Saleem was a few yards out in front, and he hadn’t noticed the man through the high weeds. And though Imran was looking around alertly, he hadn’t yet seen him either.
What should I do? What else could I do but announce that I had spotted the guy we were searching for? Imran would make sure he never bothered us again. There’d be no reason for us to be afraid in our own neighborhood anymore. But what exactly would he do to the man? He’d said he would teach him a lesson, but did that mean just put the fear of God in him, or would he go further and work the guy over with his fists, like the Pakistani cops he had praised?
I hesitated and glanced at Imran, at the brick in his hand and the muscled arms that stretched the fabric of his tight black polo shirt. He walked clumsily for a boxer. He stomped his feet and looked more like a wrestler about to go on the attack.
What should I do? Saleem and his uncle had already gone past him. The man unfolded a paper sack and took out a piece of bread. He broke off a bit and tossed it into the canal. As the bread hit the water, a raft of ducks surrounded it with a great flapping of wings, but just before they got to it, a covert of greedy coots chased them off, their eyes red, their beaks sharp. The man was clearly enjoying the show, since he went on tossing bits of bread into the canal. Soon, a colony of seagulls joined the battle. The squawking and splashing got louder, swelled to a cacophony of sound. Saleem turned around to look, and his eyes slowly widened.
“That’s him!” he shouted. “Uncle Imran, there he is!”
Not asking if he was sure, Imran stepped from the pavement onto the strip of grass that bordered the canal. He marched heavily toward the jetty, began to run, like a warrior who’s suddenly recognized his enemy in the distance. He must have stepped on a pool of bird shit, because his legs flew out from under him and he lost his grip on his brick, which arced into the weeds. Imran’s huge body landed with such a loud thud that it attracted the attention of not only the man but also the coots and ducks and gulls. He hauled himself upright, roaring with anger. He brushed off his jeans, now spotted with greenish-brown stains, and, cursing, wiped the bird shit from his hands onto his pants. And then he set off again at top speed, aiming for the bicyclist. Like a gladiator confidently entering the arena for his final battle, he leaped onto the jetty, which creaked and wobbled beneath his weight, and flung himself at the man, who by now, shocked by Imran’s approach, had gotten to his feet and instinctively raised his hands.
Imran quickly grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and yanked him close. No one who might have witnessed such a scene would have expected the giant bald man to speak before punching his insignificant opponent’s lights out, yet that’s exactly what he did. Imran gestured wildly toward the two of us and demanded, “Why were you bothering these boys?” The question didn’t match his wrathful appearance. It was as if the gladiator had stopped himself at the last moment to make sure the figure who’d appeared out of the dust clouds of the Colosseum was in fact another gladiator and not some innocent deliveryman who’d accidentally stepped through an open doorway into the arena.
“Who, me?” the man mumbled.
“My nephew says you’ve been waving your dick in his and his friend’s faces.”
The man stared at us, astonished. “What? No! I... I only asked them for directions.”
Imran pulled him closer, and the man’s heels left the ground. He dangled on his tiptoes, like a doll. “Are you sure?” It wasn’t a question. It was a warning that threatened impending disaster, as if that hadn’t already been announced.
“I was lost! I swear, I was lost, I only asked the boys for help!”
Imran shook him violently. “Don’t lie to me, you bastard!”
“Let me go,” the man whined. “You’re hurting me. Let me go, I didn’t do anything!”
“You showed two little boys your fucking cock!” barked Imran. “And then you followed them, you pervert.”
The man tried to worm out of Imran’s grip, swatting ineffectually at the hand that held him tight. When that had no effect, he jerked away, screeching. His fluorescent bike shirt tore, and he fell backward, leaving Imran holding nothing but a scrap of fabric, glaring at it in confusion like he was doing an impression of King Kong. The man scrabbled away, trying to escape.
“You’re not going anywhere,” growled Imran. “I’m not finished with you.” He crouched down and grabbed the ripped shirt, but the man kept crab-walking backward, and the shirt tore off completely, leaving him naked from the waist up, flopping around on the jetty like a fish out of water, about to be gutted and fileted. Imran took hold of his wrist and hauled him to his feet as if he was weightless. The man struggled to get loose, pulling and hitting the hand that held him captive.
“Stop it!” Imran ordered, and he hit the man on the ear. “Stay still!”
But the man failed to obey, went on shrieking that Imran had to let him go.
Imran dealt a second blow to the bicyclist’s mouth with the back of his hand. The man cowered in Imran’s grip, his hands clapped over his lips, and then he seemed to go insane. He unleashed a fearsome cry, then sank his teeth into the hand that still held him and shook his head wildly, like a hungry caiman ripping the flesh of its prey in the brown waters of the Amazon.
It was weird to hear our mighty protector yelling like a wounded beast. His voice tormented, he snarled, “You’ll pay for that!” He balled his right hand into a fist and smashed it into the man’s left eye. There was the sound of bone cracking, and a hellish scream.
“My eye!” the man wailed. “My eye!”
At that moment, I felt an intense sense of pity for the man. I turned to Saleem, filled with concern, but he was hopping up and down, swinging his arms like a charged-up Roman citizen who’d spent the whole week looking forward to this battle and was now enjoying it to the max.
The man staggered, and only remained on his feet because Imran was holding him up. Suddenly Imran noticed that his hand was bleeding. He stared at it, unbelieving, his massive chest heaving. Then he returned his disgusted attention to the bicyclist and spat, “If you gave me AIDS, you fuck, I’ll kill you!”
Imran swiveled his torso and hip and let loose another right-handed wallop. This one caught the man full in the nose, and there came again the crunch of bone. The man sank to his knees.
We had to do something before Imran really did kill him. We had to stop the slaughter. I yelled at Saleem, but he didn’t react, just stood there transfixed by his uncle’s merciless attack. Maybe he was reminded of the many times we’d watched our hero, the Ultimate Warrior, on the mat. But this was no theatrical wrestling match: a human being was actually being torn apart, and all we could do was watch.
As Imran kicked the man in the ribs, I grabbed Saleem’s arm. “We have to stop him! He’s gonna kill the guy!”
Only then did Saleem face me, the color drained from his face. “Yeah,” he muttered, “but... what can we do?”
“Pull him off,” I said. I dragged Saleem onto the jetty. As we came up behind Imran, he kicked the guy again, then a third time. It sounded like all the air was leaking out of the man. I shoved Saleem forward and said, “Do something!” But he just stood there, watching his uncle go to town. So I pushed him aside and approached Imran myself.
“Stop,” I shouted, “you’re killing him!” But Imran seemed not to hear me.
And right then I heard a shout from the apartment building on the far side of the canal.
“Hey, stop it!” a voice called. “Leave the man be!”