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He started to move his left and I cracked his temple with the barrel.
“You’re a lefty, asshole. I saw you light the cigarette.”
“Chingaso.”
“With your mother, asshole. She liked it a lot. Hand out the gun very slowly. Keep your left hand where it is.”
The gun came up and I took it. A black TEK 9, one of the old gang-banger weapons of choice, no doubt converted to full-automatic fire. I moved back two steps, clicked on the safety, and tossed it on the asphalt behind me. The street was empty and the lights were off in most of the houses. No cars even came by on Third Avenue.
I pulled on the door handle.
“Out and on the pavement, very slowly.”
He obliged grudgingly, dropping to his knees, then lowering himself face down with his arms straight out. He knew the routine from much experience. Everyone should have a career, and here was a career criminal. A chain dangled down from his neck holding a silver cross. I did a quick pat-down, finding nothing but a wallet. I stuck it in my pants.
“You robbing me?”
“Sure. What are you doing here?”
“Smoking.”
“Why are you watching the street?”
Suddenly the streetlights went sideways and I was on my back, barely avoiding the hard pavement with the back of my head. His bulk was immediately on top of me. I fought to breathe as he grabbed with both hands for the revolver. Stupid, stupid rookie mistake, standing too close, not watching—he had reached for my ankle and pulled me down. He was strong. Years doing weights in prison will do that. And I only held control of the Python in one hand. I had just enough strength to toss it out of his reach.
He tried to scramble for it and that’s when I brought my knee into his balls. I felt a satisfying fleshy connection and he made an “oomph” sound. It gave me enough time to flip him over and slam the heel of my hand into his nose. I heard cartilage snap and a glob of blood spurted in his upper lip. I sprang up and got hold of the Python again, turning around in time to see him crawling for the TEK 9.
“Don’t!” I was panting and bouncing on the balls of my feet, adrenaline sending me ten feet in the air. He looked
back and studied me.
“You had to think about it,” he huffed, pain pinching his face. “That’s the thing about guys like you. You hesitate. You think.”
I was in a two-handed shooting stance now, his upper torso lined up in the Python’s precision sites, three feet away. I said, “Don’t make me think too long.”
He put his head on the street and brought his legs up, giving in to the agony down in his crotch.
“Motherfucker.”
I took the opportunity to kick him in the side.
“Fuuuck! I’m filing against you, homes, police brutality.”
So he knew who I was. This was no small-time burglar or car thief prowling the neighborhood.
“Guess what, genius. I’m not a cop anymore. I’m just another concerned citizen.” His head rose and he watched me closely. His pupils seemed to dilate despite the streetlights.
“I’m asking you again: Why are you watching the street?”
His bit his lip to fight the pain. “You know the drill, homes. I got nothing to say.”
“You sound like somebody using dialogue out of an eighties gang movie.” I forced myself to ratchet down the barely controlled hysteria inside me. I had almost lost my gun. “You’re not coming back here. And I want you to send a message to your keepers, asshole. The woman who lives down the block didn’t have anything to do with anything.”
“Says you.”
“That’s right. And you’re going to have to take my word for it. She doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t have anything. She hasn’t crossed anybody. No venganza.” Revenge. “Your friends didn’t even kill the right guy. They killed an innocent civilian and the cops aren’t going to just drop it.”
“Not what I hear,” he muttered.
