The Lightning Rule by Brett Ellen Block

Otis.”
    “’At’s for damn sure. If’n it was, there’d be a fence between us and them.”
    Emmett slowed and turned, putting himself a pace in front of Fossum to partially block him. He didn’t say a word, just looked at each of the boys one at a time.
    “What chu starin’ at? Huh, honky?”
    The kid doing the talking was bouncing a rubber handball againstthe concrete. Five others filed up alongside him, each of them seventeen or eighteen years old, about Ambrose Webster’s age. They were shorter than Emmett, though two had the benefit of growth spurts that had replaced skinny limbs with serious muscle.
    “He asked you a question,” one said.
    “Yeah, he asked you a question,” another repeated.
    None had the nerve to invent their own insult. Emmett remained silent, eyes latched on the kid bouncing the ball. He was lithe, all leg, and could have gotten in Emmett’s face in a single stride.
    “You deaf?” the kid with the ball sneered.
    Emmett wouldn’t answer. In his peripheral vision, he could see Fossum creeping farther behind him.
    “I said, are you deaf?”
    The kid stopped bouncing the handball and folded his arms as a final warning. Emmett thought this was their form of practice, roving in packs and learning to intimidate whomever they could. Ambrose Webster would have made an easy mark for bullies like these. They had mastered how to strut and swagger but hadn’t graduated to violence—yet.
    “Ain’t this rude, not speakin’ when you spoken to. Somebody needs to teach this cracker a lesson,” the kid with the ball said. He shifted his weight, preparing to take a step over the invisible line he and his friends were poised upon. The others muttered in agreement, psyching themselves up for action.
    Beneath Emmett’s jacket, on his right hip, hung his badge. Above his left was his gun holster. Emmett had to choose.
    “I’m not deaf,” he told them. Then he opened the left side of his jacket, revealing the Smith & Wesson strapped to his shoulder. “There’s nothing to hear when you’re listening to a bunch of punks full of hot air. Now get out of here.”
    The line of teenagers wavered, waiting for the kid with the handball to respond. He didn’t, a tacit surrender. Emmett ushered Otis on ahead, and they started to walk away. Fossum was obviously fighting the urge to look back.
    “Don’t,” Emmett instructed.
    “What if they sneakin’ up behind us?”
    “They aren’t.”
    “Then what harm’d it do if I looked?”
    “They would see that you’re scared.”
    “I am scared.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with being scared. It’s acting scared that gets you in trouble.”
    “That’s how Vernon died,” Otis grumbled. “Putting his back to them men.”
    Emmett came to a dead halt. “Those men would have killed him whether he ran or stared them straight in the eye, and that’s the truth.”
    Fossum’s expression hardened with clarity. “You know who it was, don’t you, Mr. Emmett? And you can’t do nothin’ about it.”
    Frustration was a stopper in Emmett’s throat. He was positive Sal Lucaro had killed Vernon Young. Giancone wouldn’t have run the risk of shooting Vernon. Lucaro wouldn’t have run the risk of letting him live. Young’s murder weighed heavily on Emmett’s conscience, and he was desperate for another crack at Lucaro. Only he wasn’t sure how to get it.
    Neither he nor Fossum exchanged another word until they were safely out of the Hayes complex and had reached Bergen Street. People filled the sidewalks, going through the motions of their day mired in the heat. The air was laden with the odor of melting tar from the asphalt. Emmett was on watch for foot patrolmen and radio cars when he realized that Otis had fallen a few steps behind.
    “What is it?”
    “I was just thinkin’. Why didn’t you show them kids your badge?”
    “Because we wouldn’t have walked away without a fight.”
    Disheartened, Fossum said, “That’s what I