could get ugly.
“Pretty proud of this, aren’t you?” Clubba asked.
“You’re just a run-of-the-mill punk in my book,” Walker said.
“Nah,” Clubba said. “I’m a prize collar. Or so my people tell me.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.” Walker turned Clubba around and grasped his upper arm. The officer outside, gang unit detective Zach Reeves knew the neighborhood well.
“Word’s out,” he called to the officers inside. “Let’s go!” he said as much in warning as an order.
On the front stoop, Charlie stopped short behind Zach. A crowd, one appearing distinctly unfriendly to the police, gathered in the street.
“What’s wrong?” Clubba glanced at the officers and with a mocking smirk. “Scared?”
Reeves didn’t take his gaze off the roadway and sidewalks. “Hardly.”
Clubba smiled and surveyed a mass of about thirty people. “You ought’ta be,” he said softly. “Watch this.” Clubba threw back his head and called out to the crowd. “Anotha’ brotha’ bein’ arrested fo’ being black!”
Charlie blinked at the abrupt switch in Clubba’s speech. He’d gone from perfect American English to urban street talk. Clubba’s claim had the appropriate effect.
“Let him go!” A young man wearing a black sweat shirt hollered. He tugged the hood over his forehead as far as possible to avoid recognition by the police.
“He didn’t do nothin’!” A middle-aged woman with a sneer rose to the challenge Clubba’s word incited. “He was wit’ me da’ whole time!”
Clubba’s presence energized the whole block; tension arced in the air. From the back of the congregating group, a nameless, faceless bystander in the back threw down the gauntlet. “Kill the po-leece.”
The threat caught every officer’s attention. The antagonistic crowd warmed to the invitation. More anonymous yells, curses, and threats emanated from every face in the growing throng. Hoodies were tugged over their heads to conceal their identities.
Clubba chuckled. “Not too popular up here, are you?”
Officer Walker ignored the remark and shook his head. “This show isn’t for me,” he said. “Everybody out there is performing for you, currying your favor.”
“Run, Clubba!” a lone voice cried out from the middle of the throng. Insults, taunts, and curses flew through the air, trying to egg the police into a fight.
“Break loose, Clubba!”
“We got yo’ back!”
“No,” gang detective Steve Turley, a ten-year veteran of OPD said to Walker. “I’ve got your back. Let’s move.”
Reeves led the way to the cruiser with Walker and Clubba in the middle and Turley bringing up the rear. The threats amplified, those assembled growing more daring. The officers started pushing their way through the angry crowd. Turley scanned the contorted faces surrounding him and determined the situation could get ugly and out of control with more than a few injuries in a nanosecond. No longer onlookers in a nameless crowd, they’d morphed into a mob.
As the mob edged closer, the yells, screams, and taunts were issued within spitting range of the officers. Turley figured a brick or other projectile would launch through the air any moment. Sensing a direct and real threat to their safety left only one thing to do. Turley pushed the shoulder mike. “Help an officer!” he barked out along with their location.
The call went out to every cop on duty—and a few who weren’t. Within seconds, sirens shrieked; blue and red lights flashed. Half a dozen cruisers swerved to a stop wherever they could: in the streets, on front yards, sidewalks, anywhere and everywhere. Car doors opened and a stream of officers spilled out in a blue invasion.
Clubba’s smile widened. “It’s on now!” he said.
Half of the crowd scattered at the sound of sirens, bellowing a string of obscenities over their shoulders. Once home, they opened their windows and doors and walked onto their creaking balconies. The familiar
“Pretty proud of this, aren’t you?” Clubba asked.
“You’re just a run-of-the-mill punk in my book,” Walker said.
“Nah,” Clubba said. “I’m a prize collar. Or so my people tell me.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.” Walker turned Clubba around and grasped his upper arm. The officer outside, gang unit detective Zach Reeves knew the neighborhood well.
“Word’s out,” he called to the officers inside. “Let’s go!” he said as much in warning as an order.
On the front stoop, Charlie stopped short behind Zach. A crowd, one appearing distinctly unfriendly to the police, gathered in the street.
“What’s wrong?” Clubba glanced at the officers and with a mocking smirk. “Scared?”
Reeves didn’t take his gaze off the roadway and sidewalks. “Hardly.”
Clubba smiled and surveyed a mass of about thirty people. “You ought’ta be,” he said softly. “Watch this.” Clubba threw back his head and called out to the crowd. “Anotha’ brotha’ bein’ arrested fo’ being black!”
Charlie blinked at the abrupt switch in Clubba’s speech. He’d gone from perfect American English to urban street talk. Clubba’s claim had the appropriate effect.
“Let him go!” A young man wearing a black sweat shirt hollered. He tugged the hood over his forehead as far as possible to avoid recognition by the police.
“He didn’t do nothin’!” A middle-aged woman with a sneer rose to the challenge Clubba’s word incited. “He was wit’ me da’ whole time!”
Clubba’s presence energized the whole block; tension arced in the air. From the back of the congregating group, a nameless, faceless bystander in the back threw down the gauntlet. “Kill the po-leece.”
The threat caught every officer’s attention. The antagonistic crowd warmed to the invitation. More anonymous yells, curses, and threats emanated from every face in the growing throng. Hoodies were tugged over their heads to conceal their identities.
Clubba chuckled. “Not too popular up here, are you?”
Officer Walker ignored the remark and shook his head. “This show isn’t for me,” he said. “Everybody out there is performing for you, currying your favor.”
“Run, Clubba!” a lone voice cried out from the middle of the throng. Insults, taunts, and curses flew through the air, trying to egg the police into a fight.
“Break loose, Clubba!”
“We got yo’ back!”
“No,” gang detective Steve Turley, a ten-year veteran of OPD said to Walker. “I’ve got your back. Let’s move.”
Reeves led the way to the cruiser with Walker and Clubba in the middle and Turley bringing up the rear. The threats amplified, those assembled growing more daring. The officers started pushing their way through the angry crowd. Turley scanned the contorted faces surrounding him and determined the situation could get ugly and out of control with more than a few injuries in a nanosecond. No longer onlookers in a nameless crowd, they’d morphed into a mob.
As the mob edged closer, the yells, screams, and taunts were issued within spitting range of the officers. Turley figured a brick or other projectile would launch through the air any moment. Sensing a direct and real threat to their safety left only one thing to do. Turley pushed the shoulder mike. “Help an officer!” he barked out along with their location.
The call went out to every cop on duty—and a few who weren’t. Within seconds, sirens shrieked; blue and red lights flashed. Half a dozen cruisers swerved to a stop wherever they could: in the streets, on front yards, sidewalks, anywhere and everywhere. Car doors opened and a stream of officers spilled out in a blue invasion.
Clubba’s smile widened. “It’s on now!” he said.
Half of the crowd scattered at the sound of sirens, bellowing a string of obscenities over their shoulders. Once home, they opened their windows and doors and walked onto their creaking balconies. The familiar
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