“I've called the police station 1300 Beaubien,” she yelled, slapping her other arm a few times. She peered in the directions of the gunshots. "The cops won't come unless you beg them."
“Who is she?” Brice asked, driving into the driveway.
“My mother,” Qadira said, opening the door partially. Brice shifted to park. "You informed the police about working girl. The mom goes to jail and kids are taken by child protective service. You'll be making a real difference."
Brice planned to make changes. Qadira paraded herself in front of her mother and growled. He would help her, one person at a time. Bautista got to be taken away by the cops or ran off first.
“Why do you always embarrass me?” Qadira asked stomping into the house. "You dressed like an alien."
“Get in the house Qadira,” her mother said squinting at Brice.
Qadira will be all right, Brice thought with a mouth like that.
"Help me man," said a guy clutching his steering wheel. Brice pried his blood covered hand off it. Then he went back gripping the back of his thigh, trying to control the bleeding. He limped around to the passenger side carrying a personal size television.
The robber took off then tripped into the tall grass. He flattened it, exposing a stiff dog with a swarm of flies over it. Brice backed out of the driveway, following way the thief went. He stopped his car near where he collapsed. Rushing to him, Brice debated whether he should help him up.
"That's enough man," Brice said to the approaching kid with a gun. "Police -"
The kid clicked the gun at the thief's head. Brice pushed the gun barrel down. The kid yanked it away, firing a shot at the thief. His body jerked, Brice ran for his car, diving inside. He banged his body against the steer wheel and his seat. The shooter took the tv set scurried passed Qadira's house. Her mother slapped him on the shoulder, screaming.
Brice crawled backwards out the car, squatting. He saw the kid try to find a yard to cut through. He fired two gunshot off in the directions of Mrs. Anderson and him. Then he ran up Ellis Street.
"Call 911, Mrs. Anderson," Brice yelled getting back into his car. He continued up West Chicago. That thief was dead and nothing he could do. His body would remain unclaimed like the dog and the prostitute will still keep hustling her body next to them.
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