The C.J. Henderson MEGAPACK ®. C.J. Henderson
focusing on the store before our playmates were even in sight. Lo could feel it; so could his wife. She came downstairs to chase all the kids back to safety while I was still putting on my coat. I hit the sidewalk just as the evening’s entertainment came into view.
There were at least two dozen of them; hard muscled, impressed with themselves, young—the oldest couldn’t have been more than twenty. Some were carrying ball bats, some had bricks. God only knew what was hidden from sight. I could see all my old pals from the previous two days intermingled with the fresh troops. Their leader was a new face, however.
At best he was seventeen. The way he walked, the power in his step, the way he ignored the blasting chill killing its way through the streets showed he held his position by being the toughest animal in the pack. His eyes were what betrayed him. They were plainly etched with privilege. He was a child used to snapping his fingers for whatever he wanted—money, women, drugs, police protection, transportation, invisibility—whatever. It had all come too easily to him until now he was more than sure he was in charge, more than aware that his word was law—he was certain. If he believed in any gods at all, it was only so he could rest assured they’d appointed him master of all he surveyed.
Looking into the master’s eyes, even from a distance, I knew he was the reason for all of Chinatown’s current troubles. It was his needs, his desire and greed that were tearing the neighborhood apart, setting the gangs at each other’s throats, killing a total of twelve so far in the last three months.
Expectedly, there wasn’t a cop in sight. No one knows the grapevine like they do. I could count on them not showing up until things were long over, one way or another, using the mayor’s stupidity as their excuse. Hard to blame them, really. Pulling out a pad and scribbling with a Bic are a hell of a lot easier than taking on a drug confident wild ball gorilla-rough teenaged killer. Or two. Or who knew how many.
A hand signal, fingers over the left shoulder, stopped the gang’s advance. The leader took three more steps toward me and then planted himself between me and his boys, playing the scene for all the drama he could remember from the last WWF match he’d seen. I leaned against the stone of the next building, lighting a cigarette, waiting for him to start it. Things were beginning to fall into place for me. All of Chinatown’d known trouble was coming for New Year’s. The residents and the police’d all prepared to the best of their abilities to stay out of the gangs’ ways, hoping a lot of winnowing might befall the ranks. Lo had decided on protection instead of prayer.
The gangs had knocked the crap out of each other, and now the top three were ready to divide up the remaining plums—and the Time Lords were the ones making the first move. Maybe they were the strongest gang after all—they’d made all the moves I’d seen. Word had it they weren’t, though, and I was betting the word was right. Their strategy was wrong; it lacked finesse. It was blunt, broken bottle, dull-eyed slugger stuff. The kind of planning that always springs into the minds of children.
I’ve never liked that aspect of childhood. It’s necessary, I suppose, but there’s something about the way people think until they finally go mad and reach adulthood that is almost tragic. The smug condescension of youthful righteousness is almost unbearable to watch. Whether it is unbearably funny or painful depends on the child putting on the exhibition, but no matter how much sympathy one has for them, the end result is that they make an ass out of themselves and there’s no way to warn them off from it. Adults know this because they can remember the things they once believed from which no one could warn them away.
Because, no matter what one might think to the contrary, there are certain things which make the world run, and that make human beings tick. Those who play by these rules are called grownups. And those who think the rules can, even for a millisecond, ever be broken, are called children.
Children.
“So,” cried the leader, “how’s the night watchman of the North Pole?”
Christ, how I hate children.
Letting my lungful out, I answered through the smoke.
“Tired of playin’ jacks with you and your boys, Sonny. Take ’em on out of here. Get smart, juvenile. I’m more trouble than you ever saw in one place in your short, possibly soon-to-end life.”
Sonny cracked his innocent prankster’s look just slightly, his eyes narrowing as he forced himself to consciously take my measure.
Rechecking his footing on the ice, I caught another secret hand sign directing two of his troops forward on either side of him. One of the giant’s I’d seen the day before. The other, bigger one, was new to me.
“You were told to go home, Kojak.”
“European powers were told to stay out of this hemisphere. Nobody listens.”
Conversation stopped with a snap of the fingers—the shorter giant’s cue to attack. He was a rusher, sweeping forward at me like a runaway train. I took another drag, waiting for the right moment. When his foot touched the walk I sidestepped out of his way quick, letting him ram his fingers into the bricks I’d been leaning against.
The second giant was already moving. Him I took more seriously. He came in calmer, with a sharper idea of what he was doing. Waiting for him to swing, I stepped inside his arc, throwing him off balance just by being so close. He stumbled for a second. I bounced the back of my fist off his nose and then pivoted, catching his ear with my elbow. He staggered off, but by then his partner was up.
He was more cautious this time, but I couldn’t afford to congratulate him. Before he could overcome his hesitation over doing his fingers any further damage, I reached out to the point of being off balance, something he never expected. Grabbing his left hand, I jerked him to me, crushing his fingers together while I dragged him across the ice. He howled. I let him.
He swung at me blindly, swatting to stop the pain. I dodged him with a chuckle and spun him around, letting him fly into his partner, bouncing his head off the other giant’s back. They sat on the ground together, shaking their heads, wondering what had happened.
Crossing to the street, I stepped on the first giant’s hand, drawing screams so loud you could hear them blocks away despite the fireworks. Stopping ankle deep in the growing slush, I asked:
“Got any more acts you want to audition before you go home?”
Sonny’s waving hand brought forward a quartet, two with baseball bats, two with knives. The first to try his luck was a knifer. He stabbed, danced back, stabbed again. I stayed out of reach. This bunch was better—not in each other’s way. The blade came at me again, but only as a feign. He was setting me up for the batters. Noting that in time saved me from getting my head splattered. They’d moved forward together, not swinging, but stabbing as well, limiting their range but keeping their distance. Almost worked.
I ducked the first blade again and then grabbed out, catching the punk’s wrist. Twisting, I got him to lose the knife; then I got him jumping. As long as he was hopping around in pain, no one else could close in on me. He tried to swat me away, but was in too much agony to connect.
Reaching down then, I came up under him, getting a good enough hold to hoist him over my head. The others back off as I knew they would, thinking I was going to throw him into them. Very dramatic, but hardly ever workable. I threw him over the curbed cars into the sidelined giants. The others got the idea. I had forced them to flinch needlessly—bad loss of face. Then I showed them I was going to take them out one by one and stack them like firewood.
The batters came forward again, rising to my challenge. This time they were swinging. I tried to time my catch but I was off. One caught me in the side. Hard. I slid on the snow and rammed into a parked car. The second batter stepped up, the cheers of his fellows making him reckless. Swinging down, he went for my skull—took out the Toyota’s windshield instead. I kicked sideways burying my foot to the cuff in his side. Bones cracked. His. Good, I thought.
The first batter came back again, stabbing. I sidestepped twice then faked a slip. He struck again, too quickly. With better timing I grabbed out and took his bat from him, sliding it out of his gloved hands