formed a wall at my back. Money’s guitar sang as he shifted his weight, and Theresa whimpered and reached for Sal’s arm.
The emergency door behind us whooshed and swung, and Bo Johnson, right on cue, stepped out into the dank alley, his gun drawn, his distinctive hat drawn low. His topcoat flapped around his legs, and his shiny black shoes reflected the moonlight overhead. We were caught in the space between them, Sal, Theresa, and the Tonys on one end, the long, bowler-hatted silhouette of Bo Johnson on the other.
The Tonys both drew their weapons.
“No,” I shouted, stepping in front of Esther and warding the Tonys off. “Nobody needs to do that. He’s with us. He’s with me.”
Sal’s eyes flickered over Esther and back to the figure that advanced slowly, his gun in front of him, his stride long.
“Bo Johnson saved my life in Detroit,” I said, my eyes clinging to Sal’s pointed gun. “None of us are enemies,” I said.
Bo stopped, but he didn’t lower his gun. Nobody lowered their guns. Money began easing back, pulling his brothers and Esther out of the line of fire, but I stayed centered between the opposing sides, afraid that if I cleared the way, firing would commence, and there was no one there I could bear to lose. I was surrounded on all sides by pieces of my life. By members of my . . . family.
Johnson’s stance was easy, the barrel in his left hand, the grip in his right, but the way Money had described his methodical execution of the four men who had attacked me left me little doubt that the Bomb Johnson would not hesitate to shoot.
“Go on now, Benny,” Bo Johnson rumbled. “You all just keep on walking. Get outta here.”
“And then what?” I said. “You all shoot it out?”
“Go, Benito. Take your aunt. Take your woman and her family. Let us finish this,” Sal insisted.
“He is my family,” Esther spoke up, trying to pull out of Money’s grip. “Bo Johnson is my family.”
“He killed your mother,” Sal said to Esther, his eyes lingering on her before they slid back to Bo Johnson. “He killed Maude . . . and he left you. Surely you know this.”
“I did not kill Maude,” Bo Johnson said, every word an emphatic punch.
“You killed her,” Esther said, pointing at Sal. “You killed my mother because you couldn’t have her.”
“Me?” Sal said, scoffing. “No. No.” Sal shook his head. “I didn’t kill her. I loved her.”
It was what he’d said when I’d accused him of killing Pop, like love and violence could not exist in the same man.
Theresa laughed, incredulous, and all eyes swung to her.
I’d never heard Theresa laugh before. It was an odd sound, like someone was tickling her with a sharp knife and she was afraid to skewer herself.
And she kept laughing, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks as if the mirth had overcome her.
Sal winced. “Go back to the car, Theresa.”
She opened her purse, fumbling for something to dry her eyes even as she cackled and cried.
“Go back to the car!” Sal barked. “Tony . . . take Theresa and go. Sticks, you stay with me.”
“But boss,” Fat Tony protested, his gaze swinging from Theresa to Bo Johnson. His gun hand twitched.
“Benny!” Esther screamed.
Somebody fired, and everyone dropped. I threw myself to the side, reaching for Esther, but her brothers had already pulled her to the ground, each of them trying to cover the other, their limbs and bodies piled together, their heads tucked beneath their arms.
“Theresa!” Sal bellowed.
She was waving a small white revolver like a child with a Fourth of July streamer.
Sal lunged for the tiny gun and she fired, the bullet whizzing past his head and pinging into the trash cans on the other side of the alley. Sal flinched and roared, and Theresa shot again, her aim swinging wildly like she wasn’t sure who she wanted to kill.
Sticks dove toward her, tackling her to the ground, and the gun went off again.
Bo Johnson was running toward Sal, his gun out, and I scrambled, coming out of my crouch, knowing that he would kill or be killed, and I could not allow either of those things.
“Stop!” I yelled. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot.”
Sticks was down, Fat Tony too, though I didn’t know why. Salvatore Vitale and Bo Johnson stood a mere five feet apart, each gun pointed at the other man’s head.
Sticks eased himself up off of Theresa, his arms extended like a cowboy at