The Undertaker

“Crazy? You never saw better shots — of you, the homies, or life in the projects — have you? That was a great spread.”

“Yeah. Got you some kinda award, didn't it?” he asked. “What it get us?”

“Got your face all over the front page of the Trib. That was serious pub, my man, better than you ever seen before, and you didn't have to go to jail to get it, did you?”

“There is that.”

“Was I fair?”

“Oh, yeah. You was fair. Ah'll give you that much, Lil’ Sister.”

To our left, the outbound train roared into the station and ground to a halt. In the lead car, the motorman looked at us with round, terrified eyes as he saw what was going on, but it was too late for him to do anything about it. The train stopped, the doors automatically opened with a loud hiss, and a dozen black passengers stepped out onto the open platform. They took one look at the gang, at us, and at the cop cars with their sirens and flashing lights, and thought better of it. In unison, they stepped back inside the cars and prayed the doors would quickly close.

As they did, I heard a voice shout up at us from the track bed to our right. “You, up on the platform, stay the fuck where you are.” I looked down and saw Tinkerton's dark-suited goon standing on the tracks below us.

“I'd do what he says, Pete,” Ralph Tinkerton's sarcastic, hardscrabble twang joined in. His usually cold, gray eyes were red-hot and angry as he tasted his impending victory. “You too, Miz Kasmarek.”

I looked longingly at the El cars behind us, but we had blown our chance. The doors closed with a loud “Hiss” and the train immediately started up. It gathered speed and pulled away as quickly as the anxious motorman could make it move, to the obvious relief of his frightened passengers. That was when Tinkerton's goon raised his Glock and pointed it up at us. That was a big mistake. All around us, I heard shuffling feet and loud clicks as a dozen other handguns suddenly materialized in the gang member's hands, one and often two per man. There were matte-black Glocks, a wicked .357 Magnum, a long barreled .38, a .45 Colt, and a huge, chrome .44 Magnum “Dirty Harry” cannon among others, and they were all pointed down at Tinkerton and his goon.

Jamal folded his arms across his chest. “This really be some morning,” he crowed. “Everybody be forgettin' themselves today, forgettin' where they be.”

“Ralph,” I smiled down at him. “This isn't the Columbus Rotary Club up here. I'd be real careful if I were you.”

Tinkerton burned with anger, but that didn‘t make him stupid. “Pete,” he managed a smile. “You and I need to talk.”

“I don't think so. The last time we tried that, I got cut and you got that bruise on your cheek and that big, ugly bandage on your hand. Is that from the fire?” Tinkerton glared and said nothing. “Too bad it didn't fry your sorry ass.”

Jamal and the rest of the gang broke up laughing, pointing down at Tinkerton, and chattering. “He diss'ed you, Chuck.” “The White Boy diss'ed you good.” “Swish!” “Two points. Two points for White Boy.”

Tinkerton could barely contain his rage. “Look, Talbott... Pete.” He tried another tack. “You can't win this thing. You can't run fast enough or far enough. I can reach out and grab you by the throat anywhere you try to hide.”

“So far, your grab ain't been too good, Ralph,” I said.

“Two more points for White Boy.”

“He be killin' you, Chuck.”

“You been poster-ized, my man.”

“No mas, no mas!” another homie ridiculed him.

Tinkerton's eyes flashed up at them. “If you continue with this folly, you're only going to earn yourself a lot of pain. You should remember that before you go dragging other people into it with you.”

“Nobody dragged me into anything,” Sandy snapped.

“No, no!” Someone in the crowd called out. “The bitch don't count. Dis be one-on-one.” And, “Yeah, dat be a technical. She be on da bench.”

“You be right, Doughboy,” The others joined in. “Jus’ White Boy and Chuck. Da bitch don't count.”

“Yeah, 'cause she could kick both their sorry asses, she want to.”

They all broke up laughing, all except Toothpick who was still holding his crotch. “Yeah, ya'll got that right,” he added warily.

“The score still White Boy four, Chuck zip.”

“Look, Pete, you're an intelligent fellow,” Tinkerton said, pointedly glancing around at the homies. “I won't scam you or try to scare you anymore. The world's full of two kinds of people — those who understand the moment and seize it, and those who let it run roughshod over them. As I told you in Columbus, we're the good guys. We're cleaning up this country, putting the low lifes and the riff-raff in jail where they belong.”

“Low lifes? Riff-raff?” I heard from the crowd. “Who he talkin' 'bout Jamal?”

Tinkerton ignored them and kept his eyes focused on me. “We'll be running this country soon enough and we can use someone with your determination and your resourcefulness on our side,” he said with a big Texas smile. “Unfortunately, you haven't had a chance to see the big picture yet.”