Tempest Rising - Diane Mckinney-whetstone [39]
Plus Tyrone had other plans for the balance of this Saturday night. He had already walked through the shimmering darkness of Dead Block like he’d promised Bliss that he would, saw no sign of their library books, though. And then as he left the intense quiet of Dead Block and headed down a neat street of massive row homes and uniformly clipped hedges toward the noisesomeness of the hub of West Philly’s late-night frivolity, he saw a tall dark figure about to pass him on the street, and right after he said, “What’s up, my man,” and got a quick head nod for a reply, and he saw the fat slice of wrinkled beige skin running down the otherwise pitch-black forehead, he knew it was Larry. He felt his anger rise up in him now like it had as he’d cleaned Victoria’s wound and Bliss described the feel of Larry’s lips against her cheek. Now his words were rising out of him too, and he was calling to Larry’s back, “Hey, man, hey, you, Larry.”
“Yeah? You speaking to me?” Larry turned around and pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his trench coat.
“Yeah, I am. You better stay away from those young girls you damned near molested on Dead Block this afternoon.”
“Yeah? And you better get the fuck out of my face.” Larry started walking toward Tyrone.
Tyrone knew not to back up, knew to keep facing Larry, keep his eyes on Larry’s hands; country though he was, basic rules of a fight transcended geography. “I ain’t in your face yet, you deranged old dirty old man,” he said as he watched Larry’s hands slowly come up from his pocket. Just don’t have a weapon, he thought. I think I can take you down if you don’t have a weapon.
“Those my grandkids, motherfucker, and you ain’t got a damned thing to do with them.” His hands came up empty.
“They nothing to you, fool. And I’m gonna have your crazy ass locked up if I hear about you going near them again. That is once I finish scrubbing the street with your dim-witted ass.”
Their voices were menacingly thick, pushing through this residential stretch. So much so that three porch lights came on in a row, followed by voices that bounced down to the pavement and kept Tyrone and Larry apart.
“Who’s out there?” came from the middle porch.
“I don’t know who”—from the next porch over—“but whoever it is I’m not having this. I’m calling the cops.”
“Or throw a bucket of hot water over them”—from the third. “They want to act like animals, treat them that way. Thugs like that what’s taking this neighborhood down.”
“Sorry to have disturbed y’all, madams,” Tyrone called over the hedges to get to the porch lights. “I’m just gonna be on my way. If this other, uh, man hangs around, though, I would definitely call the cops.” He half laughed when he said it and then turned his back on Larry; he could now since Larry’s hands had come up empty.
Tyrone wondered what could make a man try to claim children that were no way his. He shook his head about it and then shook Larry from his mind completely as he turned the corner to where he intended to be, under the boastful lights and the begging-for-love music wrapping around the Strip, Fifty-second Street, where the bustling shopping district by day was transformed to a different kind of shopping under the black velvet air. People here weren’t interested in Shapiro’s shoes or Peter Pan dresses for their little girls. Even though they were paying good money for lighter feet and pretty young things. The five-and-dime was locked and chained, but dime bags of green weed were in plentiful supply. And even though the gold shop had closed at six, liquid gold flowed freely for a price at a leather-clad bar or linen-draped table, under