Martin grabs my hair and jerks my head back and forth.
– Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna!
Adam is heaving Miguel’s bulk off of him.
– Martin!
I aim for the center of Martin’s foot, miss, and jam the blade down into his toes. Blood squirts out of the cut in his Pumas. He brings his foot up, yanking it free and tearing the knife from my hands. It flips through the air and clatters back down. Martin hops a couple times and stumbles over Miguel, falling on top of him just as Adam squirms free.
I look for the knife. It’s lost in the darkness. But Adam is crawling after something. I crawl after him. I grab his ankle and pull. Pain worms through my rib cage. I yank Adam’s right leg out from underneath him and he balances on his left leg and his arms and looks back at me, kicking and jerking, trying to rip free. I clutch his leg with both hands. He gives up on the knife and tries to turn himself around, coming back at me.
Martin is getting up. He stands, his right foot planted, his left raised gingerly, blood leaking from his shoe. He looks at the ground, bends, picks up his sap, and looks at me.
Adam flips himself onto his back and kicks me in the forehead with his left foot. I let go with one hand and feel at the cobbles, my fingers dig in around a loose stone and pull it free.
Martin is hopping toward me.
Adam’s left foot tags me on the ear. I heave my weight on top of his right leg and pin it. I raise the cobblestone and smash it down on his ankle. He screams and stops kicking me. I bring the stone down again and feel the bone give beneath it. He screams again. I hammer him once more. He doesn’t scream this time.
I let go of the leg and roll onto my back, the stone in my hand. I feint a throw at Martin’s leaking foot. The memory of the balls I fired into him at Coney pops up in his eyes. He flinches. I throw the cobblestone at his good knee. He’s back on the ground.
I take off my shoe.
I stand up.
Hunched over the pain in my ribs, I walk to where Martin is trying to figure out the best way to stand up on his mutilated foot and his cracked kneecap. He looks up at me. I hit his face with the shoe. I keep hitting him until I’m sure he gets the point. He collapses, blood and snot leaking from his nose.
Adam has pulled his leg up close to his body, his foot dangling from the pancaked ankle. One of his hands is scampering over the ground, feeling for his lost knife. I take a couple steps, bend, and pick up the knife.
I point at the ankle.
– Can you walk on that?
– No.
I put out my hand. He takes it. I pull, wincing at the pain in my ribs.
– Come on.
He leans on me, hopping on his good leg as I lead him over to the railing.
– Wait here.
He slumps against the rail, digs a cigarette out of his pocket and lights up.
I walk over to Martin. He’s out. I look at Jay. His face is cracked and swelling. Bubbles of blood inflate and pop between his lips. Miguel shifts. He groans and puts a hand to the back of his neck. His eyes open.
– What the. What the fuck, man?
– Jay’s hurt.
– Huh?
– Jay’s hurt.
– Where? What?
He sits up too fast and his eyes spin. He starts to go back down. I kneel. A new and different pain in my ribs. I hold him up until he stops spinning.
– OK?
– Yeah. Yeah. OK.
I point his face toward Jay.
– You see.
– Oh fuck. Oh shit.
– Can you stand now?
He stands.
– Get Jay in the bus.
– Oh fuck. Oh shit. Oh, Jay.
He walks over to his friend, squats, slips his arms under him, and easily lifts him off the ground. He carries him toward the bus. I look at Martin. I still have the shoe in my hand. I tuck it into my armpit, bend over and grab Martin under his arms and drag him toward his brother. Miguel sticks his head out of the bus.
– He’s in. Should I call 911?
– Just wait in there. Put a towel on his face or something.
He disappears back inside the shuttered bus.
I get Martin to the rail. Adam reaches out and helps me pull him up and lean him there. His hands open and close a couple times and his puffed eyes open to slits. He grabs at the rail and holds himself up, but there’s nobody home yet.
I move my arm. The shoe drops out of my armpit to the ground. I push my white-socked foot back inside, not taking my eyes from Adam, his knife still in my hand.
– You been following them since you lost me?
Adam chains a fresh smoke, blood from his fingers smears the filter.
– No. We went home. Tetka Anna. There were things broken in the house. She was gone.
– Uh-huh.
– David.
– Uh-huh.
– Martin wanted to go there. To get her.
– Uh-huh.
– But they would have killed us. I thought you. David will want you. You tried to kill him.
– Yeah. He does.
– We followed your friends.
– You followed these guys, came looking for me?
– Yes.
– That wasn’t a bad idea.
– No.
– No, it wasn’t.
He takes a drag.
I blink. Wait to change my mind. But I don’t.
– A bad idea, was when you threatened to torture my parents.
The knife is very sharp. It pokes through his windpipe with great ease. I pull it out and blood sputters from the hole on a stream of cigarette smoke. His mouth opens and closes. The cigarette falls from his fingers. I bend over, grab his good leg, haul upward, and he tips over the rail into the bay. Martin turns his glazed, slitted eyes to me, but I am already pushing him back over the rail. He grabs at me, barely conscious of what is happening. His back is bent over the rail. He is held balanced only by the grip he has on my forearm. I rake the blade of the knife across his knuckles, and he falls.
I don’t bother to look. Adam with his slit throat, Martin with his lamed foot and knee and addled head, they will both drown. I turn and walk toward the bus, collecting Martin’s sap from the ground as I go.
Having made David’s end of the deal that much easier.
I climb into the bus. I close the door. I look at Miguel sitting on the floor next to Jay, holding a dirty T-shirt over his face.
– How is he?
Jay’s hand comes up and pushes the towel off.
