Sid Drake glanced over his shoulder at the white canvas tent on the other end of the street. It glowed with hopeful innocence. He knew he should run back to it—there was safety there, and he had a job to do there, and surely God would understand, after all he was no preacher, just a plain guy trying to help—but he couldn’t do it. He felt something driving him forward. Was it obligation? Duty? No, nothing so honorable as that. It was simple. There was a young man down there he wanted to talk to. He needed to know the truth. In fact, they all did.
Sid tucked his Bible under his arm and started down Core Street into the heart of East Beach ghetto. He moved slowly at first, quoting scriptures, gathering strength as he walked, but as he emerged from the shadows and saw their eyes turn his way he felt as if a bright spotlight had fallen on him. The tallest member of the gang flung a cigarette butt aside and started walking up the street toward him.
"Yo! Dawg!"
Sid felt his legs go weak. The last time he had seen him, William "J-Rock" Jackson had been unconscious, barely breathing, with a syringe sticking in his arm and enough saliva backed up in his throat to choke a mule. But not today. Today he walked with pride, a fully alert fighter with a thousand dollars worth of gold jewelry around his neck and the look of a killer on his face. He watched the gangster approach suddenly wishing he had never stepped a foot onto Core Street.
"Yo! You lost, boy, or just plain crazy?" J-Rock slowed his pace to a leisurely strut. Sid braced himself as the other gang members ran around behind him and encircled him, leaving just enough space between them for their gang leader to step through. J-Rock stepped inside the circle and stopped within a foot of Sid, close enough for Sid to smell his breath, his body odor, the aromas of fresh weed and sweat. He held out his hands in a display of disbelief. "You must be some kind of fool, bro. You know where you are?"
"J-Rock—" Sid had to squeeze his Bible with both hands to keep them from shaking. "You, you remember me, don’t you? I’m the paramedic that saved your life last summer. You were—"
"You a paramedic? Where’s your ambulance?"
"I’m not on the truck tonight."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"I’m looking—" Sid paused and glanced at the gang members. "—for a boy named Zee. I thought he might be—"
"Zee!"
Sid jumped back involuntarily. He felt his hands begin to quiver, his entire body to tremble. J-Rock stepped forward and closed the gap between them.
"Whatchu want with Zee?"
"Umm…" Sid shoved his hands into his pockets to prevent them from shaking. "I’m, um, I’m working at the revival tent tonight. I met him there just a few minutes ago. He came in to ask about—"
"You a preacher?"
"Me?" Sid shook his head. "No, I already told you, I’m a paramedic with East Beach. I just volunteer at the tent."
"What’s your name?"
"I’m Sid Drake."
"Sid Drake? Well whatchu want with Zee, man?"
"Well, he—" Sid paused and stared into the cold, shark-like eyes. J-Rock looked down on him as one might upon a lesser species. Sid felt as if he were standing in the presence of a general or the chieftain of a mighty horde. He glanced around again at the other gang members. He saw hatred in their eyes. Superiority. He suddenly felt like a trapped animal. He murmured a silent prayer then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly to steady himself. "He came into the tent, J-Rock. He looked so lost. So scared. I, I, I mean I hurt for him, you know? So I sat down with him and talked with him. And he seemed so hungry. Starving for something concrete in his life. Anything solid to stand on. He started asking questions about the Bible and about prayer and salvation. So I showed him some passages, out of Romans and The Gospel of John, and it seemed like he understood. I was so sure I was getting through to him. But when I mentioned Jesus, he stood up and—"
"Jesus!"
Sid had no time to react. A stinging hand slapped across his face jerking his head sideways and instantly numbing his cheek. He tried to shake away the shock of the blow but his eyes filled with tears, his mind sudden panic and disorientation.
"Who’d you think you was gonna save today, preacher? Me? My dawgs? Those whores over there?" J-Rock spat on the ground as if ridding his mouth of a wad of venom. "Jesus! You think you so wise, comin’ down here with that Bible like you gonna preach at us about Jesus."
"No, J-Rock! I—" The hand swung again. Sid tried to duck, but too late. He felt the palm of J-Rock’s hand slap across his ear and pound his temple and cheekbone. He heard a pop. A loud ringing sensation ensued. He dropped to his knees, dizzy from the concussive blow. A viselike hand gripped his forearm and started dragging him. "Stop," Sid yelled barely able to hear himself above the loud ringing in his head. "Let me go," he shouted. "Please! Let me go!"
Sid dug in his heels, tried to jerk free, but it was like trying to hold back a wild stallion. The coarse asphalt tore at his elbows and hands as J-Rock drug him across the blacktop and into the alley at the end of the street. Sid felt fear he had never known, as if a giant black spider had captured him and pulled him deep into its web. The darkness overwhelmed him. His panic grew. He felt his Bible wrenched from his hands, and then in one swift motion, as if he were nothing more than a soft dry rag, he felt himself catapulted off the ground and thrown against the cold brick alley wall.
"You wanna save somebody so bad, preacher, save yourself."
"No!"
J-Rock’s fist swung low and arched into a vicious upward punch that drove deep into the center of Sid’s abdomen. Sid felt the air burst from his lungs. A sharp wave of pain shot up and through his guts. A burning gush of vomit hit the back of his throat and spewed from his mouth. He fell to his knees and looked up. J-Rock towered over him like a hunter over fresh kill. There were no angels in sight, no swords drawn on his behalf. A powerful force was at work on the street, but it wasn’t God. Never had Sid felt so completely alone.
"Jesus," he panted. "Please help me."
"Jesus can’t help you now, boy."
A sharp blow struck his left ribcage. Sid rolled onto his side.
"Get up, preacher!"
Another blow struck his right flank kidney high, the worst one yet. A screeching wave of pain shot through his back. Another blow followed but this time it only registered as a dull sensation. The pain seemed to level off as if having reach some magic threshold beyond which it dared not go.
Sid drew a tortured breath. He tried to stand, but before his knees could lock J-Rock’s fist smashed into his cheek. He felt his jaw crack. A coppery taste filled his mouth. He fell to the ground on all fours, crying, spitting out blood and broken teeth, and trying his best to understand what was happening.
"Please…J-Rock…please just stop. I…I…I don’t want to die."
A pair of strong hands grabbed him and rolled him onto his back. Someone jerked his arms over his head and pinned his hands to the gritty pavement. Someone else mounted him and drove a knee deep into his abdomen forcing the air from his lungs and the bile from his belly. A sharp spasmodic pain gripped his diaphragm. His guts wrenched. Warm vomit spilled across his face and into his eyes and nostrils. He turned his head to one side and coughed, moaning, unable to speak, his busted jawbone screaming with pain.
Click.
Sid saw a silver blade flash. He felt it strike. A wave of excruciating pain shot up his arm and into his head as his quivering wrist muscles rubbed mercilessly against the cold, cutting steel of the blade. A gargled scream burst from his throat. He heard laughter. Felt the pressure ease. He opened his eyes and saw J-Rock standing over him with a gun. A wicked smile formed on the gangster’s face. His features turned cold. His eyes burned with hate.
"Goodbye, preacher," J-Rock spat his voice cold. Mocking and vile. "Say hello to your Jesus for me!"
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