Darts

It was 7 PM and I was heading east on 63rd Street when I saw the cop’s lights in my rearview mirror. The squad was about three-quarters of a mile behind me, ablaze with those blinding rooftop strobe lights. And he was flying. I watched his headlights jump the centerline and weave through traffic.

I was on my way to the 7-Eleven to pick up a magazine for my brother-in-law’s birthday, probably a Playboy. With four kids and a six-day workweek, he needs a little entertainment. And wouldn’t you know it? At 61st, ten squads were jammed into the tiny 7-Eleven lot. One car’s lazy, old-fashioned blue lights were splashing the store windows; an unmarked car stood abandoned with its doors thrown open. I could see the crowd of blue jackets inside.

“They think a gun…”

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The boy was sitting in the corner near the front windows, his leg up on a milk crate. He didn’t appear to be in much pain but gawked at the cops pouring in, at their expectant looks. All they knew was what they heard on their radios, that someone had been shot. They came up to him, a few bending to speak quietly in his ear. The boy was a lanky teenager, sandy-haired, with wire-rimmed glasses, a big-shouldered jacket, and a painter’s cap pushed back on his head.

Now he watched the door, the cops coming and going, and the few customers standing in line. They seemed ill at ease, hunching apologetically for having come in at a time like this. The petite counterlady, nervously blinking, seemed to be enjoying the drama.

“Where’d you get that?” one cop asked, putting out his hand.

Now a young drunk stormed in, shaking his finger at the salespeople for keeping the short line of customers waiting. The counterman, pointing to the boy, said, “We got a boy shot here.”