Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [42]
"Come on outta there, dirt-bag!" he heard one yell. "Hands over your head! HANDS OVER YOUR HEAD MOTHERFUCKER I BLOW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD OFF! GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR! GET DOWN ONNA FLOOR! ARMS AND LEGS SPREAD!!"
He heard them pull back the box spring and pull the man with the cast out from beneath it. He heard them call to the man in the floor, chuckling at first, then angry; shouts and threats as they had to go in after him. He could hear, "I'm stuck! I'm stuck inna pipes." There was a crash as the man was pulled free and dropped onto the floor. Then the clicking of handcuffs.
"Anybody else?" asked a policeman.
"I didn't see anybody," said another.
"Check back there," said another. "These guys are like fuckin' cock-a-roaches.'
Lights danced briefly through the tiny holes in the plaster in front of the chef. He shifted his weight slowly in the dark, trying not to breathe. The light moved away tor a moment. The man with the Orioles cap twitched. The chef could feel the man's leg pressed up against him as the little man struggled silently to brace himself. The chef remained motionless. He felt something wet and warm on his leg and realized the little man had pissed in his pants.
"Anybody in there, come on out," said a policeman. An arm, reaching into the narrow entrance with a flashlight, scraped blindly around inside the wall for a few long seconds, knocking paint chips and plaster onto the floor, then moved away.
"Anybody in there?" asked a voice.
"Fuck if I know,' another voice responded. "I can't fuckin' fit in there. I can't get my head around."
"Fuck it," said the other "Let the rats have 'em, anybody in there. You wanna try it, hotshot?"
"I sure ain't squeezin in there," said another voice.
"Anybody else up here?" said a new, more authoritative voice.
Somebody banged a nightstick against the wall a few times. More plaster dust fell in the chef's hair. Another voice, coming from the opening to the wall, said, "I think there's somebody in there. I can see something."
The flashlight reappeared again, banging around at the end of an arm in the narrow entrance.
"What is it?" asked a voice.
The chef held his breath.
"I don't know, I think there's somebody in there. I can see clothes or something," said the nearest voice.
"Can you get to it?"
"No. Maybe run down to the car get a sledgehammer, we can find out for sure," said the cop.
"Fuck that, I'm not humpin' all the way down the car and back up again in this shit."
"Call on the radio," suggested another voice.
"Fuck it, we got enough. It's prolly just garbage. These animals put the garbage in the fuckin' walls."
"We got enough."
"Let's go then. We all done here?" said the authoritative voice.
"We got these two," said another voice.
The radios began to squawk again. The chef could hear the junkies being bundled off by the cops. There were muttered curses as the cops stumbled and slogged off into the distance, their radios getting fainter and fainter.
After a few minutes, there was no more sound from the holding room on the other side of the wall. The chef felt the little man next to him squirming around, trying to push his way out.
"C'mon, man," said the little man. "I wanna get out. I pissed in my fuckin' pants."
"Sssssh," said the chef, still listening for police.
"They gone, B," said the little man.
"Hold on," said the chef, cautiously.
"They gone. Five-O be gone," said the little man.
"I'm not sure," said the chef.
"It's four o'clock, four-thirty," said the man. "Shift change for the mothafuckas. They goin' back to the precinct, write it up, get some overtime."
The chef slid carefully out of the wall. He stood there picking splinters out of his palms and his shirt. The little man emerged, blinking. He crept up to the window and peered over the sill. "They gone," said the little man. "They ain't comin' back today." He reached into his sock and took