Which did not deter him in the least. This is exactly what I need, Kirk realized. This is what I’ve been searching for.
I need to be punished.
He sauntered forward, just as he saw the punk in the rear laying his hands on the rim of the trash can. “ ’Scuse me, gentlemen,” Kirk said, affecting a lighthearted confidence he did not feel. “May I suggest that you give your plan of action a second thought?”
The punk in the middle, the largest and meanest looking of the lot, growled at him. “Get the hell out of here.”
“You know,” Kirk continued, “property crime is a terrible thing. It causes taxes to go up and strains the economy. It drains money away from valuable state endeavors like schools and libraries.”
The kid at the trash can reached into his jacket pocket. A flash of silver emerged. “Last chance, punk. Leave!”
Kirk stared at the switchblade. Clearly, if he were going to make a break for it, this would be the time. If he wanted to escape the punishment.
But what would happen if he did? Would he be turning away from his only hope for redemption? Would he be thwarting God’s plan for him? Let this cup pass from me, O Lord …
No, he couldn’t do that. This was right. This was the path.
“I’m staying,” Kirk said. “You’re leaving.”
The mean one in the middle grunted. “Case you haven’t noticed, asswipe, there’s three of us, and only one of you.” He jerked his head toward the kid with the knife. “Waste him.”
The kid lurched forward, carving a path for himself with his knife. Kirk tumbled backward, trying to get out of the way. The kid kept coming. Kirk moved as fast as he could, till he backed up against a telephone pole.
“You history, shit-for-brains.” The kid grinned a little, then lurched forward like a soldier with a bayonet.
At the last possible moment, Kirk whirled out of the way. He did a complete circle, and as he came back around, he raised one leg and kicked the knife out of the kid’s hand.
The kid fell down onto the pavement, surprised and knocked loopy by Kirk’s slick move. He dove after his knife, but Kirk stopped him with another well-placed kick. He tumbled down, his chin thudding on the concrete. Another kick from Kirk and he was out of commission.
“Da-aamn,” the big thug said, watching with a discernible degree of admiration, “this punkass can fight.”
“Not two Crips at once,” his companion replied. Another flash of silver, and he, too, was armed and ready.
This time, Kirk didn’t wait for them to come to him. He knew his only chance was to go on the offensive, to take out the weapon and disable his attackers as quickly as possible. He’d studied martial arts, tae kwon do and kick-boxing especially, but he knew that fancy-schmancy stuff wasn’t always helpful in a no-holds-barred street fight.
He launched himself toward the one with the knife, trying to knock it out of his hand. But this kid was ready for him. He moved himself and his knife out of the way, then slashed backward as Kirk flew past.
Kirk cried out in pain. The knife jabbed him just under the ribs. Not fatal, not by a long shot. But still plenty deep enough to hurt.
Kirk whirled around, trying to stop whatever came at him next. It was the big boy this time, reaching out with his bare hands. Kirk dropped, rolled, and managed to plant a solid punch in the soft part of his stomach. The kid felt it, too, but it wasn’t enough to slow him down. A split second later, one of those massive fists came crashing into Kirk’s face.
He felt the skin over his left eye split. Blood spurted out, obscuring his vision. Another blow caught him between the legs, and he was down on his knees, coughing blood.
From that point on, it was a massacre. The punks kept coming at him, never stopping for a moment. Kirk was helpless, powerless to stop the relentless assault on every part of his body. Heavy boots crashed into his ribs, sending shock waves of pain throughout his body.
He felt something hard and metallic smash down on his head, knocking him flat against the sidewalk. After that, he couldn’t feel the individual blows, just the horrible unending wave of pain and the salty bitter taste of his own blood.
“C’mon, man,” he finally heard one of them say, “he’s had it. Let’s blow.”
“One minute,” his friend said.
Kirk felt his head being lifted up by the hair. Through blurred vision, he saw a cold blade sweep across his face. He cried out as, all at once, he experienced pain more intense than anything he had felt in his life, as the flesh of his forehead was rent apart.
“Now we can go,” the kid growled. He let Kirk’s head thud down onto the pavement.
Kirk heard the footsteps move away from him. The pummeling ended, but he could feel no difference. Cascading ripples of agony coursed through his abused and mutilated body. The blood streaming out of his head wound blinded him.
Have I suffered enough? he wondered. He wanted to cry out but couldn’t find the strength. Have I been sufficiently punished? Is it over?
But there was no answer. No matter how much he pleaded, he got no response. No one was listening.
He began to cry, not because he hurt so badly, although he did, but because he realized now that it would make no difference. There would be no relief, no redemption.
He had suffered, but not nearly enough. Not for what he had done.
He still had to be punished.
12
WHEN BEN ARRIVED AT his upstairs apartment, he found two envelopes tucked halfway under the door. Fan mail from some flounder? More likely death threats from an anonymous member of the Tulsa P.D. But when he opened the envelopes, he was pleasantly surprised. They contained the best of all possibilities: money.
Probably not a contribution to my legal defense fund, Ben mused, as he counted through the bills. Of course—today was the last day of the month, wasn’t it? Time for all good tenants to pay their rent. And Mr. Perry had done so, promptly and invisibly, as always. The man had been in this building the entire time Ben had, and he had yet to meet him face-to-face. Mr. Perry was sort of like gravity; you knew it had to exist, but you never actually saw it.
The second envelope was not nearly as thick as the first. That would be from Mrs. Singleton, Ben surmised. Sure enough, at the back of the woefully inadequate envelope, there was a note: I.O.U. $220. Sorry—short this month. Will pay when can.
Which, of course, would be never. Ben’d been here before. If he could collect all the money that woman owed him, he could probably buy a country club membership. But he understood. Since her husband left her, Mrs. Singleton had been the principal means of support for her twin daughters, one of whom was now in college, and two younger children besides. The room they rented was no bigger than Ben’s; where all those people slept he had no idea. Mrs. Singleton worked in a factory assembling bits and pieces of machinery without even knowing what they were, and in the evenings, she took in laundry for extra cash. Making ends meet was a day-to-day struggle for her.
Ben took the I.O.U. and crumpled it in his hand. The last thing on earth this woman needed were worries about the rent. Mental note: If he ended up doing time on this trumped-up obstruction charge, Mrs. Singleton got the vacant room.
He shoved the two envelopes in his pocket and fumbled for his keys. Becoming a landlord had been an eye-opening experience. He had never imagined himself doing anything like this. He’d never imagined himself having investments, much less ones that actually earned money. And certainly not ones that put him in such direct and intimate contact with other people’s lives. How was it, he wondered, that a person who was so pathetically poor at interacting with others could ever end up as a landlord—and a lawyer? Both jobs immersed him in other people’s problems on a daily basis. Although there was this to say about landlording—it had never gotten him thrown behind bars.