Jungle Land: A Gritty Shore Town Thriller by David Dean
In Jungle Land, acclaimed mystery author David Dean takes us deep into the blistering heat of a New Jersey shore town at the height of summer—where the music is loud, the beer flows freely, and danger hides in plain sight.
When Patrolman Julian Hall answers what seems like a routine call, it leads him into a chilling investigation involving assault, shame, and the sharp edges of justice. As the streets pulse with partying tourists, Hall finds himself tracing a predator through the back alleys of “Jungle Land”—and what he uncovers will stay with you long after the story ends.
This is crime fiction at its most visceral: dark, atmospheric, and unflinching.
Jungle Land
A Short Story By
David Dean
The black-and-white cruised virtually unopposed by traffic, pedestrian or otherwise, northbound on Ocean Drive, bisecting the northern end of the island as it did so. Its sole occupant was Patrolman Julian Hall and he surveyed his assigned sector with a bemused eye as he began his shift. The heat of the day was barely an hour past its peak and the inhabitants, both local and tourist, were driven indoors to combat their thirst with great quantities of chilled alcohol, or to lay, as if slain, in lawn chairs and on decks throughout the city. Most were sporting tans that Julian could only marvel at—his schedule would never permit him the amount of leisure required to absorb that much sun. The idea of skin cancer flitted across his mind and a corresponding smile ran briefly across his lips.
During the summer months it was not unusual for him to log sixty hours a week between patrol, court, and special duty. Of course, there was all that overtime pay, which virtually lifted his family to the status of lower middle-class, but he suffered accordingly. The sense of isolation one acquired from working changing shifts was intensified by the additional hours. His little family was on a permanent day shift and his schedule matched theirs only once a month, minus the overtime.
The shore resort of Camelot was at its summer apogee, packed with day-trippers and weekly renters, harboring thousands of gallons of booze and beer and offering practically no parking spaces. It had the look of a successful invasion by barbarians who didn’t care to keep what they had taken.
It was four-thirty now and Julian turned right on Eleventh Street and headed towards the beach—passing as he did so, a large, ramshackle house that had been divided into three apartments. The whole affair was painted a drab, unfestive brown and Julian noted yet another broken window. At the end of each summer the place was closed due to building code violations and the following summer reopened and packed to the rafters with teenagers. Julian had responded to a number of underage drinking parties and crowd fights at the address. He made a mental note to check on the young man lying amidst a welter of crushed beer cans and wrecked lawn chairs on a return trip. The kid was breathing but he’d be fried if he wasn’t dragged into the shade soon. Julian wondered if the greenhead flies were biting today. The kid would have the answer to that when he woke up.
For the moment, Julian chose to remain in the airconditioned patrol car and continue his initial inspection of the north end. Between the oppressive temperature and his protective vest, leather gear, and uniform, he wasn’t well suited for the heat and promised himself that any encounter that resulted in profuse sweating would end in an arrest.
***
The beach and boardwalk were something of a relief. The day’s cooling always began here, with a slight freshening of the wind and a subtle chill that was felt most by those who had been in the sun the longest. Julian climbed the steps to the boardwalk and walked over to the seaward railing. He noticed out of the corner of his eyes a gaggle of preteen boys and girls attempting to hide cigarettes they had just purchased from the vending machine at the amusement arcade. The result was attention-getting so Julian favored them with his full attention. He faced them squarely and almost smiled when they immediately broke into groups of twos and threes and drifted in different directions. He turned again to the beach.
The light reflecting off the white sand made it difficult to see the beach well. That and the moisture hanging in the air gave the scene a peculiar glow, reminding him of a 1950s film about nuclear war. The bodies on the beach were all lying with their feet to the sea, as if simultaneously pole-axed by the off-shore blast.
There were survivors, however. A number of them were making their way to the boardwalk, as the afternoon drew on toward evening. They moved in a dazed shuffle, with seared, vacant faces, seeming to choose the exit steps that Julian stood at, as if transfixed and drawn by his uniform. For a moment he felt a slight tightening of his scalp as he began to believe in his own fantasy.
Returning to the car, he guided it toward Headquarters, careful to avoid the people walking in the street. That was another curious phenomenon about vacationers: their phobia of sidewalks. Julian had long ago given up trying to shoo them out of traffic. Dinnertime, he thought as he pulled into a parking space.
***
The squad room was vacant for a change, it being too early for the summer-hire officers, all youth, energy, and noise, and not late enough for most of the regulars. This was the ideal time as far as Julian was concerned, nothing but the hum of the soda machine and blessed solitude before the after-dinner calls began to come in.
He opened his paper lunch bag and sat down at the Formica table. The intercom phone rang. There was no one else, so he answered. The dispatcher’s voice was crisp, “Julian? There’s someone up front to see you.”
Julian, baffled, asked, “Me? They asked to see me? What’s it about?”
“She didn’t wish to say—and no, she didn’t ask for you in particular, but you are the only officer here, you know.”
So that was the reason for the frosty tone. A female in distress who dared not confide in the dispatcher. Only regulations had saved the girl from being denied service and unceremoniously ejected from the premises.
“I’ll be right up,” he said, and folded his bag shut and placed it in the mini-fridge.
The interview room was small and held only a table and three chairs—intentionally cramped to discourage physical outbursts and enhance the sense of a confessional.
She was waiting in one of the chairs with her knees drawn primly together and a large, floppy beach bag clutched to her bosom. No more than twenty, she was as brown as a nut and wore the usual vacation ensemble of sandals, large-legged shorts, and a pastel tank-top of some thin cotton-like material. Her face was attractive without being pretty—finely boned, with full lips and green eyes that snapped with intelligence. Her wavy brown hair was cut just above the shoulders and pulled back with several artlessly placed barrettes.
Taking a seat, Julian began with his usual introduction, “I’m Patrolman Hall. May I help you?”
With only the slightest tremor in her voice, she replied, “Yes. I want to report that my roommate has probably been raped.”
Julian was careful not to portray any reaction. “And your name?”
Her reply was edged with impatience at his insistence on protocol. “Donna Pacifico.”
“Ms. Pacifico, I couldn’t help but notice that you used the word ‘probably.’ Would you tell me why?”
Now that she had begun, her control was beginning to slip. Julian noted the pulse in her throat and the beginning of a mistiness in her large eyes. The pause was growing longer.
“Ms. Pacifico?”
She started at her name and set off at a gallop. “Jennifer O’Hurley is my roommate, here and back at college in Pennsylvania. We’re both juniors now. She’s an English Lit major, though she’s thinking of changing that during the fall semester, and I’m declaring for Sociology.”
Julian waited.
“We’re sharing this place out on Twenty-second Street with a few other girls and working part-time at that breakfast place at the anchorage. Just for spending money, you know. Well, last night Jenny ran into an old girlfriend from her high school and got invited along to a big keg party on Twenty-first. You guys probably know where it is—I think you broke it up sometime this morning.”
“What makes you think we were out there?”
“Jenny told me. That’s what woke her up—all the screaming and yelling and everyone running out the back when the cops came. She came dragging in about five o’clock this morning. I know, because I heard her crying. She’s been crying off and on ever since.”
Donna’s own eyes were getting moist and her voice was unsteady. “She must have taken six or seven showers today already. That’s what tipped me off. That and the fact that the clothes she was wearing were in the garbage this afternoon. There was blood and it’s not her time. She just bought those things this summer! Now don’t try and tell me that something didn’t happen last night at that party!!
Julian replied carefully, rueing the fact that any tangible evidence had been tossed into the trash and hopelessly contaminated. “Ms. Pacifico, I assume you’ve spoken with your friend about her behavior. What did she have to say and why didn’t she make this report herself?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he cringed. He had to ask, though he knew how he must appear to her. He was not disappointed. She locked eyes with him for the first time, all signs of tearfulness gone.
“Why the hell do you think? Would you want to march in here to a total stranger and give him the details of your being raped? She was so humiliated she couldn’t even talk to me! I asked her outright and all she could do was nod her head. She got hysterical when I mentioned the police. She’s terrified that her parents will find out. There’s something else, too. She’s got a steady boyfriend back home. Do you understand what this could do? Do you?”
Julian nodded, taking his time, letting the tension dissipate.
“Did she give you any indication of what happened and who was involved?”
Taking a deep breath, Donna seemed to wilt now that the anger and fear were out. “She did say that she thought it was two guys but she was so drunk she couldn’t be sure. She didn’t know anyone there. She thinks they took her into a laundry room because she remembers a washing machine. I think the address was sixty something.
“Please get these guys, Mr. Hall. Even though Jenny’s afraid to come in, something should be done. There are a lot of girls out there on vacation, and if they did this to Jenny, they’ll do it to others. None of us come expecting this kind of thing at the shore.”
Neither did the other girl, thought Julian, thinking of a phone call a week ago by an outraged parent. In that case the girl had dragged herself from the party to her car and driven all the way back to Bryn Mawr. She never came back for her belongings and told her parents a week later. They were hysterical with anger and fear when they called. Grief over the girl’s shattered spirit would come later.
So what they had were at least two rapes, no suspects, no evidence, and no one but this girl willing to file a complaint.
He fished a card out of his wallet and handed it to her. “Donna, make sure Jennifer gets this. There’s a lady who answers this number that’s been there and back. Please have her call.”
He knew how feeble it all sounded. “We’ll be looking for these guys, Ms. Pacifico. We’ll do our best to get them. To be honest, though, as it stands, our chances aren’t good.”
She stood and patted his hand. Julian suddenly felt that he was the one being reassured. “I know you’ll try,” she said. “I know you will.”
Julian stood. “Do you happen to have a photograph of Ms. O’Hurley?”
Donna dug into her bag for her wallet. A moment later she handed Julian a snapshot of a girl smiling into the camera. The picture had been taken on the beach, with the resultant washout of the subject’s face. But she would be recognizable. Blonde hair, probably bleached, and a little too frizzy. A cute, pugnacious face. A little tired around the eyes and altogether looking as if she’d had a bad night. Julian thought that she was very different than her roommate.
***
After leaving a brief report of the incident in the detectives’ basket, Julian departed the building, dinner untouched, and headed for Twenty-first Street. A scan of last night’s entries had shown the Noise Squad—otherwise known as the “party poopers”—had responded to only one address in the six-hundred block. That was where he headed now.
But first, a brief detour to check on young Bacchus.
It was just starting to turn to dusk when Julian cruised slowly past the rabbit warren on Eleventh Street. The boy, like Lazarus, had risen and undoubtedly was girding his loins even now for another night of revelry. His outline was still visible in the tall rank grass. Julian turned around for Twenty-first.
Crossing the small bridge that was this neighborhood’s only link with the rest of the city, Julian thought again of the common nickname the cops had for this section—Jungle Land. He couldn’t remember who had started it, but he knew the phrase had been borrowed from a Bruce Springsteen hit of a few summers ago. It fit. The neighborhood was six blocks wide and featured row upon row of up-and-down duplexes, small beach-type bungalows, and huge old homes divided into apartments resembling rat mazes. It was surrounded by water as it thrust into the back bay and there were two alleys that were frequently the scenes of foot pursuits by the police. It was one big party from sundown to sunup.
The neighborhood was already beginning to heat up as darkness fell. Several second-floor decks were so jammed with college-age kids swigging beer it was a wonder they didn’t collapse, At least once a summer, in fact, one did. Amazingly, no one had yet been killed. Only paralyzed.
Julian drove through several walls of sound as he proceeded west. These zones had been created by stereos, dragged outside or onto porches, with speakers so large that the bass they produced seemed to literally pulsate the atmosphere in front of them. He was greeted by the usual catcalls from onlookers when he signed out at the six-hundred address.
***
The kid that answered the door had obviously been awakened from his siesta. Julian could see that he was trying to make up his mind whether to get nasty with the cop or not. He looked like he’d had about enough of these local thugs interfering with his summer.
“Yes, may I help you?”
Julian didn’t think he was very sincere. “You may. Are you on the lease here?”
“What’s the problem, officer?”
Julian ignored that. “I need to speak with someone on the lease here.”
The boy brushed his mop of mushroom-styled hair back from his face with an impatient gesture. “I’m on the lease along with several other guys. Is it about the party last night? I didn’t care for the way my guests and I were treated, I can tell you that. Why are you here?”
This kid’s name is Biff, thought Julian. Or maybe Chad. There’s a secret factory that clones thousands of these upper- class kids, instills them with a permanent look of disdain, and sends them out in search of immediate gratification.
“I’m here because I’d like you to show me in.”
Biff’s face began to get a look of barely suppressed triumph. “Do you have a warrant?”
“I don’t have a warrant, Biff, but I do have a problem. A problem that I think you can help me with. A young lady says she was raped here last night. That’s an indictable crime, Biff. I know that you wouldn’t want to obstruct or impede the investigation that would cast more suspicion on this household than already exists. I believe a quick tour of the house would be beneficial for everyone, don’t you? I expect you’ve leased this place for the entire summer. It’s only late June. It’s going to be a fine, long summer.”
Julian said all of this with an easy smile. Biff was rocked.
“My name’s not Biff,” he said and held open the screen door.
***
The tour and subsequent interviews with the young men of the house revealed nothing. No one professed to remember the girl. The small cottage was the usual beer-can-strewn shambles consisting of motel-like furniture and numerous daybeds. The only item of interest was the old-style washroom off the back porch. It contained a hot-water heater, an old scrub-sink, and a dilapidated washing machine. There was a single-size daybed taking up almost all of the remaining floor space. This is where it happened, thought Julian as he stared down at the stained mattress. Using his pen-light he peered underneath into the furred darkness of ancient dust.
The beam of light glinted off a small, sharp-edged object. Julian thought at first it was a disposable razor cartridge holder and almost ignored it, but conscientiousness made him bring it out.
It was a six-bulb flash bar, commonly used on Polaroid cameras. Each bulb had been used and its plastic covering was only lightly filmed with dust. There were partial prints on each of its long sides. Placing the pen-light on the floor and aiming it underneath the bed, Julian got down on a level with it and was able to discern a faint path through the dust to the resting place of the flash bar. Probably dropped and accidently kicked under the bed. It didn’t match the single camera in the house.
Julian took it away with him.
***
The party had been in full swing for several hours and the house was packed. It was being billed as a Christmas in July party and had drawn over seventy people, a smattering of them sporting Santa beards and red hats. The sliding glass doors were open to facilitate the ebb and flow of the crowd from indoors to out, and iced kegs were available in both the kitchen and on the front deck.
This was one of those nights when the onshore breeze failed to reach the back bay area. The air was thick and seemed to be a repository for every foul smell imaginable. Low tide was adding the odor of dead fish to the existing effluvium of beer, sweat, and vomit.
Christopher tested the atmosphere with a slight sniff of his stubby nose, his gaze shifting across the room of sweaty, loud kids in search of Jeff. Jeff, his little partner. Jeff the queer. Chris had found that out on more than one occasion. The next day, of course, he had given little Jeff a beating. Little Jeff, who always seemed to be around when Chris was feeling a little down and had had a little too much to drink.
Looking damp and nervous, Jeff was smiling across the room at him, waiting for his attention. He had a bimbo lined up in the corner and she was just about ready to go. All the symptoms were there—the flushed, perspiring face, the eyes, just beginning to cross, intelligent speech gone, and the whole body loose and relaxed.
It had been Jeff’s idea to take the pictures, a natural outgrowth of the continuing series he took of Chris in various poses and settings—each shot framed to show off Chris’s magnificent physique, each photo a paean to his masculinity.
Chris laughed aloud as Jeff took a flash shot of the girl’s face. She was so far gone it startled her and she almost fell over backwards. He liked a “before” shot for a trophy…
***
Julian was nearing the end of his fourth midnight shift when the call came in. A noise complaint off Twentieth Street’s five-hundred block. It had been a busy night—rescue calls, fires, fights, DWIs, and even a domestic dispute for flavor. He was bottomed out now with that kind of weariness that always came at dawn, feeling hollow and without passion.
His partner and he heard the screams long before they spotted the address. They were wails, actually—long, drawn-out affairs ending in a cry of anguish. The laughing gulls gathered on the sunrise-tinted roofs and, tearing through the overturned garbage, did not bother competing.
He parked one house east and approached, with his partner trailing behind and to his right, as cover. Several neighbors were standing in the wet grass, uneasily eyeing the residence. Seeing the uniforms, the oldest and crankiest- looking of the group detached himself and made a beeline for them. “Officers’ Officer, could I say something? We’ve put up with about enough, I think! These goddamned kids partied all night. They finally quit about four AM and now this! My God, are you going to do anything about this?”
As he was clearly heading for the door, Julian saw no need to answer. A very harried and hungover-looking young man with a bandana tied on his head was waiting at the door. Julian noted that his hands were empty and that he was wearing cutoff blue jeans. Sweeping past him, he hurried toward the rear of the house where the screams were coming from. Unbelievably, there were at least six young people who hadn’t been awakened by the turmoil and lying in various, uncomfortable-looking positions throughout the house. The air reeked of alcohol. Julian noted something else scattered about the wrecked rooms—flash bars, a dozen or more identical to the one he still carried in his front shirt pocket.
The victim was in a room that must have been a pantry at one time. She had a tie-dyed sheet draped over her shoulders which another young woman was trying to cover her with. The victim was without caring. She was thrashing from side to-side on a folding cot and had recently vomited. Her buttocks were bruised and bloody.
She was just beginning her lost wail again when Julian stepped into her line of vision.
“Stop,” he said. “We’re going to take you out of here and get you some help.”
Her scream was caught mid-throat and her eyes widened in horror. She pulled the sheet that was so ineffectually covering her nakedness over her head—she no longer cared about her pain, only her shame.
***
Julian spoke over his portable to Headquarters, “One-Fourteen to Seven.”
“Go ahead One-Fourteen.”
“Get an EMT headed this way and wake up a detective. I’m also gonna need a couple of guys for maintaining the scene here.”
“Ten-Four, One-Fourteen—I’ll be toning out Rescue.”
Julian’s partner took a position next to the doorway of the room the girl was in, while Julian approached the boy with the bandana on his head.
“This was your party?”
The boy wasn’t feeling too sure of himself and the pounding headache wasn’t helping. “Well, me and a few other guys. It wasn’t my idea alone. What’s wrong with that girl?”
Julian stared hard at him.
“Officer, if she’s OD-ing, I had nothing to do with it! We don’t have drugs here!” He was finding some moral indignation now. “I don’t allow drugs in my place! I don’t even think she was invited.”
Julian picked up a photo lying on an end table. It was one self-developing type that tended to brighter hues and whiter faces. This one was of the host. He was framed between two hysterical-looking young women, the three of them toasting the photographer with sloshing beer mugs.
Julian held the photo up for the host’s inspection. “Who took this?”
The boy took a few steps back in order to focus. Julian noticed now that there were dozens of “party shots” lying about. Several of the un-dead had them placed on their chests. The unconscious faces in the photos matched those of the unconscious kids they were placed on. The photographer had a sense of humor.
“I’m asking you again,” he said. “Who is the court photographer?”
“Honest to God, officer, I don’t know! Just a couple of guys that showed up. I think they might have known a few people here. Anyway, they offered to give everybody free photos of their partying. I said fair enough, grab some beers and don’t forget the host, dudes!”
Julian watched him run out of steam. “I want to know what these dudes look like, who they are, and where I can find them.”
The host smacked the bottom of a bare foot belonging to one of the sleepers. The sleeper groaned and came up on his elbows, his party shot sliding off his chest. “Chet, yo Chet! This police officer needs to know where those dudes are that were taking pictures last night. Didn’t you know the big guy? Chet? You with us?”
Chet felt that he might be sick very soon and decided against playing hard-ass. Besides, he barely knew the guys they were talking about—different frat altogether.
“Um, the big blond dude is Chris something-or-other. The little guy, I don’t know.”
“Where are they, Chet? Where are they staying?”
“Just up the street, I think. It’s an old place—they’re on the second floor rear. The house is painted this puke-green color, you can’t miss it. Besides, Chris has a bitchin’ Beamer that’s usually parked out front. Yo Stew, I’m gonna be sick!”
With that, Chet bolted for the bathroom. Julian was barely able to suppress his excitement. Backup had arrived and the EMTs were with the girl. He heard one of them refer to her as Julie. He saw his partner briefing the sergeant. They were waiting for the detectives now.
Julian made a decision. “Sarge, it looks like everything is secure, so I’m gonna take Frankie here and follow up a lead while it’s hot. We’ll sign out when we get there. Frankie, let’s roll.” Frankie knew his cue and took it. He was only steps behind Julian leaving the house.
***
They drove past once to make sure the BMW was there. The plates were registered to a Christopher R. Mallory according to the DMV computer lookup. Frankie parked the patrol unit in the alley behind the green house but a few houses down from it. They signed out, crossed through the backyard, and began to climb a set of rickety wooden outside stairs to the second floor.
Upon reaching the door, they hesitated. Julian’s heart was beginning to thump a little too loudly. He glanced at Frankie. Frankie was ready.
Julian turned the doorknob to test the lock. It wasn’t locked. He eased it open just a bit and knocked softly. No answer, no noise. He let the door swing open as he and Frankie each stood to one side. They were looking through a kitchen and down a hall. One bathroom, one bedroom, Julian guessed. They stood at the threshold. No warrant, no probable cause.
Julian sang out, “Yo, Chris! You up?”
There was a pause. A groan?
“Wha—?”
Julian gave it another shot, louder. “Chris, where ya at? I gotta talk to ya—can we come in?”
The pause was shorter. The voice hoarse, unsure.
“Yeah. Who is it? What’s up?”
Julian didn’t miss his moment. He strode rapidly down the short hallway, glancing into the bathroom before passing. He stopped short of the bedroom door, bent at the waist, and squinted between the door and frame. There was no ambush—only two young men sharing a bed. The larger of the two, Chris, nearest the door, was covering his head with a pillow, already returning to oblivion. Poor babies, thought Julian, they’ve had a difficult night.
“Wakey, wakey, boys!” he said.
***
With the two officers inside, there was very little room to maneuver. The furniture consisted of the bed, a chair in a corner, and a dresser with a mirror pushed up against the passageway wall. The two patrolmen stood at the foot of the bed. Julian noted a doorway to his right, leading to a set of fire escape stairs. He also noted a series of photographs stuck between the dresser mirror and its frame. The camera, with flash bar, was hanging from a bedpost. One of the pictures in particular caught his attention.
“Mr. Mallory, wake up! We need to talk!”
Jeff sat straight up in bed, exposing his birdlike chest. His greasy black hair was standing at attention. Chris slowly drew a corner of the pillow from his face and one bloodshot eye peered out. He recognized the uniforms. One powerful, muscled arm came out from under the sheet and began groping along the floor at his side of the bed. Julian’s right hand moved to his revolver and rested. Chris had found his sweatpants and swung the lower half of his body out of the bed and into the pants in a single graceful motion. Then he stood and pulled the pants to his waist in one move. This is a man who’s used to being watched, thought Julian. A little quick about pulling on the pants, though.
Chris faced them full on now. He was a formidable creature. Jeff remained sitting in the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest.
Chris spoke in a quiet, dangerous tone. “Who the hell are you guys and what are you doing in my apartment?”
“First of all, we’re the police. You’ve noticed the uniforms? Secondly, I asked if we could come in and you said yes. Now that we’re through the formalities, I think we should talk. We should talk about you and your very close friend here.”
He turned his gaze to Jeff. “You, I take it, are the family photographer. I couldn’t help but notice that the camera is hung on your side of the bed. Are those some of your prize photos on the mirror there?”
Jeff almost squeaked in terror and reached out convulsively, grabbing Chris’s huge forearm. Chris’s reaction was immediate. He slapped Jeff’s stringy arm away and bellowed, “Stay off me you little faggot! And keep your mouth shut! You don’t have to answer these clowns!”
That’s good, thought Julian. They were coming unraveled already. “You two have frequented a number of parties lately,” he said. “It seems that at several of these a girl was raped. Chris? Would you know this girl?”
He shoved the picture of Jennifer O’Hurley toward him. Chris’s face remained wooden. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
Julian smiled. “That’s a good line. Original. What about last night’s party? Does the name Julie mean anything to you? Or did you bother asking?”
Jeff’s lower lip was beginning to quiver. Chris’s face was pale but remained passive. “Nope,” he said. “Don’t know her.”
Julian looked away from Chris and stared hard at the photo in the upper right corner of the mirror. He thought this photo had pride of place among the lineup of drunken, youthful faces lining the mirror. The other, more intimate snapshots would be hidden somewhere in this room. Chris and Jeff were trying hard not to look where Julian was staring so intently.
“Of course you know her—that’s a picture of Julie right there.”
Chris broke and ran, brushing past Julian like a locomotive, slamming him into the wall. He was out the fire exit before Julian could recover. Jeff took only a few moments longer to make for the door. Using the top edge of the open door as a pivot, Julian swung both feet into Jeff’s chest, setting him down hard. “Stay with him and radio for backup!” Julian shouted to Frankie as he raced down the fire stairs in pursuit.
***
Chris had a start on him, but not a large one. Julian sprang from the bottom step just as he disappeared around the corner, heading for Twentieth. It was only seven-thirty or so, but there were some signs of activity. Chris shot into the street, heading east now. Julian was hard on him and closing. A few people made catcalls from their decks and porches. The sun was a fireball over the ocean, and they were heading directly for it.
Stepping on something sharp with his bare foot, Chris stumbled and Julian slammed into him, grabbing a handful of hair with his left hand and his waistband with his right. He let himself collapse, knocking Chris’s legs out from under him, using his own bulk to drive him into the ground, chest first.
Chris grunted and was still. Julian wasted no time in cuffing his hands behind his back. The handcuffs barely fit the massive wrists.
There were people everywhere now. Julian was hauling Chris to his feet when he heard the laughter and hooting.
Then he saw that he had broken Chris’s waistband. His sweatpants still lay at his feet and he wasn’t wearing underwear. The jeering was raucous now. Julian noticed more and more decks and balconies filling with young women.
Chris pleaded, “Pull up my pants, please!”
Julian saw some watchers coming out with cameras.
“I’ll kill you, you bastard!” cried Chris.
Panting a little, Julian replied with a smile, “Threatening an officer, Chris? I’m afraid I’ll have to add that to the list,” then began to read him his rights. Slowly and by the book. First in English, then in Spanish.
