“My bad,” Reginald said. It was a comment that Jack understood from his street basketball. It meant that Reginald was taking responsibility for what he was about to do.
The gun fired, and Jack winced reflexively. Even his eyes closed. But he didn’t feel anything. Then he realized that Reginald was toying with him like a cat with a captured mouse. Jack opened his eyes. As terrorized as he felt, he was determined not to give Reginald any satisfaction. But what he saw shocked him. Reginald had disappeared.
Jack blinked several times, as if he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. When he looked more closely he could just make out Reginald’s body sprawled on the paving stones. A dark stain like an octopus’s ink was spreading out from his head.
Jack swallowed but didn’t move. He was transfixed. Out of the shadows of the arcade stepped a man. He was wearing a baseball hat backward. In his hand he held a pistol similar to the one Reginald had been carrying. He went first to Reginald’s gun, which had skidded ten feet away, and picked it up. He examined it briefly, then thrust it into the top of his trousers. He stepped over to the dead man and with the tip of his foot turned Reginald’s head over to look at the wound. Satisfied, he bent down and frisked the body until he found a wallet. He pulled it out, pocketed it, then stood up.
“Let’s go, Doc,” the man said.
Jack descended the last three steps. When he got to the bottom he recognized his rescuer. It was Spit!
“What are you doing here?” Jack asked in a forced whisper. His throat had gone bone dry.
“This ain’t no time for rapping, man,” Spit said. He then indulged in the act that had been the source of his sobriquet. “We gotta get the hell out of here. One of those bums back on the hill was only winged, and he’s going to have this place crawling with cops.”
From the moment Spit’s gun had gone off in the arcade, Jack’s mind had been spinning. Jack had no idea how Spit happened to be there at such a crucial time, or why he was now hustling him out of the park.
Jack tried to protest. He knew leaving a murder scene was a felony, and there had been two murders, not one. But Spit was not to be dissuaded. In fact, when Jack finally stopped running and started to explain why they shouldn’t flee, Spit slapped him. It wasn’t a gentle slap; it was a blow with vengeance. Jack put his hand to his face. His skin was hot where he’d been struck.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jack asked.
“Trying to knock some sense into you, man,” Spit said. “We got to get our asses over to Amsterdam. Here, you carry this mother.” Spit thrust Reginald’s machine pistol into Jack’s hands.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” Jack asked. As far as he was concerned it was a murder weapon that should be handled with latex gloves and treated as evidence.
“Stick it under your sweater,” Spit said. “Let’s get.”
“Spit, I don’t think I can run away like this,” Jack said. “You go if you must, and take this thing.” Jack extended the gun toward Spit.
Spit exploded. He grabbed Reginald’s gun out of Jack’s hand and immediately pressed the barrel against Jack’s forehead. “You’re pissing me off, man,” he said. “What’s the matter with you? There still could be some of these Black King assholes hanging around here. I tell you what: If you don’t get your ass in gear I’m going to waste you. You understand? I mean I wouldn’t be out here risking my black ass if it hadn’t been for Warren telling me to do it.”
“Warren?” Jack questioned. Everything was getting too complicated.
But he believed Spit’s threat, so he didn’t try to question him further. Jack knew Spit to be an impulsive man on the basketball court with a quick temper. Jack had never been willing to argue with him. “Are you coming or what?” Spit demanded.
“I’m coming,” Jack said. “I’m bowing to your better judgment.”