Sacrifice

'You looking to cut in, motherfucker?' Trying for ice in his voice, eyeing Clarence. Clarence in his tangerine silk shirt, fingertip white linen jacket. 'You fronting off for pretty boy here?'

'You think I want your dirty women, mahn?' Clarence asked sweetly, the pistol materializing in his hand, leveled at the pimp's beltline.

'No trouble, man,' the pimp said, ice melting. Backing away toward his car.

'Put away the tool, fool,' the Prof snapped at Clarence. 'There heat on the street.' He unwrapped the blanket, climbing off his cart. We put the cart in the trunk. The Prof jumped lightly into the back seat.

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'Carlos is history,' I told the Prof, talking just over my right shoulder. He was draped across the back of the front seat, between me and Clarence.

'Some dreams turn to screams, bro'. Ain't no big thing.'

'Yeah.'

'There was a cop…' Clarence started to say.

The Prof waved away the explanation. In our world, 'why' won't draw flies.

I made the introductions. 'Prof, this is Clarence. Clarence, my brother the Prof.'

'Prof?'

'Some call me the Prophet for what I preach— some call me Professor for what I teach.'

'What do you teach, then?'

'Time and crime, son. Time and crime. You from Jacques?'

'Yes, mahn. He is my boss.'

'You working with Burke?'

'Learning, more like.'

'And what you think this schoolboy could teach you? He's still learning himself.'

'From you?'

'You ever been to prison, boy? Ever been behind the walls? I met this fool, he was a crazy rookie. Gunfighter, he wanted to be, posing for bank cameras until they dropped him for the count. I taught him to play with fire, walk the wire, you understand? I'm a thief, boy. A sweet thief. Make a buy, tell a lie. No guns, son. I don't fall, been through it all.'

I nodded. 'The stone truth,' I assured Clarence.

'You work free-lance?' the Prof asked. 'Or you on apprentice? Jacques gonna teach you to run the guns?'

'I'm on the payroll, mahn. But to run the business…Jacques has plenty ahead of me.'

'Cold beats bold, son. You don't wait, you visit the State, understand?'

'Yes, I know this.'

'That pimp, back there by the tunnel, the one running those scaly-leg girls…you'd shoot him?'

'No, mahn. I was just showing him some firepower. Playing backup.'

'Play ain't the way, boy. Your eyes fire when he call your name, then the man knows your game. You want to scare a motherfucker, hot ain't worth a lot— ice is nice.'

'He said…'

'Hey, say ain't play. Jump, and you're a chump. Man slaps you in the face, what you do?'

'I kill any man who slaps me. I'm not a woman, a man be slapping me.'

'Schoolboy, what's the first two things I taught you, a man slaps you.'

I lit a smoke, buying some seconds. The Prof had done the voice-over, but it was Wesley who walked it through. Years ago, on the prison yard. An iron-freak named Dayton had slapped the ice man in the face, right in front of everybody. Wesley just slumped to the ground, didn't say a word. Dayton strutted off, floating on the whispers. The cons said Wesley was a dead man— a man who won't fight when he's slapped is pussy. Free meat. They kept saying it until the guards found Dayton dead in the weight room.

I looked over at Clarence. 'Smile,' I said. 'And wait. You're gonna come, come quiet.'

The kid wouldn't let it go. He turned to the Prof. 'That religion stuff I heard you run down…you're a preacher, where's your church?'

'You think the Lord's got nothing better to do than be sitting up there taking attendance? I got the call when I was small. Where I walk is where I talk.'

'I was just…' Clarence's voice trailed off. I wondered if he got it, if he understood the legless man on the cart was a giant.

'You got a silencer for that pistol?' the Prof asked him.

'Yes, mahn. I mean, not with me, but…'

'Get one for your mouth,' the little man snapped, lighting himself a smoke.

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