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Redemption Road
A Short Story by Des Nnochiri, Copyright © D.C.S. Nnochiri, 1996-2005
"May I see your driving license, sir?"
The young constable is very young, indeed- barely out of his teens. His black and white Metropolitan Police uniform sits awkwardly upon his gangly frame, as does the peaked cap upon his mousy blond head. There is a wispy apology for a moustache sprouting from his upper lip, and his ears stick out from his head to an alarming degree.
I breathe a sigh, and hand over my documents.
"And your passport, sir?"
He takes a moment to digest my personal details, catches sight of the diplomatic visa stamp on the third page.
In the near distance, a grey Volvo estate slips smoothly into the rear of a 3 kilometre tailback of rush-hour traffic heading into the city.
The tailback edges slowly forward. In a few minutes from now, the Volvo will have cleared the roadworks at the head of the queue, and have a clear run into the metropolis.
I don't have a few minutes.
I sigh again, searching within myself for the appropriate degree of tact and diplomacy.
"Was I speeding, officer?"
The youngster blinks at me. Once. Twice.
"No, sir."
I nod in agreement.
"True. But I am most likely going to be speeding real soon."
I reach across my seat, extracting a credit card wallet from my jacket pocket. I open it, and hand it over to the young cop.
He swallows. Once. Twice. His Adam's apple bobs as I continue speaking.
"I'll be speeding because this little interruption of yours has cost me valuable time. Time that I'm going to have to make up if I intend to apprehend the suspect I've flown halfway around the world to apprehend. And believe me, son, I do intend to apprehend this particular suspect. Now, in the spirit of international and inter-agency cooperation, you are going to help me. Can you do that?"
He swallows again, Adam's apple bobbing.
"Yes, sir."
"Good," I said.
I give him the model and registration number of the suspect vehicle, and a summary of the suspect's vital statistics.
"You see this?"
I tap the two-way radio set below the dashboard of my car.
" I'm going to use this to keep track of your progress. You are going to keep track of the suspect's progress, and report back to me on your two-way radio. Meanwhile, I am going to wait here, to give you and the suspect a headstart as- because of this interruption of yours- I can't be certain that the suspect does not know that he is being pursued by me. You, in your turn, will have to make sure that he doesn't believe he is being followed by you. Do you think you can do that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good."
He hands back my papers, and sets off in pursuit of Alvares Sereno.
I leave the window down, and close my eyes for the wait. The interior of the car is plush- all naugahyde and new leather. Power steering, central locking. Automatic windows. 357 Colt Python in the glove compartment,
I smile to myself, remembering the cosmetic courtesies of the Customs officials at the airport- their barely concealed alarm at the official credentials directly at odds with my own bearded countenance and dreadlocked hair. I was sure they had me down as a drug dealer, originally.
My thoughts turn again to the gun stowed in the dash. Magnum loads, fired from the sort of hand cannon with which it's almost impossible to miss- at close range. Not my weapon of choice. The boys back home kidded me, none too kindly, about elephant hunting. I smiled and took it. What choice did I have?
They knew, as I did, that the last time I had Sereno in my sights, I had fired on him- and missed. The Aspect Theatre had burned to the ground before my eyes, as Sereno got away. 254 men, women, and children perished. If I screwed up this time.... As a wise man once said, it's bad enough to be black in a white man's world. It's plain miserable to be both black and incompetent.
A noise from the radio. I started the engine and rolled, praying that the local law's special weapons unit wouldn't get there before I did.
I found the Volvo in the open parking lot overlooking the Metropolitan Opera House. Sereno was perched on the hood, a small metal canister beside his left hand, a 9-mm Beretta in his right.
I adopted the standard firing position.
"Freeze!" I shouted.
Sereno turned, grey eyes peering from olive skin. He smiled, revealing small, sharp teeth.
"Another one? Why do they always send me black cops?"
I ignored the jibe.
"Alvares Sereno," I spoke loudly and clearly. "Drop your weapon, move away from the car, and put your hands on your head."
He held my gaze a moment, frowning. His eyes flicked beyond me, and I noted movement in my peripheral vision. Local cops- I hoped.
Sereno's eyes returned to me. I sensed more than saw the movement that he made, as a light of recognition dawned in them.
I shot him in the chest. As he fell back, eyes still on my face, I mouthed the words.
"Same black cop."