Morales and I burst into the clearing. The first thing I saw was one of the cops humping the statue like a stripper on a pole. The other officer’s chest was bare and he was just a zipper away from flashing his little wand to the crowd. A woman undulated around the circle, her hands raised high above her head as if in surrender. A couple writhed on the ground. Hands groping. Mouths hungry. Pelvises grinding.
And standing over them all, holding a black plastic cauldron, was a motherfucking leprechaun.
His costume—too short for his five-foot-and-spare-change frame—was a green double-breasted blazer, matching tights, and two black shoes with shiny silver buckles. A bowler hat on his head tipped jauntily forward over greasy brown hair. And on each cheek, he’d painted a jagged black lightning bolt.
He turned to face us, and a small plume of glittery golden powder spilled from the cauldron’s wide mouth.
I had my weapon in my hand before you could say Erin go Bragh. “Stand down!” I shouted in my best or-I’ll-shoot tone.
A single black brow disappeared under the brim of the hat. His gaze went to the salt flare gun in my hand. Every criminal in the Cauldron knew that the rock salt’s purpose was as much about inflicting pain as it was neutralizing magic.
Beside me, Morales aimed his Glock at the guy. “Put down the cauldron!”
As it turned out, fake leprechauns are surprisingly fast runners. One second he was staring down the barrels of our guns, and the next the bastard took off. The tails of his jacket flapped in the breeze, and it was a miracle of physics that he managed to keep his hat attached to his head. Morales and I exchanged shocked looks and took after the little shit.
“We need EMS at Pioneer Square,” I yelled into my phone. “Two officers down and several civilians hexed.”
“Ten-four, Detective Prospero,” the dispatcher replied. “On their way.”
“Stay with him,” Morales snapped. “I’ll cut through the alley and head him off at the intersection.”
He veered off to the left. I dug in and ignored the burning in my thighs. My gaze locked in on the sequined clover mocking me from the back of the leprechaun’s coat.
A high-pitched, potion-mad giggle taunted me. “Ye can’t catch the Leprechaun Man!”
I considered shooting the asshole in his pot of gold.
Franklin Street curved around and for a split second I lost sight of my green prey. When I came around the bend, I got an eyeful of my six-foot-tall, muscle-bound partner squatting as if to catch a runaway toddler. The next instant Morales was flat on his ass with a green blur retreating in the distance.
“Come on!” I yelled and kept running.
Ten seconds after I passed him, Morales caught up. He didn’t look as winded as I felt, but judging from his expression he was definitely just as pissed off. “What kind of potion is this guy on?”
Instead of answering, I grabbed my salt flare again. “I’ll spray, you slay.”
After his quick nod, I stop running. Exhaled. Pulled the trigger.
A starburst of salt rocks exploded from the gun. Half the crystals hit the pinged off cars parked along the street. The other half shredded the leprechaun’s coat and tights, streaking the green fabric red with blood.
He stumbled, a hand sweeping toward the pavement for balance. But before he could regain his stride, Morales tackled.
The pair rolled through the streets. Morales’s deep grunt playing off the squeaky protests of our short, belligerent friend.
The fall didn’t faze Morales, who quickly got two fistfuls of green coat and pegged his prize to the brick wall.
“Put me down!” the perp yelled with a fake Irish accent.
“Or what, tough guy?” Morales said. He was barely winded. Not surprising. I’d seen glimpses of the illicit muscles he was smuggling under his shirt.
The leprechaun jutted his face forward. “Or I’ll hex ye!”
“How you going to manage that?” I asked. “You lost your pot of gold.”
He struggled in Morales’s hold. “Feisigh do thoin fein!”
I exchanged a WTF look with my partner. “You catch that?”
“What’s your name, Lucky Charms?” Morales asked.
“Sean Patrick Finnegan-O’Lachlan.”
I blinked. “That’s a mouthful.”
“Aye, lass.” He motioned toward his crotch. “I’ll give ye a mouthful.”
Morales dropped the guy on his ass. “Watch your manners.”
O’Lachlan scrambled up quickly and tried to take off again. I caught him by the collar. “Not so fast.” Grabbing his left hand, I wrenched it behind his back. A tattoo on his arm depicted a cup and, underneath, the words IN VINO VERITAS.
“In wine, the truth,” I translated.
“Odd,” Morales said. “I thought leprechauns loved beer.”
“That’s racist as shit,” he said, dropping the Irish accent.
I pushed him toward the ground. Once his ass hit the concrete, I said, “Stay.”
“Please,” my partner said. “Irish isn’t a race. It’s a nationality.”
O’Lachlan scraped Morales with a bitter glare. “Whatever, Cheech.”
I sucked in my cheeks and glanced at Morales. He stared down at the guy like he was an ant in need of a boot heel.
“Hey, asshole,” he said in a surprisingly even tone. “I prefer wetback.”
“Gentlemen,” I said, “can we get down to business?” I waited until both shot me grudging looks to continue. “What’s in the potion?”
The perp spat at my feet. “I ain’t tellin’ you shit, lassie!” The guy pressed his lips together, twisted a finger in front of them, and mimed tossing away the key.
“I’ll call a squad car.” I turned away from the pair to call it in. Since we’d run several blocks during the pursuit, I glanced around to get my bearings. Back when I was still in uniform my beat had been the Cauldron, across the Bessemer Bridge from the downtown square where the Halloween Festival was held. The muted bite of sirens in the distance didn’t give me a lot of hope we’d get a car. But I tried anyway because I didn’t want to get stuck pushing this turd through booking at the precinct.
“Wear you out, did I?” O’Lachlan said to Morales behind me. “You should cut back on the donuts.”
I snorted and looked back over my shoulder. The leprechaun slouched on the ground with a torn jacket and one missing shoe. Thanks to the tussle with Morales, one of his lightning bolts was smeared across his cheek like shit.