The light turned green and Brazil threw his old car into neutral, gunning it like he was going to blast off like the space shuttle. Officer Martin gunned his car, too, only the big horsepower Ford was in drive. It was already through the intersection by the time Brazil had finished his U-turn, flying the other way on Barclay Downs. He caromed off on Morrison and cut a tangled path that ended in a dark alleyway in the heart of Southpark Mall, next to a Dumpster.

His heart was hammering as he turned off headlights and sat, his thoughts frantic and frightened. He was trying to figure out what might happen if the cop found him again. Would the officer arrest Brazil for trying to elude, for resisting arrest? Would the cop show up with other goons and beat the shit out of Brazil in a place like this, remote and dark, with no chance of discovery by a citizen with a video camera? Brazil gasped as a burglar alarm suddenly sounded like a clanging jackhammer, shattering the absolute quiet. At first, he thought it was a siren that was somehow related to his fugitive status, then a back door swung open and slammed against brick. Two young males hurried out, loaded down with electronics they had just stolen from Radio Shack.

“911!” Brazil yelled into the mike connecting him into the newsroom. Disgusted, he yelled at himself this time, “Oh now that was helpful.”

“What was that?” the newsroom crackled back.

Brazil squealed off in pursuit, flipping headlights on. The thieves were having a hard time moving fast and holding on to their hard-earned rewards. Smaller boxes dropped first, primarily Walkmans, portable CD players, and computer modems. Brazil could tell that these two would hang on to boom boxes and miniature televisions until the bitter end. He raised the newsroom on the radio, and this time instructed an editor to call 911 and put the phone near the base station so a dispatcher could hear what Brazil was saying.

“Burglary in progress.” He was talking like a machine gun, weaving after his quarry. “Southpark Mall. Two white males running east on Fairview Road. I’m in pursuit. You might want a unit at the rear of Radio Shack to collect what they’ve dropped before someone else does.”

The thieves cut through a parking lot, then through another alleyway. Brazil broadcast their every step, on their heels like a border collie herding sheep. Neither young man could legally buy beer and both had been smoking dope, stealing, lying, and jailing since they were old enough for their pants to fall off. Neither was in premiere shape. Shooting hoops and boogeying in front of friends and on street corners was one thing. But running wide open for blocks was definitely another. Devon, especially, knew one lung, and possibly both, would rupture any second. Sweat was stinging his eyes. His legs might buckle, and unless he was having vision disturbances, too, the flashing red and blue lights of his childhood were closing in like UFOs from all corners of the planet.