"Baby Brownlee going to the room," Officer Prasko reported.

He dropped his binoculars to the Chevy. The blonde was not in sight.

Probably dropped onto the seat. I would if I was a good-looking piece like that and saw that mean-looking dinge walking my way.

"Knocking on the door," Officer Prasko reported, and added a moment later, "He's in."

"Wait," Officer Grider replied.

Baby Brownlee was in room 138 for two minutes forty seconds, which seemed like much longer.

"Door opening," Officer Prasko reported. "Baby's coming out. Moving toward car."

"Five?"

"Ready."

Five was officer Timothy J. Calhoun, and he was apparently driving the unmarked police car.

"At the car," Officer Prasko reported. "Getting in."

Baby Brownlee was in the Olds 98 for fifty seconds, which seemed like much longer.

The blonde's head appeared in the Chevy. She took a look around and then dropped from sight again.

Christ, I'd like to jump the bones of something like that.

"Car's moving," Officer Prasko reported.

"Five?"

"Car's turning around," Officer Prasko reported.

"Just say when," Officer Calhoun replied.

"Car's stopped. Now facing toward exit," Officer Prasko reported.

"What are they doing?" Officer Grider inquired.

"Getting out of the car. Baby's out. Amos is out. Opening trunk."

"And? And?"

"Baby's got a beach bag."

"Go! Go! Go!" Officer Grider ordered.

Officer Prasko stood up and walked as far as he could toward the stairs without losing sight of the Olds 98, the Hertz Chevy, and the door to room 138.

The van came in first, tires squealing, the rear door already open and stopped in front of the Olds 98. Half a dozen plainclothes police officers, weapons-four pistols, two pump-action 12-gauge shotguns-at the ready, jumped out.

Officer Calhoun's unmarked car skidded to a stop in a position blocking the Hertz Chevy. Calhoun and another plainclothes officer, revolvers drawn, jumped out of the car.

Prasko descended the stairs as rapidly as he could, considering the fucking binoculars were banging on his chest, and he had to be careful holding the walkie-talkie, otherwise he'd drop the son of a bitch and have to pay for the fucker.

As he reached the ground floor, Prasko stooped and drew his snub-nosed. 38 Special-caliber revolver from its ankle holster.

This act coincided with the appearance, at a full run, of an individual black male, twenty-five to thirty, five-ten, 150 pounds, noticeable scar tissue left cheek, who had not obeyed the orders of the other police officers to subject himself to arrest.

Just in fucking time!

"Freeze, motherfucker!" Prasko ordered.

The individual almost visibly debated his chances to evade Prasko and then apparently decided attempting to do so would not be in his best interests.

He stopped running and raised his hands above his head.

"Up against the wall!" Prasko ordered, spinning the man around, then pushing him toward the wall.

"Oh, shit, man!" the individual responded.

"Spread your legs!" Prasko ordered, as Calhoun appeared around the corner.

"I got the bastard, Timmy," Prasko said.

"Put your left hand behind your back," Prasko ordered, then looked at Calhoun.

"You want to cuff him, please, Timmy?"

Calhoun placed handcuffs on the man's left wrist, then grabbed the other wrist, which caused the man's face to fall against the wall.

"Shit!" he exclaimed.

Calhoun finished cuffing him, then performed a perfunctory search of his person to determine if he was armed.

"Clean," Calhoun informed Prasko.

"Do him," Prasko requested.

Calhoun emptied the man's pockets onto the ground beside him, but no controlled substances or any other illegal matter were discovered.

"Nothing," Calhoun reported.

"I'll bring him. You want to take my walkie-talkie?"

Calhoun took Prasko's walkie-talkie, and then, at a half-trot, ran back around the building.

Prasko dropped to his knees beside the pile of items and picked up the man's wallet. It contained his driver's license and other documents, a color photograph of a white female performing fellatio on a black male (not the individual), and seven hundred and sixty-three dollars in currency, five hundred of it in one-hundred-dollar bills.

Officer Prasko became aware that his heart was beating rapidly, and that he had to take a piss.

Prasko put two of the one-hundred-dollar bills in his pocket, replaced the rest of the currency into the wallet, and then placed the wallet and other material back into the man's pockets.

"Turn around," he ordered.

The man turned around with some difficulty, being cuffed, and looked at Prasko with what Prasko believed was mingled loathing and contempt. Prasko believed he understood why. It had to do with the criminal justice system and their relative compensation. The guy was almost certainly aware that since he had been apprehended without being found in possession of controlled substances, or a firearm or other deadly weapon, he could reasonably expect to be released from custody on bail within a matter of hours.

He was also aware that he made more money in a day than a policeman made in a week. Or ten days. Or two weeks. Or maybe even a month, depending on how valuable he was to Amos Williams.

Prasko gestured for him to start walking back the way he had come. When they got there, they found Amos Williams, Baby Brownlee, and two other men under arrest, their arms handcuffed behind them.

"Wagon's on the way," Officer Grider said. "And the tow truck."

"You," Prasko ordered the individual, "with them."

He placed his hand on the man's cuffed hands and guided him to the end of the line of handcuffed figures. Then he walked to Officer Grider.

"What did we get?" Prasko asked.

"Baby had in his possession two packages, approximately one kilo in weight, of a white crystalline substance which appears to be cocaine," Grider said.

"Plan B?" Prasko asked.

Grider nodded.

"I want you to stay here with Calhoun until the tow truck removes the Olds," he said.

"Right," Prasko said.

Two minutes or so later, a police van assigned to the 7th District rolled into the motel in response to Grider's radio request for prisoner transport.

One by one, the individuals arrested were hauled to their feet and placed in the van. Then the van started to leave. It had to stop and back up when, warning lights flashing, a police tow truck came into the motel area.

Officer Grider and the other members of Five Squad got into the Dodge panel truck with the PGW color scheme and logotype and pulled up behind the 7th District van.

Calhoun directed the tow truck toward the Olds 98. When the passage was clear, the van and the PGW Dodge drove out of the parking lot.

"Timmy, take my Mercury," Prasko called to Calhoun. "Keys in that?" he asked, pointing to the unmarked police car that blocked the Hertz Chevy.

Calhoun threw Prasko the keys to the unmarked car. Prasko caught them in midair and dropped them into his pocket, then walked toward room 138.

The blonde was not in sight, but after a moment, looking through the Chevy's window, he saw her on the floor of the front seat. She was on her side, and he was sure that she hadn't seen him. She had had to wiggle around to find room for herself on the floor, and in the process her skirt had been pushed up so that he could see her underpants.

Nice legs, too!

Officer Prasko felt sure that she wasn't going to try to leave the car until either Mr. Ketcham came for her or a long time had passed.

He looked at the tow truck. It already had the wheels of the Olds 98 off the ground. Calhoun started walking toward where Prasko had parked his Mercury, so that he would be able to follow the tow truck and testify in court that the vehicle had not been out of his sight from the place of arrest until it had been taken to the Narcotics Unit at 22nd and Hunting Park Avenue where it would be searched.