The Sweet Forever

Clay stepped to his side, slipped the punch. He whipped out his hand, turned it for a nice, quick snap at the point of contact, drove his palm up into Short Man’s nose. The blow lifted Monroe off the ground.

Monroe flew back, his eyes hot as fire. He watched his own blood splash up before his face, felt it run over his lip and into his mouth.

“Respect!” yelled Karras to Alan Rogers, who had moved forward.

Rogers stayed where he was. The white dude looked like some mad professor and shit, lit by a hundred tabs of speed.

Anthony Taylor backed himself away along the fence.

“How you like that, short stuff?” said Clay. “You like it when a bigger man than you roughs you up?”

Monroe stood up, rolled his shoulders, smiled red. Pain tears streamed down his cheeks. He came forward in a crouch. He brought his hands up to protect his face, bobbed, saw blood hit the sidewalk.

“Stay where you are, man,” said Clay. “You don’t want no more.”

Monroe kept coming. He hooked a right toward Clay’s middle. Clay brought his elbows in, took the shot. Monroe led with a left jab, threw another right.

The blow was weak and off. Clay swatted it to the side. He slapped Monroe hard with an open hand. He backhanded him, hammer-slapped him again square on his broken nose. Monroe yelped like a stick-beat dog and went down to the concrete.

“Dag,” said Anthony Taylor.

“Get out of here, boy. Go on back to the store now, hear? Go.”

The kid looked at the bloody heap curled on the sidewalk and walked away. A couple of old men had gathered down along 10th, and they were shouting words of encouragement to Marcus Clay.

“You,” said Clay to Rogers. “Pick your boy up and get him to a doctor. Now on in, you stay out of sight of my shop. Don’t even want to see your kind around this neighborhood, you hear?”

“Tell ’em, Clay!” yelled one of the old men.

Rogers helped Monroe up off the ground. He began to walk him back toward the Z.

“C’mon, Marcus.” Karras tugged at Clay’s shirt.

“Another thing, Rogers. That your name, right, boy?”

Rogers and Monroe kept walking.

Clay raised his voice. “You keep away from that girl, Rogers. Keep away from Denice Tate!”

“All right, Marcus,” said Karras. “You made your point, buddy. Let’s go back to work.”

They headed across U.

Monroe stopped, pulled his arm away from Rogers. He turned toward Clay. “Gonna fuck you up, nigga!” You hear?” He stared at the old men on the sidewalk, gestured wildly. “Gonna fuck all a y’all up!”

The old men turned and walked back toward their homes.

“Gotta get you to D.C. General,” said Rogers.

“Gonna doom that mothafucker, Alan,” said Monroe.

“All right, black,” said Rogers. “Need to fix you up, though, first.”

Alan Rogers looked back at Clay and the white dude, crossing the street slow. Clay, he’d handled Monroe, crippled his ass and then slapped him down like he was breaking a child. Rogers thought, How’d I ever get with the people I’m with?

Rogers wanted to see his girl. He wanted to run away.