Fresh Kills by Bill Loehfelm Page B

could do this. I could wipe the fucking floor with these guys. I needed it. I thought of my arcade days. I wasn’t a puppy anymore. I held up my lit cigarette in front of his face.

    “You want a cigarette,” I said, “take this one.”

    I switched it to my left hand and put it back in my mouth. I hoped he’d try. I realized that I’d wanted to pound the shit out of someone since Purvis had delivered his news. I hadn’t been in a good fight for years. Something told me that if I did this, I could sleep through the night. All I wanted was a reason to swing first.

    “Fuck you, motherfucker,” the kid said.

    “Creative,” I said. But not enough. I wanted to fucking snap, to come unhinged, not just swing for the hell of it.

    I watched his eyes as he breathed stale French fries into my face. I wondered if he was high, but his eyes were clear, intense. I was disappointed. Hopped up on something, he’d take that much longer to put down. He had the beginnings of a mustache on his lip. In another six months he could start shaving. He wore braces. They’d tear his mouth and my knuckles apart if we started swinging.

    I took another drag and let the smoke float out of my mouth and into his face. One of his eyes twitched and I relaxed my shoulders, set my weight forward on my toes.

    One of his friends walked up behind him, his eyes on me, and put a hand on his shoulder. Tough Guy snapped around. “Wha’?”

    “Cab’s here, dawg.”

    Tough Guy backed away, his arms loose at his sides, easing back into the group. Together, they drifted toward the cab, watching me. At least two were afraid. The cabbie leaned on his horn.

    “You a lucky motherfucker,” Tough Guy finally said from the curb.

    He lifted his T-shirt, just enough for me to see the handle of the gun tucked in his shorts. My blood went hot, rushed to my heart. Too late. I was pissed, furious he hadn’t done that thirty seconds ago.

    They all stared at me through the back window as the cab drove away, two of them flipping me the bird. I watched the cab until it disappeared into the Richmond Avenue traffic.

    Waiting for the adrenaline to recede, I watched the gulls circle the Dump across the street. I couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow that little prick had managed to steal something from me. My hands shook. Sweat trickled down my rib cage.

    I needed to figure out how much longer I had before I met Julia, but I couldn’t get my head straight. It’d upset her to see me all jacked up. If I didn’t take some time, some air, to calm down, she’d read it right off my face. I decided to circle the Mall from the outside, afraid that if I went inside, I’d hit the first person who bumped into me.

    The sun baked the back of my jacket, but I didn’t want to take it off. I walked fast, like I knew where I was going. A security truck slowed as it rolled up behind me. It followed me for a while, making sure I wasn’t casing the cars in the lot. I stopped, turning my head far enough for me to see him but not far enough for him to see my face. I told myself that if he wanted to talk, I’d do my civic duty and tell him about the kid with the gun. Unless he gave me attitude, in which case I might have to drag him from the truck by his plastic badge. The truck idled for a moment then turned away and cruised deeper into the lot. Apparently, I still wasn’t worth the hassle for a few bucks an hour.

    Walking on, I thought about the kid with the gun. Seeing it hadn’t frightened me. If he’d meant to use it, he would’ve made a move for it right away. He’d only flashed it to impress his friends, to save face. It was probably his big brother’s gun. He’d stash it back under the bed when he got home, before his brother realized it was gone and whipped his ass for taking it. That kid, he was armed, but he was really no different than I was at fifteen. He’d rather brag about the fight that almost was than shed his blood over the real thing.

    A real