any city, would not be an unusual occurrence. But as the footsteps behind us turn into a pace faster than ours—the attempt to catch up—anxiety rises.
I keep my eyes locked on the light at the end of the alley, but I can tell Melody is looking up at me, waiting for me to take control. “Just ignore it,” I say.
Could be nobody. On the other hand, could be anybody. Maybe Tommy Fingers hung out in Baltimore after all. Maybe her marshal found us and wants to have a word. Maybe a cop wants to nail us for jaywalking across Pratt Street.
“Oh, man,” Melody whispers.
I consider turning around at this point, weigh the usefulness of an early assessment of what may be coming, but I will not take my hand from Melody, will not allow her to be compromised in any way by turning my attention elsewhere, even for a handful of seconds.
As the footsteps get louder and closer, we have slowed and steadied our pace—though you would never guess because Melody’s now breathing so hard she’s on the verge of hyperventilating, the fear on her face as evident as the night I stormed her motel room in Cape Charles.
I run my hand up her back and around her shoulder and she whimpers, looks on the verge of tears. “No one is going to hurt you—not now, not ever. I’d never let it happen.”
The person slides up behind us, and while Melody might be panicking, I’m bathed in relief: I can tell by the person’s smell, a blend of stale alcohol and poor hygiene, that it’s no one from our crew, no one from the Marshals Service.
I feel a giant hand on my neck, brings me to a fast stop. The other hand grabs Melody by the shoulder and shoves her into a set of garbage cans. She goes tumbling over, bashes her arm on the corner of a Dumpster, smacks her shoulder on the pavement. As she tries to right herself, I can see blood on her shoulder and across her wrists from where she tried to brace herself. One of her sandals has come off, and as she twists her body, her dress rides up behind her with her legs apart and bent, leaving her facing us in an immodest position. She tries to shift her body and pull her dress down but it must hurt too much.
A small blade is pressed against my neckline, so thin and incapable I can feel the thing bend as it’s pressed into my flesh. I consider smacking it out of the person’s hand, but I want to gain an understanding of intention, to see where this is going.
Then I become the recipient of a most atrocious blast of breath, an exhale of sewage that carries these words: “Yeah, that’s it, stay just like that. When I’m done taking your man’s money, he’s gonna watch me take you on the ride of your life.”
I see. So it’s going there.
All I can say is this: toddler. So many crumbsnatchers in this city, a giant urban daycare center.
I feel blood running down my neck—nothing to be concerned about yet—but based on his overcompensation, this guy’s judgment is either drug-fueled or he’s off his rocker. In any case, bad timing for the guy. He continues to snap off the disgusting perversions he’s got planned for Melody. How terribly unfortunate for him that I just had to recall and retell the experience of Morrison assaulting my mother. With every word spoken from this scumbag, I picture Morrison’s drooling mouth uttering the same abusive and repulsive things. The images of a loved one being violated in that way are indelible, can never be cut out like a cancer or tumor. I will carry it the rest of my life. And now this: interplay with some bottom-dweller who wants more money for crack or smack or meth and happened upon a couple where he could not only steal cash, but forced sex as well.
Melody’s lips quiver. She has tears forming in the corners of her eyes and her breath is clipped. And now I wonder what it is she’s thinking, what she wants me to do. Does she want me to stand down? Offer up the cash and plead to leave her alone? Give up the tendency toward destruction the way I gave up the cigarettes? The profanity?
Sasquatch starts grabbing my butt looking for a wallet. “Gimme your wallet! Now!”