Chapter 4

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April 17th, 11:45 p.m. The Bronx, New York City

This chapter is dedicated to author Richard Price, whose down to earth dialogue within urban backdrops inspired me throughout.


Danny wore his gray hoodie set tight around his face, both hands in the warmer concealing the knuckle knife as he strutted erect on the sidewalk, never looking down. A row of forgotten parking meters stood guard over the crumbling sidewalk along the rear of Darryl's building. No one suspected the Kevlar vest he'd donned underneath. His strident gait projected that of someone who owned the sidewalk underneath him, while his thoughts focused on any escape routes he could use at the first signs of trouble.

Parkchester Houses, a city-block sized plot with twenty three six-story buildings was always at the top of the city's worst projects list. It was a place where, Danny had been told, the Devil himself wouldn't set foot in. This particular section had been dubbed, 'Siberia', by local law enforcement.

Approaching the expansive courtyard, he could hear the unmistakable clamber of residents and buyers congregating across from Building 4's front entrance. A driveway curved around the building, between it and a small playground. The benches were lined with young men, with lines forming in front of them like patrons waiting to enter a rock concert. The entire scene had the aura of a dysfunctional block party, except no one was dancing. Three boys popped off sounds with makeshift percussive objects. One sat with a pair of drumsticks rattling away against the bottom of a plastic overturned industrial sized paint can.

After a preliminary scan of the area, he realized he wasn't the only Caucasian paying a visit to the projects tonight. He noticed several high school and college kids, either too brazen or too stupid to care about their own safety, lined up for their fair share of crack and heroin, the drugs du jour.

The undercover cops Darryl had described were conspicuously absent, but Danny assumed they were watching from above, laying in waiting for someone to make a mistake.

Danny stood in line and watched how the system ran seamlessly, like a play wherein everyone performed their part to perfection. Without a word, a customer stopped at the bench and extended a hand as if to shake, except he had held a folded deck of money which the seller palmed, then raised his left hand and waved it back at the front entrance of the building, three middle fingers curled down with pinkie and thumb extended in a Tai-Chi-like move. The seller palmed the money to one of the others, who walked to the front entrance, stooped down at the three boys banging away and stuck the wad of bills under the overturned bucket. Then, another boy walked out of the building through the solid metal door and likewise palmed the vials to the customer.

Every third bench had a teenaged boy sitting up on its back ready to sell. One group huddled up ogling a Gameboy.

He closed in on Darryl, surrounded by three others and looked straight into his eyes. "Where's Mekhi?"

"He sick, man. I doing his stash tonight." The other boys looked on in bewilderment.

"I want to see him. Now," Danny repeated as he stepped closer. "What he sold me last time was shit."


"He must be deaf or something," the second boy said, followed by muffled snickering.

"Then I want to see whoever he got this stash from. Tell me where he is."

"Don't know where. He come whenever he want to." The kid shrugged, followed by backup laughter from the group.

They all looked at each other, except for Darryl, who stared blankly back at Danny, playing the part.

"I'm not going anywhere until then," Danny said.

"No one get to see him," the first boy said, sounding all-important.

Then Darryl spoke. "He right, Mister. So take a walk and go somewhere else."

Almost on cue, Darryl's cell phone vibrated.

"That's the man, isn't?" Danny demanded.

"Like I said, he—"

In mid-sentence, Danny charged Darryl and pummeled him with ease to the ground. Then he pulled out the knuckle knife and pressed it to Darryl's throat, eying the two other boys. "You tell me where he is or I'll kill this kid."

Darryl's voice came out high-pitched. "Don't tell him!"

Frozen in place, the two boys were too scared to confront Danny.

One of the boys blurted, "He out front right now."

Danny grabbed Darryl's cell phone like a spoil of victory, then released tension on the knife. "If any of you follow me out there, I carve you up."

As he walked away, the two boys helped Darryl up.

"What?" the first kid said. "You had to tell him where Ramon at? You should'a lied about where he is. Ramon just gonna' smoke him, is all."

The second boy, nodding rapidly, said, "That dude's gonna' get got. Believe."

As Danny approached the curb, he saw the Grand Torino double parked, engine growling, tendrils of smoke curling out from the cracked open passenger side tinted window. One of Ramon's lieutenants, stocky with a muscular build but less than intimidating, was smoking a joint, leaning against the rear car door fender.

"I want to see Ramon," Danny said, stalking up.

"Yeah?" the lieutenant said. "He not here, so fuck off."

"Look, I know he's in the car, so just step aside."

The man acted as a human wall, barring access to the passenger side door. "Hey. What'd you want with him, man?"

"I need to work out a deal I did with Mekhi last week."

"What about it? Ramon too busy, man. Any problem you got, you talk to me."

Unfazed, Danny stepped up and put his face directly in front of the lieutenant's, chin protruding forward. "Listen up. I heard Mekhi's not doing any dealing right now and I think I know why," he said, flicking up an eyebrow and registering a snarl. The lieutenant didn't react. "He was selling bad stash. I want my money back. Now."

"Looks like you gotta find your stash someplace else," the lieutenant said, inhaling another breath of smoke and exhaling through his nostrils.

Danny slouched in apparent defeat, "Yeah, okay. I guess you're right."

He turned to walk away, then wheeled around in a crouch. Danny shot upward, his forehead making contact with the man's face, smashing it and knocking him back onto the trunk of the car. The lieutenant rolled off the back of the trunk and fell onto the street, groaning while his bloody fingers clamped his recently acquired broken nose.

The rear passenger side door swung open. Another young man vaulted out of the car and held a gun straight at Danny. The driver's side door opened and the driver, Marco, emerged. Had it not been for him, Danny would have sidestepped and kicked the door back in his face.

"You feel like lyin' dead out here on the sidewalk, man?" he asked. "Don't even think about it."

"I want to see Ramon," Danny said.

"Oh you gonna see him now, awright."

Danny heard the sound of the passenger side automatic window lower. He remained aware of the man with the gun, careful not to break his gaze.

"I'm right here. Say what you want to say." The figure in the front seat turned, his face still ensconced in the shadow of the car's interior."

"No. Not here," Danny said with chilled conviction.

"Hey, get a load of this guy, Ramon. He telling us what to do," said the man with the gun, ready to pull the trigger on the order.

Danny wouldn't retreat, although he took account of all possible escape routes.

Gun still pointed at his head, the front passenger side door clicked and swung open. Ramon stood up, although not a bigger-than-life figure, his eyes displayed a seductive depth and sheen that indicated he'd killed a man or two in his lifetime with his bare hands—and laughed at the thought of it.

Danny thought it ironic that the only thing that saved him was his skin color. An open air execution of a white man would embolden the NYPD to crack down on the "activities" at Parkchester.

"Let's take a walk," Ramon said. Both the gunman and the driver followed along the sidewalk

"Look, I didn't come here to—"

"Turn around muchacho," the gunman said.

Silent, Danny complied. The gunman jabbed the pistol into Danny's lower back.

"Pedro ain't too happy these days," Ramon said. "Follow me."

Ramon led them to a wide alleyway halfway down the block with a half full dumpster on one side. "You pretty cool for a customer, man."

Marco spoke. "Hey, man, he gotta be some narc, right?"

"I don't know, are you?" Ramon pressed.

"I want to know what happened to Mekhi."

Ramon sneered. "Like I said, that none of your business."

"If you're gonna' drop me, then those boys in the yard are gonna know about it. They'll all know."

Danny saw Ramon wave off Pedro, but the gun still trained on him.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about man," Ramon said. Then he looked at the other two and asked, "Any of you know what he talking about?" They both shook their heads and shrugged.

"I'm no cop. I'm your worst nightmare, so stop acting like you don't know what really went down."

"You just talking shit, man," Ramon said.

Danny stepped up to Ramon, ignoring the twitch of Pedro's shoulders and the ever present gun aimed his way. "If I ever hear that you hurt one of these kids again, I'll rip your face off," he said, staring hard into Ramon's eyes. A thin layer of sweat formed on his temples; he hoped the thugs wouldn't notice it.

Brows furrowed, Ramon stared back at him, ready to lunge. He unsheathed a switch blade from his belt then laughed as the other two joined in.

In an instant, Danny pivoted on his right foot and moved counterclockwise around as his left hand swept around and caught Pedro's arm, sweeping it outward, separating the gun from his hand. As it hit the concrete, Danny powered the webbing of his right hand against Pedro's throat, crushing the thug's trachea.

Unarmed, Marco stood frozen in time, too shocked to do anything except watch the scene unfold.

Ramon pulled out his own gun. By the time he got off a shot, Danny had tackled him to the ground. Danny tried to pin down Ramon's gun hand, but found himself in a stalemate against Ramon's formidable strength. He reached inside his sweat jacket's hand warmer and grabbed the knuckle knife, burying it into Ramon's left eye.

Ramon grabbed what was left of his eye and wailed with pain. Danny slammed down on Ramon's chest with his knees. The cracking sound of breaking ribs shot into the air.

"If I ever see you here again, I'll rip your fucking face off all over again," Danny growled into Ramon's ear.

Marco finally snapped back into reality. He turned and ran from the alley onto the sidewalk, he was racing for the safety of the car. Danny left Ramon on the ground and tackled Marco from behind. Danny pulled Marco to his feet by his hair and proceeded to slam his head into a parking meter. Danny pulled Marco's head back and forth like a hinge, causing it to make repeated contact with the meter until Marco withered and crumpled to the ground. A gathering crowd of people from the courtyard started to pour out onto the street a few yards away, drawn by Ramon's gunshot.

Danny made certain not to run, moving with the deliberate strides of a soldier who had just returned from a successful mission. He walked to the end of the block, across the street, and was out of sight before anyone thought to chase after him. All he could think about was the verbal dance he'd have to perform if—no, when—the Center ever found out.

What do you think about Danny's character here? Is this believable enough for you? Should this chapter be left out or combined with Chapter 2?

Copyright © 2016 by Alan Field. All Rights Reserved.  


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