Last Chance for Glory by Stephen Solomita Read Free Book Online

through the far door.
    No weapons, Blake thought. Please no weapons here. If they really fuck each other up, the cops’ll have me giving statements for the next six hours.
    His plea went unheard. The black man came around the back of his car waving a three-foot length of iron pipe. Which, Blake had to admit, wasn’t such a bad idea. Not only was he six inches shorter and a good hundred pounds lighter than his adversary, he couldn’t turn tail and run. His car was trapped behind the Russian’s.
    As the two men began to circle, Blake let his eyes drift over the crowd. Mostly male, their eyes glittered with anticipation, like men at a stag party watching the whore move from lap to lap. Jaws rigid, skin glistening, fists clenched—their clothing was already soaked with sweat. Later, the executives would shower and change; the alkies and the crack junkies would itch and stink.
    “Yeah, get him, get him. Smash his fuckin’ face in. Kick his fuckin’ ass.
    What it is, Blake decided, is street-ecumenical. The homeless meet the CEOs. Democracy in action. The vision of Thomas Jefferson sucked out of the Bill of Rights and dumped onto the pavement.
    Blake turned back to the combatants. The black man clearly didn’t want to fight. He was waving the pipe around, but making no effort to close the six feet of ground between himself and the Russian. The Russian, for his part, continued to circle, continued to chant the same curse in the same intense monotone.
    “Black-assssss; black-assssss; black-assssss.”
    In the end, the black man’s indecision decided the fight. When he finally struck, the blow, though it contacted the Russian’s scalp with an audible thump, was neither killing nor disabling. The Russian, laughing, now, ignored the blood streaming over his left eye; he grabbed the smaller man, forced him to the ground, slammed his face into the pavement.
    “Black-assssss.”
    Slowly, as if trying to assert his dignity, the Russian heaved his bulk erect. He began to kick his stunned opponent, taking his time about it, grunting with the effort. Again and again and again.
    Blake waited until he was sure the Russian wasn’t going to stop. Until the small figure on the pavement lay motionless. Then he stepped forward.
    “That’s it,” he said, trying to put enough command into his voice to get the Russian’s attention, a necessary first step. “You won. The fight’s over. C’mon, enough.”
    The Russian turned his head slightly. “I kill you, too,” he grunted. His eyes, Blake noted, were still in lunatic heaven.
    “You don’t wanna talk about killing, pal.” Blake held up his hands, palms out. “They do horrible things to you for killing people. Twenty-five years to life kind of things. In Attica.”
    He’d intended his counsel to be calming, but the Russian wasn’t ready to listen. He did, however, move away from his fallen adversary, which Blake saw as a victory of sorts. Or it would have been a victory if the Russian hadn’t been coming straight for him.
    Blake wasn’t afraid. Four years on the varsity wrestling squad at City College (good enough to get invited to the Olympic trials; not good enough to win a single bout) had taught him to keep his head. Ten years of post-college workouts in a sweaty YMHA in Forest Hills had only added to his confidence. At present, he was benching three-twenty-five, a hundred and forty pounds more than his body weight. He may not have been a candidate for power lifter of the year, but he was certain he could tie a lumbering, blubbery Russian into enough knots to fill a Boy Scout manual.
    “Look, you’re makin’ a big mistake here.” Blake continued to back away. “What happened before? You could claim self-defense. After all, the man hit you with a pipe and you’ve got the wound to prove it. But me, I’m unarmed.” He raised his hands again. “And I’m running away, You hear the sirens? The cops’ll arrive any minute. Don’t you have enough problems without