INSIDE OUT

A New York night in the Bronx—and how she loved it! The roughest of five boroughs, the Bronx sprawled north of Manhattan and Queens holding title to some of the poorest neighborhoods in the country. But even though street cop Leigh Durham struggled nightly with the sky-high crime rate, the Bronx was right where she wanted to be. So what if it didn’t have the class of Times Square or the ambiance of Central Park? It had Yankee Stadium and the Bronx Zoo where you could still buy a ticket for under twenty bucks. Leigh was excited about her part in making things better. It’s my borough and my job to keep it safe. Well, as safe as possible, she added as an afterthought.
Riding shotgun, Leigh glanced at O’Neil working on his wad of Double Bubble as he drove their black and white down Edge Street. She had tried to get a conversation going with the man—everything from cop shoptalk to baseball, even the weather—but all she got in reply were disinterested grunts interspersed with cold silence and popping bubblegum. Might as well hash it out, she decided. “Look O’Neil, if this is about the take-down yesterday in the gym, you need to get over it. We’re partners, right?”
O’Neil parked his gum in the side of his jaw and squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. “You and I both know that was a fluke, Durham. I took it easy on you ‘cause you’re a dame, but you came on like gangbusters. Next time I’ll show you what it’s like to go up against 200 pounds of pure muscle, no holds barred.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Leigh shrugged just as the static on their radio came to life. Robbery in progress, it blurted. One-zero-two-one, 12th Street. Dom’s Party Store. “Geez, we’re almost on top of it,” Leigh said. “That’s 12th coming up.” O’Neil continued chawing on his gum, indifferent to the call. “Come on, O’Neil. We’ll be first on scene.”
“All right, all right. Don’t get your tights in a twist.” Hitting his siren, O’Neil gunned the cruiser down 12th while Leigh called Central to roger the call. At the bright lights of the party store, O’Neil braked to a stop. “Dat’s him!” the owner of the store shouted, pointing to a runner wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt. The man cut into an alley and disappeared.
“Wait up!” O’Neil shouted as Leigh started off in pursuit. “I’m calling for backup.”
Leigh slowed as she approached the alley and cautiously stepped in. It was long, narrow and dark. Darker yet were the crevices and cubbyholes lining both sides of the passageway. Where the hell is he? she wondered. He could be hiding anywhere. Leigh pulled her .40 caliber Glock from her gun belt and her 5-cell Maglite, swinging the beam from side to side. She didn’t know whether the perp was still running or crouching somewhere within a few feet of her—or worse, if he had a weapon. She sure as hell didn’t want to shoot an unarmed man, but if he came at her out of the blackness—
O’Neil stood peering into the darkness. It’s blacker than tar shit in there, he groused. What’d that bitch get us into? Hearing nothing but silence from the alley, he decided to wait things out right where he was. Might as well teach the rookie a lesson, he thought, spitting out his wad of gum. Not smart to take off without your partner.
Cold sweat trickled down Leigh’s back as she keyed the mike on her shoulder. “O’Neil! Where are you, man?” Central would hear the call, as well as O’Neil, and they’d know she was in a jam. Downside was, between using her mike and Maglite, the perp had to know right where she was. She listened for the slightest sound—but heard only her own quick, sharp breaths as she moved deeper into the shadows.
The garbage can came out of nowhere, smacking Leigh in the gut and taking her down. Keeping a tight grip on her Glock, she struggled to her feet in time to see a dark figure leap from the shadows and take off. “Police! On the ground now!” she shouted, just as his head flew back and his feet shot out from under him. He went down with a grunt. Leigh was on him in half a heartbeat. Wearing a black hoodie, the man was lying in a slick puddle of grease and crying like a baby. Shining her beam overhead, she saw the rusty rail of a fire escape projecting into the alleyway. The railing had caught him square in the forehead and taken him down. Leigh holstered her weapon, flipped him over and put a knee in his back, cuffing him.
“What the hell?” she cried as a piercing light exploded in her face, instantly blinding her. Jumping to her feet she pulled her weapon and waved it helplessly, unable to see.
“Whoa, watch where you’re pointing that thing, officer,” a voice called out. “Name’s Joe Kent. I’m with the Times. “You just did a hell of a job in a very creepy alley—and I just made you famous.”
O’Neil came running. Fuming, he pushed the reporter aside. “I told you to keep your ass out of here, mister. We got a man in custody.” Dragging the prisoner out of the alley to a street light, O’Neil yanked off the hood and stared into the dazed eyes of an emaciated teen. “Just a druggie with a goose egg the size of Manhattan on his forehead,” he said disgustedly. “You read him his rights, Durham?”
“No, I—”
“Jesus! These rookies,” he said to the reporter who followed them out of the alley. “You gotta babysit everything they do.”
“Is that why you were hanging out here while she made the bust?” Joe Kent asked sarcastically. “You were babysitting her?”