Detroit Combat by Randy Wayne White

night, we’ll make you a princess. Your slightest wish will be our command.” He nodded toward McCarthy. “You think he might wake up soon, or should I come back later?”
    â€œSince you’re only allowed fifteen minutes, you’d better do what you’ve done the last two days.”
    Hawker raised his eyebrows. “And what’s that?”
    â€œShake that man by the leg until he opens his eyes.”
    â€œYou think I’d do such a thing?”
    â€œYou’re damn right I do!” The nurse went off laughing and shaking her head.
    The moment she was gone, Hawker gave the Detroit cop’s knee a tap. “Hey, Detective McCarthy, are you in there?” He had to repeat himself several times, but finally McCarthy’s eyelids lifted. It took him a moment to focus. His smile was weak—but it was a smile.
    He pushed the oxygen tent aside just enough to talk. “Jeezus, they’ll let anybody in here.” His voice was hoarse—the result of the tubes.
    â€œNothing I like better than visiting a hospital intensive care ward. What a jolly place.”
    â€œThey kept me alive, didn’t they?”
    â€œThey’re saying it’s mostly because you’re such a hard guy to kill.”
    McCarthy laughed painfully. “So, did you have your meeting with Claramae yet?”
    â€œHey, you remembered. The nurse said you were so drugged up you probably wouldn’t remember what happened from day to day.”
    â€œHe shot me in the chest not the head, dumb shit. So how did it go? Did Little Miss Priss get down off her high horse?”
    â€œDidn’t have the meeting. She had other plans.”
    Actually, Riddock had spent the last two days in the same hospital under observation. When they finally got to a phone and called the police, the detective found herself with a sticky choice—whether to tell her superiors the truth and thus expose Hawker, or to plead a temporary case of amnesia brought on by the shock of seeing McCarthy shot and the punch she’d gotten in the face. She chose amnesia, and so a visit to the hospital was unavoidable. As of yet, no one had found the sunken car or the body of her attacker, so they hadn’t taken her story as anything but the truth. Hopefully, the car or the corpse wouldn’t be found until the spring thaw—if ever.
    â€œBoy, Hawk, I can’t believe I brought that bitch in on it. But I knew she was going to start an investigation, so I had to do something.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it, Paul. She’s not so bad. And I think she’ll help.”
    â€œIf she doesn’t, don’t forget about Randolph. He’ll do all the legwork you want.”
    â€œRandolph?”
    â€œYeah, Detective White. Most people call him Randy, but the other guys on the shift call him Randolph because of his nose. You know—like Rudolph. He likes beer.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œHe won’t be much help on the action end, but he’s a hell of a guy with facts and figures and research. His name’s in the book.”
    â€œGreat. I’ll call him tonight.”
    McCarthy started to say something else, but his face changed and he grabbed his chest painfully. Hawker gave him the thumbs-up sign and rearranged the oxygen tent. “That’s enough for now. I’ll stop back tomorrow.”
    McCarthy grinned his appreciation and closed his eyes. A moment later, he was asleep.
    In Detroit, in December, there is no sunset. About five P . M ., the wind begins to leach the color from the sun, gradually transforming it into a pale, chalky orb no warmer than a full moon. Then the smog absorbs the waning light and a nordic wind rushes in to fill the vacuum.
    Then, even though it is populated by more than a million people, the city becomes a desolate maze of concrete canyons. Lights flash, cars screech, factories rumble and clank, people rush and shout and hurry with their collars pulled