Time's Up by Janey Mack Page B

keys in one hand, lug wrench in the other.
    Insanity.
    I could hear Hank’s voice in my head. “The only standard of a fighter is his fight. Not just the fights he picks, but the fights that pick him.”
    With my hand holding the lug wrench, I hit the radio on my vest. “Dispatch, boot removal crew and tow—”
    The smallest of the three ripped the radio from my fingers, tearing my vest. He threw it on the ground.
    A lifetime of training kicked in. I dropped the lug wrench, drove my forearm into his throat, and stomped on the instep of his foot. He fell forward and I grabbed his arm, jerking it up hard behind his back, forcing him to kiss the hood of the Civic as I kicked his legs apart.
    â€œOh, you done it now!” Leticia shouted in jubilation. “You crazy sons of . . . Assaulting a PEA is a felony!”
    â€œThis is fucking ethnic profiling,” Marcus said. “Allah will stomp your fat ass, Leticia.”
    Leticia laughed. “Ain’t you just a walking TV commercial to convert?”
    I had my assailant pinned to the hood and two surprised and pissed-off guys behind me. Cripes. Now what, Lizard Brain?
    The blurp of a police siren sounded.
    Thank God.
    â€œIs there a problem here, Miss McGrane?”
    Of all the losers to walk into my gin joint . . .
    â€œLast time I checked,” Tommy Narkinney said in my ear, “meter maids don’t have the authority to manhandle and apprehend private citizens.”
    He slapped his hand on the hood of the Civic next to the man’s head I had pinned. “Especially Academy washouts. Let him up.”
    I did.
    My assailant retreated to the safety of his two pals.
    Narkinney glanced over at his partner, a chunky forty-something white male in the thick of it with Leticia, Marcus, and a crowd of angry men, and snorted. “Jesus, can’t you do anything without putting on a show?”
    I pointed at the man. “He assaulted me. Tore my radio off and broke it.”
    â€œYeah?” Tommy laced his fingers together and flexed. “’Cause from where I sit, it looks like you’re the one doing the assaulting.”
    Jerk. “I’m filing, Nark. There ought to be plenty of paperwork for a Class D.”
    â€œNot today, you’re not,” Narkinney said.
    Emboldened, my assailant pointed at me. “That—that woman did not even ask us to move our cars!”
    Narkinney fake-coughed over his chuckle.
    â€œIt is Friday prayer. A holy time. They do this to us because we are Muslim!”
    â€œNo member of any religion is immune to the traffic laws of Chicago,” I said. “You need more parking, file for a permit.”
    â€œHey, McGrane,” Leticia shouted at me, grinning. “The boys in blue are gonna stay here while we finish. Get me a boot.”
    I pointed at my broken radio on the sidewalk. One of the three men had crushed it. “And who’s gonna pay for that?” I said to Narkinney.
    â€œIt’s not like you can’t afford it.” He turned to the men. “Other side of the street or in the building. Now.”
    They scuttled away.
    â€œYou better get back to work.” Narkinney grinned. “Peterson and I ain’t gonna hang around all day.”
    I booted two more cars. A Kia and a Chevy. Getting the business from Tommy Narkinney the entire time, while Leticia flirted shamelessly with Peterson as she ticketed, dawdling like a fat man at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
    The boot removal crew and tow trucks showed up. Finally.
    I walked back to the cart with Leticia. “Now this is what I call a damn fine Friday,” she said.
    The squad car pulled up as we were getting back in the cart. Narkinney hung out the passenger window. “Call me anytime you need your meter filled, McGrane.” Laughing, they drove away.
    Leticia started the cart and we drove off. An unholy excitement still sparked in her eyes. “I used to date that broke-ass son