The knife came out, John struck
Larry twice, I heard the death rattle,
saw his eyes go blank, saw life leave
Larry as I punched him for the last
time and realized I never wanted
it to end this way. I never even saw
the knife go in.
Immediately, I knew the cards I was
being dealt. Nothing was going to
be the same. Ever. It was going to be
dark for a long time, dark, different,
deranged, a bad dream. And as I
rose from the body, to gently take
the knife from John’s bloody hand
and hide it under a corroded metal
garbage can, I knew I had taken
that huge step into acknowledgment
of consequences. And that meant
punishment, ready or not. n
BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE
Bloodlust had overtaken me, and all I
felt was the result of the hunt. I was no
longer prey. I was predator. He tripped
and fell. I pounced on him, hitting
him square, taking aim. He couldn’t
protect himself anymore and while he
tried in the first few seconds to block
the blows, he gave up and I saw his
head recoil with each punch. And then
my guys caught up, and I almost felt
sorry for Larry, sprawled backwards
on the pebbled concrete. This beating
was going to be quick, painful, and
methodical. “This is to remind you
of who not to fuck with next time,”
Mousie spat out as he punched Larry
in the jaw, hard and fast. “And this,
motherfucka, is for acting like you had
heart…” shouted Moose, the sweat
trickling down his skin from under
his Fedora, “and the bitching up. Take
this, you punk ass!” And Moose’s size
12 alligator shoe heel collided against
Larry’s light brown almost reddish
head. All of us stood back. We all knew
how much Moose hated Larry. It was
visceral. So we let Moose beat him up
for a while.
11
He fell down in stages, stumbling the
way metal cans do when the air is
sucked out of them. I kept on punching
and screaming and kicking. He fell
and stayed on the sidewalk, his legs
spread awkwardly on the concrete.
Clumsily he raised himself up on one
elbow, shaking the fogginess out of
his brain. Clarity must have seeped
through the cobwebs quickly; within
seconds he jumped to his feet and
began to run. He never looked at me or
my guys or his gang. I’ll never forget
the fear in his eyes. He had not only
been knocked down in a fair fight,
he had been knocked from power, and
there was no refuge. He had no plans
for loss. He had no plan for failure.
No back-up. And his minions were not
jumping to his aid. So he ran. And
we ran after him. I can’t remember who
grabbed him first, but I do remember
screaming, “No! He’s mine.” My breath
control was well-known. I could stay
under the pool for almost two minutes
and I could chase anyone, staying a
yard behind them, for a long, long
time. Larry was not going to escape.
It lasted no longer than fifteen
minutes, us shouting, punching and
kicking the gangly kid, humiliating
him by throwing garbage cans on top
of him, all in front of his so-called
“gang” of friends, not one of whom
stepped up to help him or even beg
us to stop. We might have listened
to that. And then the hurricane of
hate stopped, just like that. Five of
my guys instinctively stopped hitting
Larry, stopped shouting, and ran
down Broadway, quietly. And Larry
was still alive. The Canarsie Chaplains
were professionals, cool, methodically
dangerous. The only ones left
around the victim were John and I,
the unprofessionals.
BRN-SPRING-2015.indb 11
3/29/15 11:41 AM