him, rolled around, socked him in his head, threw elbows and demonic blows, tried to beat him to whatever he was struggling to grapple from his waistline. Blood stained his face and he wouldn’t give in. I felt the handle he was struggling to get a decent grip on. I held it down, jammed my fingers in his eyes, then did a Mike Tyson move and bit the tip of his nose as hard as I could. Tried to make my teeth meet. He screamed like an old woman. I bit him again. He kicked and his scream came out ragged and deranged. He had to choose between his nose and his gun. He followed the pain and let go of the burner. A snub-nosed .38. The screams didn’t end. I’d never heard a man shriek so loud, his song out of key with that horrible techno music.
A few people looked our way, saw nothing but parked cars and shadows, then went back to trying to get to the other side of that velvet rope. No sign of the Deuce-and-a-Quarter.
The music had covered most of his wails.
I was sweating strong, breathing hard. My arms ached, hadn’t pumped any real iron in too long, skin burned, felt scratched up from where he had dug his claws into my skin.
I got a grip on his burner, threw the snub nose up high and hard. It landed on the roof.
He told me, “You. A. Dead. Man.”
He was bloodied, beaten, and still threatening my life.
“Play That Funky Music, White Boy” came on again, his cellular blinking in neon colors. He’d dropped the phone. It had landed close to him. Bullyboy was calling. Jackal scampered toward that song. I stomped down on his knee, heel first. Gave him something to sing about.
He howled out his own chorus, a low out-of-breath howl that went into the pavement.
I leaned against the wall, tried to catch my breath.
He grabbed his leg and gurgled, his mouth filled with saliva. The way we were situated, nobody could see us in the shadows. I turned and walked away, chest heaving, only made it a few steps, stopped to rest, catch my breath, my bad knee still giving me grief, but not as much.
“Dead.” He moaned, and sent me an evil smile. “You. Dead. Motherfucker.”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Nigga.”
“Be a shame if your brother had an accident tonight. Be a shame if they found him in that house all burned up because he was caught on fire.”
My rage took over, put fire behind my eyes. I balanced myself on the brick wall, raised my foot, tried to bring my knee up to my chest, then brought my foot down on the side of his head. Went Klingon on his ass until he shut up and went into his private siesta. Rage wouldn’t let me ease up. Kept trying to stomp him into the concrete until I thought I heard his neck snap.
I staggered away, my shirt torn to shreds, halfway on, halfway off my body. I yanked that rag off me. Stood with my top bare. Exhausted, eyes wide, sweat raining from my head.
He’d issued one threat too many. He didn’t know me. I didn’t own a mansion. Or a Cessna. Didn’t have the keys to a Lamborghini. Wasn’t a soft-ass limo driver.
I was Reverend Daddy’s oldest son. I was East Side. Had done time like a man, and beat down many men since I was born. I was my brother’s keeper.
Nobody threatened my family. Nobody threatened my brother. Nobody.
That music bumped loud in the background, loud enough to drown out the last two minutes of fights and moans on this side of the street. The world went loud, but the space between me and my enemy was as quiet as Inglewood Cemetery at sunrise.
I couldn’t tell if he was breathing, saw no rise and fall in his chest.
If death came tonight, I wasn’t going to ride through those burning gates alone.
“Play That Funky Music, White Boy” played again. I stomped the phone to pieces.
A red dot moved across my chest, my eyes settled on its rise and fall. The beam moved up across my nose, did that to make sure it had my full attention, then went back to my heart.
Lisa had come up on me, moved through the shadows, the night breeze kicking up like she had demanded the commotion, like she was Storm, winds whipping her white linen dress left and right. Angelic head to toe. She had an