“Fucker shot me in the arm.”

Charlie’s breath was hot on my ear and he groaned when I moved him.  He leaned against the wall, the light from the newly opened trap door above us showed me the wince etched into his face.  His left arm leaked blood.  I wiped at my cheek, blood there, too.

“Scoop, I need you to find something to throw,” I said.  Scoop didn’t move.

“Scoop,” I said again, just as calm as the first time.

“Something to throw,” he repeated and ran off.  I took off my tie, just a shade off from Charlie’s blood.  Charlie turned to face me, offered his shoulder. I found the wound on his upper arm, just more than a graze.  A shallow wound that would bleed a lot. With both hands I tied the tie in a thick knot around the hole in Charlie’s arm. He groaned again.

“You’ll live,”  I said, and I stood to admire my handy work, and my brave friend.

“That’s more than I can say about that fucking kid up there,” he said through gritted teeth.  And he stood up, the top of his head white sunlight.  His hat had fallen off, vanished below us in the dark.

“We’ll see what we can do,” I said.

Scoop returned from his search with a brick and a short piece of rotten wood that looked as though it had been pried from a wall in the hallway.

I grabbed the brick, weighed it in my hand, and traded him for the wood. It had some heft to it despite the fact that it had just about hollowed with rot.

“Stay here,” I instructed them both. Charlie arranged the knot of my tie on his arm and Scoop looked at the brick in his hand, but neither argued.

I climbed to the highest point of the staircase I could get to without exposing myself.

I waited, counted to thirty, hardly breathed.  Then I found him.  There was gravel on the rooftop, and the man who shot Charlie stood about ten feet from the trap door.  I couldn’t see him, couldn’t see anything on the rooftop, but I could hear him shifting his feet.  I could hear his breathing, thick and fast through his nose.

I lifted the wood, brought it back, and threw it high in his direction.  I heard the gasp that followed and wasted no time in jumping up the last few steps and tumbling over myself, and ending up just behind a boxy, metallic air duct.

“I saw you,” he called at me.

“I got a medal for you for that,” I called back at him. “Come and get it.”

“What are you doing?” he yelled. “You just trapped yourself.”

“We’re surrounding you,” I said.  His shifting in the gravel had ceased.  “Scoop, on my mark.”

“What are you doing,” he said, his voice raising. “Stop it.”

“Ready Cloudy,” I heard Scoop from the stairs. I didn’t intend for him to do anything, I wanted him to stay out of the way, but his playing along helped a great deal.

“Stop this,” the man who shot Charlie called to us. “Stop this now.”

“On my mark,” I shouted to Scoop.

“OK,” the man said. “Ok, we can talk. Let’s talk.”

“A little late for that, son,” I said.

“I want to talk,” he said. “Let’s just talk. Look. Look.”  The unmistakable sound of a heavy object falling to the gravel at his feet. 

I waited. Being a detective, even a new one, tested my patience more than my nerve, more than my stamina or grit.  The ability to wait proved to be a valuable tool.  As my career progressed I discovered that the game could often be won when I could merely wait longer than my assailant.  As I waited on the rooftop that day, the sun beat the back of my neck, small rocks dug their way into my knees, and I discovered how important the wait could be.

After an amazing amount of time, he said, “Let’s talk.”

All of the anger had left his voice.  I could almost taste the dejection in his tone.

“Ok,” I said, and I stood.

I caught sight of him just as my head came over the top of the duct. His empty hands were held up in front of him. When I reached my full height I saw the gun laying at his feet.

I came around the duct and stood ten feet from him in a spot where the reflection of the sun shone on his gun at his feet, kept my attention on it without having to look away from the man’s eyes.  He had been sweating, his loose shirt was damp in spots and his pants were dirty. Heavy circles under his eyes and the sallow quality of his skin told me he hadn’t slept.  The hat on his head looked tattered on his shaggy head. There was no watch on either wrist, and his hands were callused.

I showed him my own palms, proved that I was unarmed, and said, “Let’s talk.”