Safe, that's what he felt like when he finally became aware of himself. Safe and warm. He hadn't felt like this since, since----he didn't know. It didn't matter. Wherever he was, he was at peace.

~

He called himself "Fast Eddie." It wasn't his real name. That was Wallace----Wallace Cromwell. He'd hated that name. Hated being called Wallace. Hated "Wally" more. Hated being asked how the Beaver was. Then one night he saw a movie on late night TV about some guys shooting pool, Paul Newman and a fat guy. Newman's name was Fast Eddie. He liked that and started using it as his own.

By then he was typically alone. He still lived in his mother's house, but his bedroom was in the basement. He came and went as he pleased. Mostly he went home to eat, sleep and get clean laundry. Some days he didn't go home at all. There was too much happening on the street----people to see, stuff to do.

Some of the stuff involved drinking----beer, wine, whatever he could get. And some of it involved girls----those who gave it away, those who traded it. And some of it involved drugs----reefer, crack, whatever made him feel good and forget the boredom that was at the bottom of his life. And all of it involved money. Money he usually didn't have and always needed. Money his mother had stopped giving him. Money he had to get from somewhere no matter what.

He tried street jobs, but that was low percentage. The guy you robbed might not have any more than you. Or he might be armed, and your payoff would be a knife in the side or a nine in the head. It was better to B&E. Less chance of getting caught, and VCRs, DVDs and computers always brought him enough to get by.

He went home less and less. One night he went back and didn't have his key. Hadn't had it for a long time. How long, he didn't know. He pounded on the front door. No answer. He went around and pounded on the back. Still nothing. He broke the pane of the basement door, reached it and unlocked it.

Things were changed. None of his stuff was there. He didn't know the man standing in the basement. He did know the man had a gun. And he knew that the sirens in the distance were coming for him.

Nobody believed that he thought it was still his house. His mother hadn't lived there for months. What had happened to her he never found out. Without money for bail he sat in the Baltimore Detention Center for six months, awaiting trial. In that time his prints came back on six other burglaries. He got three on top of the half he'd served. Overcrowding forced him back on the street inside the year.

When Eddie came out he went back to the B&E, back to yoking tourists who went down the wrong street, back to jacking cars from the fools who came down from PA looking to buy drugs. He had to. Inside he had picked up the habit, and now it needed to be fed every day.

He went inside the second time because he got stung. The guy in the Honda looking to buy turned out to be a cop. When Eddie pulled his piece the cop pulled a bigger one. Without turning around, Eddie knew that there were two more big guns pointing at the back of his head.

Two years this time. Eddie's cellmate was a no-parole lifer who had found Jesus. Or was it Allah? Whoever It was, the lifer always talked to Eddie about a better way. With nothing else to do, Eddie listened.

It didn't make sense until three months after Eddie was out. Out in the cold and rain, huddling in a doorway, the better way that the con had talked about seemed very good to Eddie. He'd change, Eddie told himself. He'd find a program and get clean, give up this half a life and start living again.

Getting clean was harder than scoring without cash. All the programs were full. The drug treatment centers had waiting lists. Despite his wanting it, no one was offering any help. Desperate, and willing to do anything to escape the Limbo he was in, Eddie did the one thing he never expected to do. He called a cop.

~

"Yeah, I'm interested... Thought there might be, how much?... Oh! That might take some doing... No, didn't say it couldn't be done, have to pull in a few that's all... Give me your cell... Thought everybody did... Pager then... Well then, call be back in two days... Yeah, this number. I'll work something out, get you clean." Detective Dante Amberson hung up the phone.

"Who was that?" Andy Russell asked his partner.

"Some stoner called Fast Eddie," Amberson replied, turning to his computer. He logged on to the Citynet and searched "drug treatment centers----open beds." There weren't that many.

"I remember Eddie, we almost shot him, what, two years back?"

"That's why he called us, because we didn't shoot him when we could have. Thinks he can trust us." Amberson started copying names, numbers and email addresses into a document, highlighting the ones he'd try first.

"What's he want?"

"To give us Santos."

Russell's eyes widened. Antoine Santos wasn't a major drug dealer, but he was big enough that once arrested, he could be squeezed until he gave up a few people who were. "How's Eddie know Santos?"

"Used to work for him, still does some running." Amberson hit print. Two lists came out of the printer.

"And for Santos he gets----?

"Placement in a drug treatment center. He wants out of the life."

"That's it, no money?" Russell was amazed; everybody wanted money.

"He wouldn't turn it down, but without treatment, no Santos."

"We better make some calls."

Amberson handed Russell one of the lists. "Tell me about it. Start calling, partner."

Two days later Eddie called back.

"All arranged, my man," Amberson told him. "Got a room at the McCulloh Treatment Facility with your name on it... That's right, where Church Home Hospital used to be... You're getting the works----detoxification, blood cleaning, counseling, job placement, everything. You be there tomorrow morning, eleven sharp. We'll get you settled, then you give us what we need on Santos... What's that?"

But Eddie hadn't been talking to Amberson. The detective heard him say something to somebody, his voice low as if turned away from the phone. There was a muffled reply, then three loud pops.

"Oh shit! Eddie! Eddie!" Amberson yelled into the receiver. To his partner, "Andy, call 2284. Get this line traced. Get an ambo started. Eddie!" he yelled again. No answer.

"Got it," Russell said calmly. "Units and medics are rolling. Anything on your end?" Amberson shook his head. "Damn. Well, let's get out there." Amberson looked at the admissions folder they'd gotten from McCulloh. "Damn," he said again, "and after all our hard work."

When the two detectives rolled up on the scene they saw the ambulance pulling away.

"Follow that," Amberson told his partner. "Let the district guys and the Lab worry about witnesses and spent casings. If Eddie's still alive we'll get his statement."

Russell followed the ambulance down Wolfe Street. He groaned when it turned right, bypassing Johns Hopkins.

"Taking him right to Shock Trauma," he said. "Must be bad."

Madison to Central. Central to Fayette. From Fayette straight to Shock Trauma and the best emergency care available. Russell knew the way----every detective did----and he stayed close to the wagon. He wanted to be there when Eddie was pulled out, to hear him say who shot him, hoping the name was "Santos."

Lights flashing and siren screaming, the ambulance raced down Central. But when it turned on Fayette, it went silent and dark as its emergency system shut down. It slowed, now keeping pace with traffic rather than weaving in and out.