "Go get jobs."
"Niggers?" said Jack. "What're you talking about? You're black too, pal. Does
that make you a nigger?"
"Hey, I might be black, but I'm no nigger. And a nigger can be any color, man.
Not just black. White even. All it takes is a lousy attitude."
"So what separates you? Your attitude sucks."
"No, it doesn't. I work for a living. I don't sell drugs. I don't shoot up. I don't
collect welfare. I don't do dick."
