The Red Hunter(28)

Taking advantage of the distraction, the kid tried to run. But the man with darker hair and one of those giant diver’s watches that are supposed to let people know you make a lot of money, grabbed him, wrenching his arm. The boy—he was a boy, maybe not even as old as I was—let out a cry of pain.

There wasn’t even a thought in my head. I moved in quick and brought my heel down hard on the darker man’s expensive loafer, feeling a small bone snap beneath the strike. I was pushed back by the sound of his scream. The kid looked at me with something like awe, then scrambled down the street.

“What the fuck?” the blond, scared, angry, turned on me. “He took my wallet.”

He reached in with both hands for me. I threaded my hands up through his arms and vise gripped his wrists, using his arms and weight to stabilize myself and bring my heel hard into his groin. He crumpled soundless into a pile of himself on the concrete, his neck gone bright red against the lavender checks of his Brooks Brothers Oxford. I knew it would take him a second to find sound. By the time he did, a great helpless wail of pain, I was gone, running up the street, heading east, pausing only when I got to Avenue C, ducking into a doorway to catch my breath. I tried to disappear into the dark.

“What the hell did I just do?” I asked no one.

There was a homeless man sleeping in the next doorway, buried beneath a pile of papers, emitting an impossibly strong stench, snoring peacefully.

That street kid probably did have that guy’s wallet. But I didn’t care. It wasn’t any excuse for brutality.

“Oh, and that wasn’t brutal?” my dad asked. Did I mention that I sometimes see my dad? That he lingers in the edges of my life, offering commentary and unsolicited advice. Well, I do.

“It was defense,” I said. “I defended the kid. And then I defended myself.”

“Oh, really,” said my dad. He issued a little laugh. “That blow to the jewels was strictly necessary, was it? You couldn’t have gotten away without it, once the kid was clear?”

He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall beside me. He was wearing that denim shirt over a navy blue tee, the one my mom loved because it made his eyes look like sapphires. He had that sleepy look, like he used to after he’d worked overtime and then slept in. He used to smoke out behind the barn, hiding from my mom.

“Meanwhile,” my dad said. “The kid was a thief.”

“A street kid,” I said. “He probably needed the money for food.”

“A junkie,” he said with a sharp exhale. “He needed the money for drugs.”

“You’d let those two goons pound him into the wall? They were looking for it. They wanted to hurt him, wallet or not.”

“You don’t know that.”

My breath came back, my head cleared. There was no wash of regret, no shaky, post-adrenaline nausea. I was calm and solid as I slipped out of the doorway, confident that I was one with the night. I wasn’t concerned that the police would be looking for me. I didn’t feel bad for hurting those men. In fact, I rarely felt anything at all.

“Sometimes right is right even when it’s wrong,” I said, walking by my father.

“You keep telling yourself that, kid.”

As I moved up the street, heading back to Paul’s—he was bound to be worried by now; might even come out and try to meet me on the path he knew I’d take home—another shadow slipped out of another doorway. He must have seen me run by, waited.

“Did you?” I asked as he came into view. “Take his wallet.”

He held it out, and I took it from him.

“Did you take the cash?” I asked.

“No cash,” he said. “Just credit cards. No one has cash anymore.”

“Do you need money?” I asked.

He nodded. I had a twenty in my wallet, not more. I’d have to ask Paul for money for lunch tomorrow. I handed it to him. I didn’t know if he was hungry or if he needed a fix, that was his karma.

“Why?” he asked.

“Why not?” I answered. He just shook his head at me like I was an apparition, something he couldn’t quite believe in, stuffed the bill in his pocket. Then he ran off without a word of thanks. Weirdly, I didn’t need one.

I walked a little way with the wallet and then ducked into a dive bar where cops from the Fifth Precinct hung out, around the corner from Paul’s, told the bartender that I’d found it in his doorway. He said he’d take care of it, and I knew that he would.

Paul was waiting for me when I got back, his brow knitted with worry.

“You’re late,” he said. He came in close, put a motherly hand on my forehead. “You look a little flushed. You okay?”

“Never better,” I told him. And it was true.

? ? ?

LEAVING THE TEMPLE, ALMOST SIX years since that night defending the street kid, I made sure my brick-red hood was up, my light backpack strapped on tight. That night long ago was the beginning of something. A wrong turn home led me in the right direction. Since then, I’ve had only one thing on my mind. In our touchy-feely culture, there’s a lot of talk about forgiveness, a commonly held belief that the nurturing of hatred and anger is a toxin. No one ever tells you that it can be an engine, that it can keep you alive. I started jogging toward the TriBeCa loft, thinking about my next move.