Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [22]
The kid with the big afro said, “Come on, mama—ain’t no way you gonna keep that bag. Just give it up and get outta here.” Flood opened her hands and motioned the kid forward like a prizefighter showing his opponent that the last punch didn’t hurt. The kid with the afro faked an advance and immediately jumped back. The kid without the weapon laughed, all the time moving more and more to Flood’s left. The kid with the afro was shrill now. “Fuckin’ puta, fuckin’ pig. You ask too many questions, blanco bitch.” Flood moved at him and he backed away. The kid with the knife started to move to her right, but he was clumsy and she cut him off, getting even further away from the third one.
The spokesman for the pack stopped trying to be polite. “Fuckin’ bitch. We take that purse and we take you in the back and we stick a broomstick up your fat ass. You like that, you cunt?” Flood’s lips pulled back from her teeth and a hissing sound came out of her. She faked a move forward, spun and lashed out with her left foot at the kid without a weapon, kept spinning and shoved her purse behind her with the same move, then whipped her arms back across her chest down to her sides, and they were back in the same positions as when I first came on the scene.
They all stood frozen—maybe a minute, maybe more. Then the one with the knife tried to circle Flood on her right, moving so that his back was to me. I held the .38 tightly in my right hand, moved in close behind him, and punched him in the kidneys with the barrel. He went down with a nasty grunt. They all turned in my direction. I kicked the kid who was down in the back of the head with my steel-toed dress shoes, stepped around him holding the piece way out in front of me for the others to see. They backed toward the alley wall where I motioned for them to stand together. I cocked the gun so they could see that too and put it about a foot in front of the afro’s face. “You know what this is?”
He was quiet now, but his pal knew when to speak. “Yeah, man, we know what it is. We didn’t mean nothing.” Sure. I backed away to give them room to move.
“Get back in there,” I said, motioning toward the open door. They didn’t move. Frozen, they were looking past me. I turned slightly and saw Flood had picked up the knife. She was kneeling over the kid on the ground, one fist full of his genitals and the other holding the blade poised to slice.
“Do it,” she said, and they both ran to the open door.
I was right behind them. “Turn around and put your hands on top of your heads,” I said. “Now!” They did. Flood dragged the knifeman over and flung him inside like he was a light sack of garbage. I told the other two to get inside, and the silent one moved into the doorway. The afro froze. My nose told me he had wet himself. I just touched him with the piece and he followed his friend. I went next, with Flood right behind me.
We were in a cellar room with a cot in one corner, a radio playing—it was too dark to see anything else. “Get on the floor,” I told the two who could still move. The other one lay where Flood had thrown him. With the .38 in my left hand, I pulled the .22 from my coat and aimed it at all three of them lying there. It wouldn’t kill anyone, but they didn’t know that. Neither did Flood. Then I started pulling the trigger as fast as I could.
One of them was screaming even before I emptied the piece. Between the bird shot and the flares and the teargas, the room turned into the hell they permanently deserved—for a few minutes anyway. I slammed