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h him。〃
〃They say he took guns from all them cops in the。。。〃
〃Oh； man； this is gonna be the unholiest！ Jee…sus； is he gonna give it to them bastards！ Go ahead； Cooch。 Go get the pieces。 e on Sixto！〃
〃Where we going？〃
〃Get something to stand on。 There's always a million boxes in that empty lot on。。。〃
The shots exploded from inside the building； a short volley with the echoing roll of distant thunder。 The crowd went instantly silent。 The silence hung over the street； and then was shattered instantly when a woman in the crowd screamed。 An instant chorus went up after the scream； filling the street A wisp of smoke drifted from the mouth of the building。 The smoke hung on the air for an instant； silencing the crowd again； as if they had been a crowd in St。 Peter's Square waiting for the smoke to rise from the Sistine Chapel； announcing the new pope； and now that they had seen the smoke； they still did not know who the pope was； and so they fell silent； and they waited。
From inside the building； a voice shouted； 〃Lieutenant！ Lieutenant！〃
9
The policemen on the rooftops and on the fire escapes； dangling from open windows perched behind parapets； seemed like a band of monkeys who had climbed into an intricate zoo gymnasium and now didn't know what to do with themselves。 To say that Pepe Miranda was pletely surrounded would certainly have been the understatement of the century。 There were two tenements facing La Gallina； within the rather narrow confines of the cordon。 These two tenements bristled with cops of every size； shape and rank … and each of these stalwart defenders of the peace was carrying a loaded and drawn revolver。 An additional armory which seemed sizable and formidable enough to have stormed the gates of Stalingrad included such choice delicacies of destruction as rifles with affixed telescopic sights； submachine guns； regulation hand grenades； gas masks； tear…gas pellets； and even a flame thrower or two。
Nor did the siege confine itself to the two buildings facing La Gallina。 The police had moved into the adjoining block as well； entering apartments which faced the back windows of the apartment in which Miranda； like an animal driven into a hole； was trapped。 Clean white wash fluttered on the back…yard lines。 Policemen leaned out of open windows； pistols drawn； peering between the fluttering underpants and brassieres。 There were policemen facing the front of the apartment and policemen covering the back of it； and policemen on the roof of the building itself； ready to descend upon Miranda from above。
The adjoining rooftops were covered with the citizenry of the city。 Like a bunch of hicks who had e to see a circus daredevil dive eight hundred feet into a thimbleful of water； the people of the neighborhood were anxious to see whether or not Miranda could make the dive without splattering his brains out on the sawdust。 To many of these people； Miranda was simply the rebel and the underdog。 Consciously or not； they were rooting for him。 They wanted him to stand up to this formidable army of men in blue； blast his way out of that goddamn apartment； tip his hat； throw a kiss to the ladies； and ride off into the sunset。 Perhaps all of them knew how it would really end。 Perhaps they all knew that a single man； no matter how mighty； could not withstand such forces arrayed against him。 But many of them nurtured the secret hope that for once； just for once； the rebel would win； the revolutionary would defeat the incumbent dynasty； the anarchist would throw his bomb and escape。
For many others； there was an undeniable cultural tie between themselves and the man in the apartment。 The tie was a curious one in that they all knew Miranda was a criminal。 In all probability； none of them would have weled Miranda into their homes。 He was a dangerous man； an unreliable man； a thief and a murderer。 But he was Spanish。 And； in much the same way that they took pride in the work of Pablo Picasso； they took a strangely curious pride in the fact that Miranda was causing so much excitement。 In their minds； there was a very thin line between fame and infamy。 Miranda； whatever he had done； was a celebrity。 And he was a celebrity whom most of his audience knew on a first…name basis。
For the others who watched； there was only curiosity。 A man was trapped in an apartment。 The other men wanted to get him out of that apartment。 This was a baseball game。 There were no good guys or bad guys； only two teams which were trying to win。
At the moment； Miranda's team seemed to have scored the first run。 The cry of 〃Lieutenant！ Lieutenant！〃 which had e from the hallway of the tenement was followed almost immediately by the sight of the man who'd shouted the words。 He was a police sergeant； and he had a patrolman's arm draped over his shoulder as he dragged him into the street。 The patrolman had been shot。 The blood on his blue shirt was plainly visible even to the people who crowded the edges of the rooftops。 The sergeant carried the man out and put him on the ground beside the radio motor patrol car。 The cop inside the car immediately picked up the hand microphone and requested an ambulance。 The crowd watched all this with the eyes of prophets who are noting an interesting development； but who are aware that the final oute will have little or nothing to do with this minor incident。 Miranda had shot one of the cops。 That was interesting。 But the fireworks were yet to e。 Patiently； they awaited the fireworks。 It is a rare year that has two Independence Day celebrations。
Standing alongside the wounded patrolman； sweating profusely； Lieutenant Byrnes asked； 〃How bad is it； Sergeant？〃
〃His shoulder； sir；〃 the sergeant said。 He paused； catching his breath。 He was a big beefy man with graying hair。 His uniform was a little too tight for him； but he didn't want to buy a new one because he expected to retire next year。 When a man pays for his own working clothes； he's apt to consider replacements carefully。 〃Sir； you shoulda heard Miranda；〃 he said； wedging the words in between his gasps for breath。 〃We was just making sure all the tenants was out of the building； sir。 He began cursing in Spanish and shooting through his door。 He must have fired about six shots。 Two of them clipped Cassidy。〃
Byrnes stared at the man lying in the street。 〃Well； we're getting an ambulance； Sergeant。 Stay with him； will you？ Do whatever you can to make him fortable。〃
〃Excuse me；〃 a man on the other side of the barricade said。 He was a tall； thin man with penetrating blue eyes。 He wore a tan tropical suit and a blue straw Panama。 〃Did I understand the sergeant to say。。。？〃
〃Who the hell are you？〃 Byrnes asked。
〃I'm a reporter。 I work for the city's largest afternoon tabloid。 I couldn't help overhearing。。。〃
〃I know your paper；〃 Byrnes said flatly。
〃Did I understand the sergeant to say。。。〃
〃I'm busy； mister；〃 Byrnes replied； and he went around to the other side of the squad car and picked up the hand mike。
〃Nice guy； your landsman〃 Parker said to Hernandez。 〃Couple of inches lower； and Cassidy'd be dead。〃
〃I didn't do the shooting；〃 Hernandez said。 〃Miranda did。〃
〃So who's blaming you？ Listen； every race has its crumbs； ain't that so？〃
〃Knock it off； Parker。〃
〃Ain't nobody blaming all the Puerto Ricans for a foul ball like Miranda。 Look at yourself； for God's sake。 Didn't you e from this neighborhood？ So look at you now。 A detective third grade。 It took guts to do what you did。 Hell； think of all your own people you had to arrest。〃
〃I do my job； Parker。〃
〃No question about it。 You're a good cop； Hernandez。 And it sure don't hurt to talk Spanish in a precinct like this one； does it？〃 He began chuckling。 〃Listen； who cares if you're taking unfair advantage of the rest of us poor slobs？ You keep on the way you're going； and some day you'll be missioner。 Then your father can hang another picture in his candy store。〃
〃Why do you needle me； Parker？〃
〃Who？ Me？ I needle you？〃
〃Why？〃
〃I don't needle nobody；〃 Parker said innocently。 〃I'm just like you； pal。 I do my job。〃
〃And what's your job？〃
〃My job is keeping the streets clean。 I'm a street cleaner with a gun。 That's a cop's job； ain't it？〃
〃That's not all of a cop's job。〃
〃No？ Maybe you think I should go around holding junkies' hands； huh？ I used to be that way； Hernandez。 I used to be the kind of cop who felt sorry for people。 Used to break my heart to tag a car even。〃
〃I'll bet it did。〃
〃You don't have to believe me。 Ask any of the old…timers at the station。 But I learned my lesson； all right。 I learned my lesson。〃
〃How？〃 Hernandez asked。
〃Never mind；〃 Parker answered； and he turned away。
He had been turning away for a long time now； for fourteen years； to be exact。 He had been turning away from his duty as a cop； and from his duty as a man； but he excused his negligence by telling himself that he had once been the kind of cop who'd felt sorry for people； and that he'd learned his lesson since。 There was a slight inaccuracy to his rationale。 Andy Parker was not the kind of man who had ever felt sorry for anybody in his life。 It was simply not in his make…up to exude sympathy for his fellow humans。 What he probably meant was that one time he felt a closer identification with the people of the precinct than he did now。
And； to give the devil his due； Parker had once approached this somewhat elusive task of law and order with a distinctly different viewpoint。 When he was a patrolman … though it never broke his heart to tag a car … he was inclined to be lenient with petty offenders； letting them off with a whack of his billet and a warning。 There was； he had concluded； enough real crime going on in this precinct without persecuting decent people for minor infractions。 He learned in those days that the law was open to interpretation long before it reached the law courts。 He learned that the lowest arbitrator in the city's judicial system was a man who wore no legal robes at all； he was the patrolman on the beat。 And so he handed down a dozen decisions each day； and his decisions definitely leaned toward giving the petty offender a break。 At the same time； he felt he was tough and unpromising with the out…and…out thief。 He considered himself a good cop。
One day； the good cop who was Andy Parker was walking his beat when the proprietor of a dry goods store called him over。 The man was holding the wrist of a young kid who had allegedly stolen a bolt of silk from the sidewalk stand。 Parker questioned the owner； and Parker questioned the kid； and then he donned his judicial robes and said； 〃Well； we don't want to cause this kid any trouble； do we？ Now； can't we just forget about all this？〃 The proprietor of the store was loath to forget about all this because the kid had allegedly passed the bolt of silk to an acplice who had made his escape with the merchandise。 But Parker kept administering his sidewalk practice； and finally everyone seemed satisfied to let the entire matter drop。
That evening； after he had changed to his street clothes； Parker went for a beer in a neighborhood bar。 He had the beer； and he had a shot； and then he had another beer and another shot； and he was feeling like a pretty nice guy by the time he left the bar； and that was the last time in his life he ever felt like a pretty nice guy。
He was ambushed on his way to the subway by three men who didn't allow him the opportunity to draw his revolver。 He was ambushed and beaten within an inch of his life。 He lay on the sidewalk in a pool of his own blood； and when he regained consciousness he wondered why he'd been beaten or who had done the beating； and he drew what seemed to be the only logical conclusion。 He figured that he had been beaten by friends of the shopowner because he'd let the kid get away with the theft of the silk。
He never did find out who had administered the beating on that lonely autumn night。
Perhaps it had been friends of the shopowner。 Actually； it could have been any one of a hundred people who disliked Parker even in those days of amiability。 Actually； it didn't matter who'd beat him up。
He learned several things。
The first thing he learned was that it wasn't nice to receive a beating。 In the movies； a beating is usually a ba