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He kicked the door wide open and moved fast. Blade up. The woman was on the toilet, shorts and panties on the ground. She dropped the phone she was texting on. Looked at him with wide-open crazy eyes and let out a scream.

  YP smiled. “Bitch! I ain’t give you a reason to scream yet!”

  *

  Lo-Wider ran towards the scream. He hated running, goddamn it, but he had to get in there and stop YP from fucking this up any more. He’d known there was something about him. How he had this look, like he was always better than everybody else. Smarter.

  But meaner, too.

  Fuck trying to jump the fence. Why not try the front door? So he tried it. Locked. He pounded on it. “Yo, P. C’mon man. C’mon. We’ve got to book it.” Pound some more. “Let me in, nigga! You hearin’ me?”

  The dogs around the neighborhood were going nuts. Even one inside the house right here, barking at him pounding on the door. Lo-Wider was a big boy, right? He could bust this thing down. So Lo-Wider stepped back and took a hard look at the door. Took a run at it and slammed his shoulder into it. It was a bowling ball on a waterbed. Fucking ball didn’t feel a thing. The waterbed, though—

  “Fuck!” He held his shoulder. He seethed a little before going back to the door, trying the knob again, a hard twist, while pushing all he had against it. Hard, man, hard! Hold your breath! Nothing. He pounded again. “C’mon, man!”

  Lady was still screaming.

  “Come on! Let! Me! In!”

  The door swung open while he was still attached to it, and he almost fell into the front hallway and on the angry little dog, barking and growling. Only thing keeping him up was sheer will because it was this Lafitte motherfucker, the same one who’d killed Bossman and Isiah, same one who’d stolen his grampa’s Monte Carlo, who opened the door. All cleaned up, but still, yeah, still him. Lafitte held up a finger. “You! You stay here!”

  And he headed off down the hall towards the screaming, little dog right behind him.

  His guts pained some more, but Lo-Wider got over it and stepped into the house, knowing there were others now watching from their front yards and the street. Disaster. Why was he even bothering to stick around? Go ahead, leave YP to his fate, thinks he’s so smart.

  But no, running away wasn’t the BGM thing to do. Couldn’t leave a soldier behind. Even though he wasn’t BGM, he didn’t want them so pissed that he got blacklisted. He leaned up against the wall in the front hallway and caught his breath. Hearing the woman shouting, “He’s got a knife! Be careful!” and YP shouting, “Motherfucker let me go motherfucker!” and the dog still, “GrrrrrARK grrrrARK!” and not a word from Lafitte. A whole lot of slamming into walls and banging and shaking.

  Even with shin splints, Lo-Wider kept on going, letting the wall hold him up, flinching when it boomed again and the picture frames rattled. He stepped down into the den, dark except for candles in the corner and the light coming from the next hallway. Lafitte banged backwards against the wall outside the bathroom. He had YP’s arms locked up above him, the little knife tight in his fist. YP kicked at the doorframe, kept slamming Lafitte into the wall, but Lafitte wasn’t letting go. The little dog danced around and nipped at YP while he kicked the doorframe and pushed and then kicked the dog and then tried to turn his head to bite Lafitte’s arm but nothing was working.

  Lafitte saw Lo-Wider standing there, shouted, “Stay the fuck back! I told you to stay put!”

  YP all like, “Motherfucker, get this motherfucker off of me!”

  Lo-Wider looked around. He wasn’t about to let Lafitte get a hand on him. He saw what had happened to Isiah, tough nigga, and Bossman, tough white boy. Twigs, man. Like motherfucking twigs. Looked around, needed something heavy. Like, what, one of those framed photos on the wall? Too light. How about the TV? Too big. Shit, where was a baseball bat or a golf club or a fucking shotgun when you needed one?

  The candles, though.

  He ran to the corner and grabbed one of the glass Catholic candles, a long wick and big flame, and ran over to the fight and waited until YP kicked the doorframe again, pushing him and Lafitte towards the living room, back first, and a little spic lady escaped the bathroom and ran the other way, and Lo-Wider started banging the fucking candle on Lafitte’s head over and over until the fucker smashed into pieces and cut Lo-Wider and burned his hand a little and—

  Whoosh

  —Lafitte’s head went up in flames like a barbecue. Holy shit! Like Michael Jackson back in the day. Lafitte let go of YP real fast and starting screaming and trying to bat out his hair fire with his hands, turning in circles, all over the den, some flames slinging off and starting smaller fires. Screams. Bad screams. Lo-Wider looked at his bloody hand with shards of glass and some blisters coming up and, shit, it really hurt, but holy shit—

  YP got himself together and was all smiles. Gave his arms a couple of spins in the air to loosen up, twisted his neck, and then took two big steps towards the screaming Lafitte and planted his stubby blade into the man’s tricep and twist and out and into his shoulder and twist and out and aiming for his neck but got his arm again and twist and—

  The pops weren’t loud. Lafitte screamed louder. But there were a lot of them. YP looked all confused for a few seconds. Left his knife in Lafitte and turned left and right, slapping at himself. But it was the old woman from the bathroom, advancing towards him, arm straight out with a pistol popping off shots. Lo-Wider figured it out, a twenty-two, the last couple in YP’s face before he went down. By then Lafitte was on the floor, the old lady rushed over, trying to put out the fire with her T-shirt, and the other fires in the room were spreading fast. Everywhere Lafitte slung his head, new fires popped off, some rising fast up the wood panel walls.

  Once she’d put out Lafitte’s head, the woman swung around, gun out at Lo-Wider, and fired off a couple of shots before he could get his hands up, and bam in the belly and bam in the ear and it didn’t hurt for a good ten seconds or so. It was...pressure. The sort of pressure that made you tighten your gut and grunt and think if you ever let go again, you was going to die. But when the pain started, it fucking started, and he wailed, oh, did he ever wail.

  Not only because he was bad hurt, but also because there was the grim reaper standing in the corner, surrounded by hellfire.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The smell of burnt hair and pomade made Lafitte’s throat tighten up. Coughed. The skin on his scalp rose, blistered, same on the back of his neck, and a long stripe across his face, over his eye, nose, cheek. Jimena had gotten the fire out, but the damage had already begun creeping out to every patch of fried skin, pulsing the pain signals bad, man, so bad, and Lafitte knew he had to get up and go before it incapacitated him. He would heal, again. He would be ugly for a while and it would hurt like shit and steal his sleep, but he would heal. It wasn’t important right now.

  He blinked. A blistered eyelid, man. Jimena brushed the glass from his hair and shoulders. Then he noticed the fires, how the flames were tickling the fingers of the dead banger on the floor beside him. It was freaky watching a body get taken by fire, just lying there and taking it when you expect anything human-shaped to jump up and run the fuck away.

  “Out, Jimena, we’ve got to get out.”

  “Look at you! Oh, Billy, look at what they’ve done to you!”

  “Outside!” He gave her a push and felt a sting. His palms, blisters popped, now wet, the skin coming off in rolls. Shit, when he’d grabbed his hair, shit, his hands. Shit. He looked around, but the fire was growing and he was one big wick and there was no time. He saw the fat kid rolling on the floor, a couple of gunshot wounds, one in his gut and one that had made his ear a mess. Those damned twenty-twos. Took six or seven and a lucky close-up to the face to kill the one with the blade.

  He grabbed the back of the fat kid’s shirt. “Get up, goddamn it.”

  Fat kid fanned his hand at the side of his head. “She shot me! I’m shot! I’m fucking dying!”

  “Get up! Get up or I’ll kill you!
”

  “I can’t...I can’t....I can’t...”

  Lafitte kicked him on the leg. He screeched real bad. Lafitte grabbed him under the arm. “Get the fuck up.” Couldn’t lift him, but he kept the pressure on. Tried to keep the skin on his hands from shredding more, but goddamn, what was he supposed to do?

  Kid finally got up and looked back over his shoulder. “YP? You hear me, man?”

  “Guy’s dead. Get out of here!” Hand on his shirt again, not going to let this one run far. He was the path to DeVaughn. The yellow-brick road. They both made it out front, where the whole yard was filled with neighbors and kids and people holding up their phones to make this shit go viral, which was the last thing Lafitte needed. Nothing he could do.

  He let go of the fat kid’s shirt, and he dropped onto the grass and rolled around, starting up with the fanning again, crying, “Shit, Jesus, shit, Jesus, shit, help me Jesus!”

  Lafitte found Jimena on her knees in the yard, her shirt and hands stained black with ash, but otherwise alright, jabbering to another Spanish-speaking neighbor who was standing over her shoulder.

  Manuel wasn’t back yet, still no nitro. Lafitte had run out of time. He needed to get out of here now, and this fat kid was going along. But Lafitte finally got a good look at his palms, scalded through and through. But he felt...numb. Going into shock.

  Fuck shock. Shock was for later. Shock was for people who could afford it.

  Friendly neighbors were starting to pay attention to him now. Asking if he needed an ambulance or a towel or, Jesus, Are you okay are you okay are you okay?

  “Fuck no, I’m not okay! Can’t you see I’m not fucking okay?”

  All of them stared at his face, his scalp, his hands. “Oh. My. God.”

  “Get me some duct tape. Right now. I need some duct tape.”

  One of the neighbors threw a beach towel over Lafitte’s shoulder but was too freaked to throw it across both shoulders, so he caught it in his hand before it fell to the ground. Felt like grabbing a handful of rusty steel wool. Peeling it off was worse. Sirens coming. There were always sirens coming. He couldn’t get through a full day anymore without sirens coming, let alone today when it was every hour, it seemed. More sirens. Who were they this time? Cops first? Firetrucks? Ambulance?

  Ambulance.

  He glanced over at Jimena, standing among her friends now, wild gestures with her hands, telling the story. Leaving out Lafitte, he hoped. Maybe he was a visiting cousin. She would tell them something believable. But the authorities would know. They would figure it out and give her and Manuel a hard time, goddamn it. More of Lafitte’s bizarro King Midas touch.

  “Here!”

  One of the neighbors was back with a half-used roll of duct tape. Big, thick, silver duct tape. Lafitte grabbed it and started at his wrist and taped one of his hands, one two three wraps, leaving his fingers and thumb free. They’d gotten skinned too, but not as bad. He still needed them. He flexed the silver hand. Hurt like all holy fuck, but he could deal. He started to wrap the other one when someone reached out and grabbed his arm.

  “Help’s on the way! You don’t have to!”

  Lafitte kept wrapping. “They can’t help me. Thanks, though.”

  He held onto the duct tape, but then, pain coming back to him, remembered there was a fucking knife in his back. He handed the tape to the well-wisher. “See the knife? Pull it out. Slap some tape on it.”

  “But help’s coming, it’s almost here, it’ll be here in a minute.”

  He held up the roll of tape. “Anybody?”

  One of the slack-jawed teenagers standing around, shirtless, skateboard on the ground beside him, stepped up. “Yeah, cool.”

  Kid got the knife out and the tape patch on, said it was still bleeding.

  “Fuck! More tape! Wrap the shoulder!”

  Wrapped the shoulder, another neighbor helping now. Then around the upper arm to plug another hole. It felt awful, but the guys made sure the tape was tight and nothing was leaking. Good ol’ duct tape.

  He broke through the crowd as the first fire truck showed up alongside a cop cruiser. For once, he was glad of the crowd. Good cover. The smoke had finally started pouring out the front door and through the roof, and even more people cramped themselves into the yard to watch as the cops shouted for everyone to “Get back! Across the street, now!” One of them called for back-up. An ambulance showed up. The road was getting thick with whirling lights and big machines.

  Lafitte found the fat kid on the lawn where he’d left him, on his hands and knees now, trying to puke but not getting anywhere with it. A long string of spit and some dry hacks. Lafitte walked over and nudged him with his boot. “Let’s go.”

  “Told you...told you I was dying here, man.” Fat kid was going to hyperventilate. “I need help! I need help now! I need my grampa. Get my grampa over here!”

  Another nudge, harder. Lafitte scooped under his arm, not caring if the kid wanted to move or not. “We ain’t got time. You want to talk to cops or talk to DeVaughn?”

  “Serious?”

  “Cops? DeVaughn? You know where DeVaughn is?”

  “I want...I want...I want a doctor, man.”

  Lafitte knelt beside him. Hissed, “Cops’ll give you a doctor. After they’re done with you, I mean. Hey, look at this.”

  The kid turned his head. Lafitte lifted the little knife, set the edge of it on the kid’s shredded ear. “Your friend left this in my shoulder. How about I finish off your ear there?”

  “No, man! Please!”

  “Get your ass up and get us the fuck out of here.”

  Kid was slow, but he did as he was told.

  “Good, good,” Lafitte said, loud enough to be heard. “We’re going to get you some help.”

  Slung the kid’s elephant-leg-of-an-arm over his head—Damn!—and said, “Which one’s yours?”

  “Got the...got the...the...”

  They passed a cop, who asked if they needed help. Lafitte chinned towards the ambulance. “Heading over now.”

  “Let me help?”

  “I got it. You want to help Jimena? See her over there? She’s my aunt. She’s got some burns.”

  “So do you! Jesus, fuck, man!”

  “I’ll live.”

  Young white cop sure enough didn’t want to carry around a freak like Lafitte and this fat ass black kid. Could see it in his eyes. “Okay, we’ll get your aunt some help, buddy.”

  Fat kid finally got out, “It’s the Nissan? The big SUV?”

  Lafitte held up his keys, punched the fob. The lights flickered and the doors clicked. They headed for it. A few feet, then a few inches, then Lafitte opened the back passenger door and told the fat kid, “Climb in.”

  Took him a huge fucking effort. Now it got a different cop’s attention. He came over and said, “You can’t leave.”

  “He’s got to go to the hospital!”

  “Calm down, there’s EMTs right over there.”

  “We don’t have time to wait, he got his ear burned off!”

  “Hold up!” He turned and shouted to an EMT. Then back. “Hold up. We’ll get him there. Let this guy work on him first. No need to panic.”

  The cop was older, in his forties, and Lafitte realized he knew the prick. His name tag, SPIVELY, and as quick is it clicked into Lafitte’s mind, it must have clicked in Spively’s, too, because his eyes went wide and his hand went for his pistol. Not even for the tazer or the pepper spray. Right for the gun. Lafitte got there right as Spively wrapped his hand over the grip. Lafitte held the man’s hand and his gun down down down, hard, gonna keep his gun in the holster and fuck you fuck you fuck you—

  Lafitte said, “We really going to do this now?”

  “Billy Lafitte, you are under arrest.” Straining. “You have...nowhere...to...go.”

  “No, not you. You don’t get to bring me down.”

  “Quit...resisting.” Louder.

  Shit.

  Lafitte headbutted the fuck out of the
cop. He went limp. Lafitte reached around, held him up with one arm while prying the gun from his hand and holster with the other. He wasn’t out, stunned, same as Lafitte’s skull, too, but he gave Spively another loud crack to the forehead before dropping him, slamming the door, and running around to the driver’s side. Stumbling. Holding himself up, leaning against the SUV. Once inside, he grabbed the key from the fat kid and saw flashing blues and greens pulsing in and out of focus as he tried to find the ignition. Easier once he heard the gunshots. Saw the cops surrounding the Armada, pistols out.

  Key, in. Crank. Go go go go!

  Swerved around the fire truck directly ahead, two cruisers behind it, then up into someone’s yard. Fuck the street. He went right through a chainlink fence into a backyard, swerved again to avoid a swingset, an inflatable pool, an old man mowing his lawn. Through another chainlink fence. The next fence was plastic. Dogs, pretty sure he hit a dog. Shit, where was Kaiser? Jimena would keep him. Jimena would help him get home. Out the front gate and back on the road, and he needed to get himself gone fast.

  Lafitte shouted into the back seat, “Where we going?”

  “Oh Jesus oh God oh Grampa oh fuck oh fuck—”

  “Focus, champ! DeVaughn! Where is DeVaughn?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know!”

  “Where’s your phone? Call him! Call him!”

  “I lost my phone! Oh Jesus! I need my grampa, man! Take me home!”

  “You get your grampa when I get DeVaughn!”

  “Please!”

  “Fuck please! DeVaughn!”

  “Okay, okay, okay, I’ll call him, find me a phone, I call him, oh God it hurts it hurts so bad, man!”

  The fat kid was all he had. Goddamn it. Worthless. He brushed his hand through his hair and forgot he had taped his hand and that his scalp was all crispy hair and blistered skin, felt the blisters breaking as the tape scraped across. Made him shiver all over. The shock, he couldn’t run from it for too much longer. His chest felt as if the fat kid was sitting on it. He had needed a couple days, that was all, a couple days to get his wind back, but he had gotten less than seven hours instead.