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I’ve got too much invested in Nola right now, and hell if I need my conscience getting in the way.

Fuck. I climb out of the vehicle, lighting up a cigarette to ease the frustration of having to give a shit. With a casual stroll, so as not to alert any of the boys getting their jollies off on knocking Oliver to the ground each time he tries to get up, I approach them like a rhino about to stomp all over an ant hill. The older kid pins Oliver to the ground, rears back a fist, and hammers it into his face.

“Talk, Retard! Or I’ll rip your tongue out with my bare hands! Quit fucking pretending!”

Good. He got a hit in. Now I have reason for what I’m about to do. Two of the kids back off, as I approach the unwitting one, who apparently hasn’t caught a glimpse of me, yet. Nabbing the back of his jacket, I shove my cigarette between my lips, while I wrench him up off Oliver and pin him to a nearby lamppost.

Eyes wide, he stares back at me, mouth gaping as if to scream, and I grip his throat.

Gently, of course.

“The human tongue isn’t as easy to rip out as you might think. Not without a hook, or something to grab hold of the muscle. But the windpipe can be crushed with one tight grip.”

Beneath my hand, the boy’s throat bobs with a harsh swallow.

“Oliver, you know where this kid lives?” A quick glance back shows Oliver pushing up to a sitting position, chest rapidly rising and falling, and he nods, pointing to one of the houses across the street.

“Good.” Turning back to the kid, whose face is screwed up in panic like he’s about to piss his pants, I inhale a drag of my smoke and blow it in his face, still pinning him with my other hand. “I now know where you live. And if I catch you fucking with him again, I’ll string you up to this lamppost here by your tighty-whities for the whole neighborhood to see what a shit-stain you are. Do you understand?” I’m bluffing. Obviously. I wouldn’t waste a roll of toilet paper on this little shit, let alone a minute more of my time.

But he nods, anyway.

I drop him, letting him slump to the ground, and as all three kids take off in opposite directions, I reach out a hand for Oliver. His nose is bleeding, and the red plum below his eye socket will undoubtedly be black by the time his mom gets home from work.

Oliver slaps my hand away, clambering to his feet with a pissed-off expression, as if I was the one who made his nose bleed.

“Let me tell you something, Oliver. As a kid who grew up on the streets, the last thing you want to do is bite the hand that just bitch slapped your enemies.” I tug at the cuffs of my sleeves and straighten my slacks. “You want a ride home?”

Glancing to the right shows the big kid staring out his front window from the house across the street, and Oliver nods, following after me. As I toss my smoke and fall into the driver’s seat, I catch Oliver’s eyes wandering over the interior of my car.

“Those kids fuck with you every day?”

Eyes directed toward his hands set in his lap, he nods.

“Here’s a quick lesson for dealing with shitheads.” Arm resting across the back of the seat, I turn to face him. “First, that kid, if he’s smart, he won’t retaliate, but if he’s stupid enough to try, you’re not going to let him rattle you. Bullies love that shit, and you don’t need to give him the satisfaction. Second, if anyone gets in your face, you always look ‘em dead in the eyes. No turning away, like you did back there.” I point two fingers at my own eyes to prove my point. “You hold your bat-shit little stare just like you did to me at dinner. Even if he threatens to stab the bastards out of your head, you don’t look away. In your mind, you establish your limit before you snap. And let me tell you kid, when you become good at keeping to that limit, they’ll see it on your face. The trick is to make them believe that you’re a little crazy. Use that mute mouth to your advantage by watching. Observing. You look for weaknesses.” I tip my head to guide his eyes to mine. “Use it against them. Understand?”

Fingers fidgeting in his lap, he nods.

“Good.” Twisting back in my seat, I fire up the vehicle and head back toward his house. I have a feeling, if the kid could talk, he’d probably blow me away with the shit inside his head, but physically, he’s small and weak, which makes him a target. He’ll always be a target, unless he starts using that brain of his to protect what he lacks in strength.

Without doubt, the savvy mind can wreak more havoc than brawn. Carl was a fine example of what happens when a scrawny kid gets pushed too far. When he constantly redefines his limits for the sake of self-preservation. Smart enough to negotiate his way out of just about anything, but abused too many times to really understand—or care, for that matter.

I keep my eyes on the road, making my way down the block. “You watched your father die?”

With a huff, he turns toward the window, then glances back toward his hands before nodding.

“I watched my mom die, too. You and I, we’re a different breed, Oliver. We already know the worst kind of pain. The pain of knowing no one can ever really protect you from the bad shit.”

With the driveway in view, I glance over at him, where he seems to stare off at nothing. He’s a hard read, this kid. Can’t tell if a single word I’ve spoken has made it through his skull, or if I’m just an old man wasting his breath on what will probably be the next school shooter.

“Anyone ever teach you how to incapacitate someone using pressure points?”

Eyes wide, he shakes his head for the first time, telling me he might be absorbing some of this crap, after all.

“C’mon. I’ll show you a few tricks I know.”

16

Voss