Violent Spring by Gary Phillips Page B

in agreement. He disposed of his first toothpick and inserted another one, which he began to suck on with interest.
    â€œAnd just what big money you talking about?” the Rolling Dalton responded. “A lot of them motherfuckers still slangin’ product ain’t down with this truce. The ones that is been puttin’ what little money they got toward legitimate shit for their families.”
    The lanky one grinned and raised his arms skyward in a pantomime of supplication. “Aw, home, we ain’t stupid.”
    â€œThis ain’t no scam, fool. We about tryin’ to do something for our community. About trying to get jobs for these brothers and sisters out here so they don’t have to go knock somebody upside the head. This is a black thing,” he said, his voice rising. “You just about trying to get over,” the Dalton said contemptuously to the two. He picked up his plate and started for the door again.
    Toothpick feinted with a right and delivered a quick left, sinking it into the solar plexus of the Dalton. He must have been expecting they’d try something because he went with the force of the blow, his tacos spilling bright shards of cheese, tomatoes, and ground beef in a cascade of fast food minutiae. The Dalton’s back slammed against the doorjamb and he came up with a foot into the husky one’s groin.
    The big one wasn’t expecting that. He doubled over, holding his crotch. The lanky one’s hand jerked into the space between his head and the Dalton’s. A 17-shot Glock filled his fist and the void.
    â€œGat him, gat him, cuz,” the husky one screamed, fighting for his breath.
    A clipped reel, loose on its sprockets, runs in Monk’s mind, pictures his eyes see and his mind interprets in a rapid-fire herky-jerky fashion. His brain tells his hand to launch his plate of fries and half-finished root beer toward the Scalp Hunter with the gun. The food explodes around him, but it doesn’t knock the pistol from his grip. Instead, he turns his attention, and the barrel of the gun, on Monk.
    Monk hurtles forward on aging legs. Too old, too slow. The sick conclusion he’d be dead by the time he reached the Scalp Hunter. Goddamn. The Dalton tackles the lanky one and they go down. An eternity later, Monk covers that precious distance and plows a straight right into the bridge of the nose on the husky one’s face.
    â€œFuck.” Blood gushes from his nose like water from a busted hydrant. The younger man grabs Monk in a bear hug, and they rock back against the shell of the booth. Scuffling with him, Monk hears the stand’s owners yelling something about cops and insurance.
    The lanky one is on the ground, a welt swelling under his right eye. He gropes for his lost gun. The Dalton scoops it up where it lies under the table. At the same moment, Monk and his opponent tumble over the bench seat, hit the table and fall to the floor, a tangle of arms and flailing legs.
    â€œWho’s gonna gat who, motherfucker?” the Rolling Dalton says, pointing the weapon at his lanky opponent’s head.
    Monk is aware of this in the background. A jab lands on his jaw and he grunts in pain. The two latch onto each other, then struggle to their feet. Monk spins around, his back to the Dalton and the other Scalp Hunter. The Dalton extends the Glock to the prone figure before him.
    The kid he’s fighting has raw strength and youth, but his technique is all charge, little deliberation. Monk drops his shoulder, shifts his weight to the balls of his feet and plows his fist into the kid’s side, then follows with a flush clip to the side of his face. He goes down and stays there.
    â€œNo,” Monk shouts, turning his body, breathing heavily through his mouth.
    The Dalton laughs harshly and the gun erupts once. Monk watches the shell jacking from the chamber, falling to the floor into the pile of cheese, lettuce and tomato. The inner city salad. The