The fireworks were over. Jimmy the Moocher was dead, Tommy Belafonte was probably going to follow him before the night was out, and there were some assorted soldiers in the Capriotti family that would be turning state's evidence by the end of the week, but for now, it was over.  The guys that hadn't gone off in ambulances were being packed into the backs of patrol cars, and soon the last of those was pulling out, turning the corner and leaving the alley empty except for the blood and some soggy crime scene tape.

DO NOT CROSS DO NOT CROSS
    
Kowalski should buy himself a clue here.
    
Ray Vecchio was angry. Ray Vecchio was pissed. In fact, Ray Vecchio didn't know he could get this angry, and if he'd been a cartoon character Kowalski would know to start apologizing right now because the color would be rising in Ray's face just like mercury in a thermometer and the steam would be pouring out his ears with a warning shriek like a train whistle.  And Kowalski would know to tread carefully all the way from here back to the station, would know in fact that it was in the best interest of his continuing good health to just shut up, get in the car, and drive--not that continuing good health seemed high on Kowalski's list of priorities, obviously.
    
But Ray Vecchio wasn't a cartoon character--not that Stanley ever  took the time to notice--so he wasn't giving off those easy-to-read signals that would let Kowalski know that he was this close to getting a fist in the face. Instead, Kowalski was turning to him with that goddamned smug grin that he got, that smug grin and that cocky tilt to his head, like he hadn't just done one of the dumbest things in the world, like he hadn't just walked right out into the alley with a deal going down, with a good half dozen of the cream of local wiseguys in attendance and what you might call prepared for any eventuality, and him with nothing but his service automatic in his hand and that patented Kowalski "don't fuck with me" attitude.
    
And Kowalski was still sporting attitude, wearing it like some flashy punked out shirt, rubbing his elbow where it had smashed into the wall when Ray grabbed at him, trying to pull him down, out of the way, trying to keep him alive. The wall where now there were about thirty bullet holes from TEC DC-9s, the kind of slim, light, lethal semi-automatics favored by your well-dressed mob guys, bullets that had missed Kowalski's head by inches and the grace of God and sheer luck. And Kowalski was grinning, the idiot was grinning and that was it, that was the opening bell right there, and Ray came out of his corner fighting, shoving Kowalski up against the side of his shiny black GTO just to make sure Kowalski was picking up on the idea that he should be paying some attention to this little tète-á-tète.
    
"Who do you think you are, Stanley--the Mountie? What the hell did you think you were doing back there? Didn't your mother teach you people don't kill people, people with guns kill people? Or did you just fail to pick up on the fact that those goombas were carrying an arsenal around under those Gucci overcoats? You could have been killed, you moron!" He shoved  Kowalski back against the car again for emphasis. "Killed as in dead. Dead,  dead, dead, Kowalski, end of story, final credits, adiós and an honor guard for your funeral."
    
And the grin faded, or maybe just changed, got an edge to it, and if Kowalski'd had hackles they'd have been rising right through the leather of his  jacket. As it was, Ray could see the muscles in his neck and jaw tighten,  like he was getting ready to take a punch. Or give one. "Yeah, I know what  'dead' means, Vecchio--"
    
"Do you? Do you get it?" And Jesus, he wanted to smash his fist into something,  preferably Kowalski, 'cause Vecchio could still taste the fear, sharp and  bitter on the back of his tongue, adrenaline, 'cause he hadn't been sure  he could get to Kowalski in time, wasn't sure he could move fast enough.
    
Wasn't sure that dead wasn't just what Kowalski was looking for, that dying in a blaze of glory wasn't just what Kowalski wanted. That somewhere in the back of that thick skull of his Kowalski was thinking about how maybe Fraser was going to hear about Kowalski being dead and be sorry he sent him packing. And that was just--it was just--
    
It was just funny, really, how quick anger could shed its skin, suddenly turn into something completely different, almost, something just as strong. Ray took another step closer, not taking his eyes off of Kowalski, who wasn't  taking his eyes off of Ray, so close that he was flat up against him, invading any personal space Kowalski had, any space he could find, pressing Kowalski  flush up against the hood. "You do not get to die on my shift," he said finally, careful not to let his voice shake, poking one not-so-steady finger into  Kowalski's chest. "You do not get to die."
    
"Yeah?" And Christ, someday, God forgive him, someday he was going to kill Kowalski himself, 'cause damn it if Kowalski didn't smile again. A different  kind of smile, though it was still smug as hell, one that jumped the track and rode a sizzle in Ray's bloodstream to places south. "Means so much to you, Vecchio?"
    
And the laugh that escaped him was involuntary, a side effect of taking his first deep breath since before he saw all the guns, all aimed in Kowalski's direction. Kowalski's hands were on his overcoat, fingers wrapped around his lapels, tugging him forward. "Yeah, well, maybe I just don't want all the paperwork," Ray said, and he tried to sound angry, still angry, but the second breath was easier than the first, and his hand had found its way up under Kowalski's jacket and sweatshirt, where his leather glove slid through slick sweat that said maybe Kowalski wasn't as complacent about all those guns as he'd let on. It was a bony back--Kowalski was a bony kind of guy, sharp shoulders and collarbone--and Ray's fingers followed the hard edges down Kowalski's back to his ass, and kept going. He could feel Kowalski's dick against his thigh, getting thick and hard, and hear Kowalski's sudden intake of breath, thin and reedy. The grip on his lapels tightened, wrinkling the fine cashmere, and he bit Kowalski's neck and whispered, "Get in the car."
    
Yeah, someday he was gonna kill Kowalski. But not today.
    
And for once Kowalski didn't argue, didn't dicker about who, what or where, didn't argue just for the pleasure of mouthing off. He pulled away from Ray, sliding off of the hood of the car, digging his keys out of his pocket  so he could unlock the door, climbing over the seat into the back. Ray followed right behind him, and there were a few awkward seconds as they got situated, Kowalski trying to turn onto his back, moving his knees up and apart. Ray was trying to get some leverage, one hand on the floor, one knee between Kowalski's, tugging his glove off with his teeth so that he could slide one hand back up under Kowalski's shirt.  Kowalski hissed loud through his teeth, and Ray could see the mist from his breath in the shadowy light cast by the streetlight at the end of the alley.
    
"Cold hands, Vecchio," Kowalski muttered but he didn't pull away. In fact, his hands were feeling Ray up, under his coat, under his jacket, then back down around his waist, trying to undo both their pants. There was a rush of cool air against his dick that wasn't entirely unpleasant and Kowalski was angling his head, like he wanted to kiss Ray, but Ray wasn't interested in kissing, he was still pissed off, damn it, he was. Kowalski finally gave up, muttering "fucker" under his breath and setting his mouth against Ray's ear, and then his neck, biting hard. Ray slid his hand around, getting a grip on Kowalski, wrapping his fingers around him and stroking hard, feeling his hand get warmer and wetter in the close pocket of boxers and thighs.  Kowalski's head came up off the seat, forehead up against Ray's shoulder, and he knew Kowalski was watching, watching where Ray's hand disappeared down the front of Kowalski's pants and the rhythmic motion of his fingers under denim worn white at the seams, and then Kowalski's hands came up around his back again, up under his suit coat and bunching up in his shirt. "Shit, shit, shit." Kowalski was chanting under his breath and now his hips were moving, rocking up, and Kowalski was shoving his dick through the circle of Ray's hand and the car was filling up with the smell of them, or maybe it was just Ray, his sweat and the adrenalin, the aftermath of fear, and if Kowalski's grip seemed tighter than usual, his eyes darker, well, maybe that was just a reflection.
    
"You know, sometimes you really just piss me off," Ray said, not taking his eyes off of Kowalski, and he could see the flash of Kowalski's teeth in the dim light as he barked out a laugh, a breathless, ridiculously happy laugh, and Ray set his lips against the pulse in Kowalski's neck, feeling the frantic pounding of Kowalski's heart, still beating.
    
"Vecchio," and it was a warning, a warning that Kowalski was about to make a helluva mess on his new suit, and fuck it, it wasn't blood, and he didn't let go, just pressed his mouth tighter against the pulse in Kowalski's neck, felt it jump, felt it accelerate, felt the edge of Kowalski's nails through his shirt, new to match the suit, and his knees digging into Vecchio's hips.
    
"Oh, yeah, fuck, fuck, fuck," and Kowalski was all over the place, up off the seat and jerking into Ray's hand, biting off short, sharp cries that pierced the deepening darkness and the chill. And Ray closed his eyes to hear it all, feel it all, Kowalski frantic and desperate and alive, and he didn't let go.