Time's Up by Janey Mack Page A

run-walking toward Leticia.
    She marched out to meet him in the street. “Stay on the boot, McGrane.”
    Hank’s Law Number Nine: Confidence is not competence.
    I dropped the boot on the ground and stood up, trunk keys laced through my fingers.
    Leticia got right up in his face, or more accurately, chest. “You got a problem, sir? ”
    â€œYeah. You, woman!”
    â€œIs that right? Well, why don’t you tell me all about it, Marcus. You Ahmad-Rashad-Muhammad-Ali-wannabe.”
    â€œYou mock me? Mock Allah?” The man raised his fist. “Infidel bitch.”
    Leticia gave an incendiary head bob. “Go ahead. If you think you’re man enough.”
    I hit the radio on my vest. “Dispatch, this is car one-three-one-seven-two.”
    Two men burst out of the apartment building and down the steps. Which, I realized, was not an apartment building. According to the small handwritten cardboard sign Scotch-taped to the cracked window, it was the Brothers of Allah Prayer Center.
    A dozen more men came out of the building. A few in robes, most in jeans and various designer logo’d T-shirts. Cursing and gesturing, they moved toward Leticia and Marcus.
    Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph.
    â€œDispatch?” I said again. “This is car one-three-one—”
    My radio squawked. “Maisie,” Obi said, “—on—way—”
    â€œSay again, Dispatch.” I started toward Leticia.
    Leticia caught my movement out of the corner of her eye. “Affix the damn boot, McGrane,” she called over her shoulder.
    â€œThe cops,” Obi said, amid the static, “there soon.”
    The first two men grabbed Marcus and dragged him—still yelling at Leticia—back to the building. The rest of the crowd, arguing and swearing, collected around Leticia. She pushed her way through the mob and sashayed past me like Naomi on the catwalk, punching license numbers on her AutoCITE, ticketing.
    I squatted down and clamped on the hub plate.
    A litter of boys ranging in age from six to twelve followed her, pulling tickets off the cars, ripping them to shreds, spitting on them. Leticia ignored them and placed another ticket.
    The men were following at a distance, complaining. With an extreme gesture, she pointed a fuchsia, blinged-out nail at a silver Honda Civic. “Boot it.”
    No worries, then. Who cares about a couple dozen rabid inner city guys screaming religious persecution?
    I followed Leticia’s order. Went back to the cart, unlocked the trunk, pulled another boot, locked the trunk, and jogged after her.
    Three of the men broke off from the mob following Leticia and came toward me, threatening but keeping their distance.
    I ignored them and dropped the boot at the rear wheel of the Civic. Sweat dripped off my forehead, staining the sidewalk. I fumbled with the boot, getting nervy watching Leticia while also trying to watch my back.
    Marcus—swearing like a guy from a Tarantino movie—got away from the men restraining him and charged toward Leticia.
    Leticia jammed a ticket on the windshield of a Chrysler LeBaron, and spun back to face Marcus, arms extended, chest thrust out, like one of the girls on The Price Is Right, loving it. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t believe I heard that last racist remark.”
    â€œI said,” Marcus shouted, “get that skinny-ass cracker away from these cars.”
    â€œWhat do you think, McGrane?” Leticia called out to me. “You wanna knock off early, maybe go get us a couple of crispy bacon sandwiches and beers and wait for these sorry-ass brothers to learn how to read and quit parking on the sidewalk?”
    I finished tightening the hubcap plate and held two fingers against my thigh. Two boots left.
    Leticia nodded.
    I got to my feet and turned to retrieve another boot. Three men blocked my way, faces bent with contempt. I widened my stance, transferred my weight to the balls of my feet,