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As he came out the far side, he saw the driver of the Ford sedan, a heavyset black woman in her late fifties, leaning over the open trunk, looking over her shoulder as she rushed to remove bulging white plastic grocery bags.
He ran toward her and loudly called, “Hey! I need your car . . .”
The woman, the heavy bags swinging from her hands, turned and saw Daquan quickly approaching.
Then she saw that he was holding a pistol.
She dropped the bags, then went to her knees, quivering as she covered her gray hair with her hands.
“Please . . . take whatever you want . . . take it all . . . just don’t hurt me . . .”
Daquan saw that a ring of keys had fallen to the ground with the bags.
“It’s an emergency!” he said, reaching down and grabbing the keys.
—
Tires squealed as he made a hard right at the first corner, going over the curb and onto the sidewalk, then did it again making another right at the next intersection. He sped along the block, braking hard to look for Payne down one vacant lot, then accelerating again until braking at the next lot.
He finally found the one with Payne and the teenager—Payne was trying to sit upright; the teen had not moved—and skidded to a stop at the curb.
Daquan considered driving across the lot to reach Payne faster, but was afraid the car would become stuck.
He threw the gearshift into park and left the engine running and the driver’s door open as he ran toward Payne.
He saw that Payne was holding his left hand over the large blood-soaked area of his gray sweatshirt. And, as Daquan approached closer, he saw Payne, with great effort, raise his head to look toward him—while pointing his .45 in Daquan’s direction.
“Don’t shoot, Matt! It’s me!”
“Daquan,” Payne said weakly, then after a moment lowered his pistol and moved to get up on one knee.
Daquan squatted beside him. Payne wrapped his right arm around Daquan’s neck, and slowly they stood.
“This way,” Daquan said, leaning Payne into him and starting to walk.
The first couple of steps were awkward, more stumbles than solid footing, but then suddenly, with a grunt, Payne found his legs.
They managed a rhythm and were almost back to the car when Daquan noticed a young black male in a wheelchair rolling out onto the porch of a row house across the street.
“Yo! What the fuck!” the male shouted, coming down a ramp to the sidewalk. “What’d you shoot my man Ray-Ray for?”
Daquan said nothing but kept an eye on him as they reached the car and he opened the back door. He helped Payne slide onto the backseat, slammed the door shut, then ran and got behind the wheel.
?
??Yo!” the male shouted again.
As Daquan pulled on the gearshift, he could hear the male still shouting and then saw in the rearview mirror that he had started wheeling up the street toward the car.
And then he saw something else.
“Damn!” Daquan said aloud.
He ducked just before the windows on the left side of the car shattered in a hail of bullets.
And then he realized there was a sudden burning sensation in his back and shoulder.
He floored the accelerator pedal.
