Solitude Creek

Darth set the backpack down carefully and rearranged the cans of red spray paint, put a T-shirt between them. Hoisted the canvas satchel once more.

‘Really, man.’ Wolverine wasn’t exactly living up to his nickname. But Darth was patient with his friend. The bitch got freaked a lot. And, church, Darth was a little tweaked at the moment too, with some asshole prowling around, getting closer.

But he was leader of the crew and he now commanded, ‘Chill.’

Wolverine nodded.

Okay, he was a pussy but he also was the one who’d spotted somebody coming through the park. Sure, they ought to leave. Darth didn’t have any hassle with that idea. But they fucking couldn’t because the fucking Jew had found the bikes and rolled them into his garage. Just after they’d tagged the wall, and got over the fence out of the yard, some bitch from across the street had come out and started screaming, stop, what’re you doing, how hateful and who did they think they were …

Blah, blah …

They didn’t want to get seen so they’d run in this direction and hidden in some bushes, watching Goldshit come out, spot the bikes, cart them away and — fucker — throw them into the garage.

Then the flashing lights.

And now the footsteps.

Who? Goldshit? The woman who’d snitched?

But why would they be here? No, it probably was a cop. And if so they’d be armed with a Taser and a Glock and one of those big fucking flashlights that could cave your head in. When Darth had been in juvie, he’d celled with a kid whose head’d been caved in by one of those.

Footsteps getting closer but still half a basketball court away.

‘Why’re we waiting?’

The why was something Darth didn’t have the time — or the inclination — to explain: that if Darth’s dad found out his bike was gone, out would come the branch and Darth’d get bloody.

Closer. The probably cop was moving slow but headed in their exact direction.

Darth nodded toward a garden shack at the back of Junipero Manor.

They slipped closer to the lopsided structure and crouched between it and a tangled bush. The cop didn’t have a flashlight out. Just was walking slowly, stopping, listening. Playing it cautious, as if the dudes he was after were stone cold. Anybody who’d sneak up to a house and write, Die Jew with a fat-ass swastika on it, probably was.

And, yeah, Darth thought, guess what? We are.

Totally stone cold …

Darth whispered, ‘Got an idea. I’m going to lead ’em off.’

‘But you’ll … What’re you gonna do?’

‘I’ll head that way into the park, make some noise or something and then you can run.’

‘Yeah? What’ll happen to you?’

‘Nobody can touch me,’ Darth whispered, mouth close to ear. ‘Track and field, remember? I’ll be fine.’ Darth’s father had made sure he’d gotten trophies in every event he could in T and F (it’d be the branch if he didn’t).

‘You cool?’

‘Yeah.’ His friend’s green eyes looked uncertain.

‘Okay, just stay here and … give me sixty seconds to get into position. When you count sixty, run — that way. Asilomar. And just keep going. They’ll start after you but I’ll make a shitload of noise and lead ’em off.’

‘Okay. Sixty.’

Then Darth gave a smile. ‘Yo. We did good tonight.’

A nod. A fist bump.

‘Start counting.’ Darth moved as quietly as he could into the woods away from the shed. As he did so he looked around. Ah, there, excellent. He found a perfect weapon. A rock about ten inches long, sharp at one end. He picked it up and hefted it. Good, good.

Darth had no intention of running. He was pissed off that they’d been pushed into a corner and pissed that the Jew had taken his bike. What he was going to do as soon as Wolverine took off was come up behind the cop, distracted by the noise of his friend’s footsteps.

Then Darth’d slam the rock into the cop’s head, knock him out.

And get the asshole’s gun, which would be a slick and smooth Glock or Beretta or something.

He felt a chill of pleasure and enjoyed a brief fantasy of his father coming into his bedroom, pushing him down on the bed, facedown, lifting the branch … and Darth twisting away, grabbing the automatic from under the pillow and watching his father’s terrified face stare into the muzzle of a fucking nine-mil.

Would he pull the trigger?

No. Yes. Maybe.

He silently made his way around the cop, looking carefully where he put his feet.

Okay, Wolverine. Up to you now.

About fifteen seconds left in the count. He gripped the rock and moved a bit closer to him.

Only, wait, weird. It wasn’t a him. It was a woman. Was it the bitch across from Goldshit’s? No, no, that didn’t make sense. It’d have to be a cop, just a woman cop.

Could Darth drop a girl?

Then decided: What the fuck difference does it make? Of course he could.

Then he had a weird thought: Wolverine — his real name was Wes — his mother, Mrs Dance, was a cop. What if this was her? It was too dark to see anything but long hair. But then Darth, well, Donnie Verso, remembered that Wes had said his mother was out of town. Some big case she was working on.

So, whoever she was, it wasn’t Mrs Dance.