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Yvette, gesturing wildly at Xavier Smith, exploded: “That bastard stuck a fucking gun to Sasha’s head last night! Made her go down on him in front of her grandmother!”
The eyes of the crowd were all on Yvette. Everyone was either not sure they’d heard what they thought they’d heard, or was processing the incredibly awful news.
“What?” Paco Ramirez asked.
“It’s true!” Yvette said. “Almost killed Sasha, too!”
Then the eyes turned to Xavier Smith. He’d already started walking away from the group. Now, glancing over his shoulder—and looking guilty as hell—Xavier Smith bolted across Ridgewood.
“And that no-good nigger just tried to get Sasha again!” Keesha screamed.
Yvette started running. “Don’t let him get way! C’mon!”
Oh, shit, Javier thought. “Yvette, wait!”
When she didn’t, Javier took off after her.
Two male teenagers ran to a small red Ford pickup truck. They got in and, tires squealing, roared up the street.
Almost everyone else took off to follow Yvette, who was furiously sprinting.
Everyone but Keesha, who now sat on the sidewalk consoling a sobbing Sasha.
“See?” Sasha said. “He said he would. Anytime . . .”
A crowd at least twenty strong closed in on Smith, who now ran down the middle of Fifty-fifth Street. Barely dodging a Chevy sedan, its horn blaring and tires squealing, he then bolted across Beaumont Avenue, looking as if he were going to take a shortcut through the asphalt parking lot of Shaw Middle School.
There was a small group by the door to the school, looking at and adding to the makeshift memorial for Principal Joelle Bazelon. They turned and watched Smith approaching, then saw the angry mob that was chasing him—and fled the school grounds.
Xavier Smith turned to look over his shoulder, and as he glanced back he tripped on the uneven surface of the parking lot. He went down fast and hard, hitting the asphalt face-first. It dazed him.
The crowd, still led by Yvette Iglesia, caught up in no time.
They circled Xavier Smith. He remained motionless.
“Not much of a bad ass now, are you?” Yvette yelled between gasps for breath.
“We’re sick of your shit, pendejo!” Paco Ramirez said—and suddenly, angrily, began kicking him.
Others immediately joined in, shoes and boots striking him on his back and legs. Some of the girls were throwing their weight into their kicks, their arms swinging with the exertion.
Smith recoiled. He pulled into the fetal position, protecting his face with his arms.
Oh, shit! Street justice! Javier thought.
The punk’s getting what he deserves. But . . .
The rest of the crowd joined in, and Javier could see that the frenzy was building on itself.
They’re going to kill him!
And then their lives are really ruined. . . .
Smith managed to roll over
and reach underneath his sweatshirt. He pulled out a chrome-plated, snub-nosed .32-caliber revolver.
He waved it up at the crowd. “Back off! Now!”
