Free Run by Douglas E. Winter

not … somebody who’s white. Well, you need to have the one white guy in the world who you happen to think knows what the hell he’s doing.
    Yeah? he says again, and this time he looks back at the TV and tells me:
    Fuck you.
    That’s when I pull down on him, the barrel of the Glock pressed right into his temple. Renny, I call out, and when I glance back damned if Two Hand doesn’t slap a magazine into the butt end of one of the Cobrays and point it round the rest of the room.
    Stay calm, folks, he says. Or this could hurt big-time.
    The Yellow Nigger’s eyes don’t leave the TV. Finally he says:
    You draw that thing, you better use it.
    I will, I tell him. Unless you tell your homey in the bathroom to lay down his gun and get out here.
    That’s when the Yellow Nigger smiles and pulls those black-shaded eyes from the TV to me.
    You crazy, he says. Ain’t nobody in there.
    Yeah, I tell him. And pigs don’t shit and you don’t have a revolver in the bottom left pocket of your jacket. So why don’t we bring those hands up to your lap where I can see them? Nice and slow … nice and slow. Good, good. Now … about your buddy boy in the bathroom. What’s he got? Better be a shotgun for this kind of work. Me, I like the Mossberg. Remington’s not bad, but I like the Mossberg. And you know what? I saw your little video, the First Union thing. And come to think of it, you like the Mossberg too.
    The Yellow Nigger’s lips pinch. Maybe it’s a smile. Maybe not.
    So, I tell him, let’s get on with it.
    That’s when he calls out: Yo, Hitter. Put that fuckin shottie down and get your ass out here.
    The bathroom door opens and Two Hand points the Cobray at the slash of light. Hands up and out, he says. And out comes a wiry and nasty-looking dude. With his hands up.
    Thank you, I say to this Hitter guy. Just have a seat over there on the bed with your friends.
    When he’s done just that, I pull back the Glock, ease my finger off the trigger. I roll it over butt first and hand it to the Yellow Nigger. He doesn’t even blink, just takes my pistol and points it right back at me. I hear that sound, that almost inaudible click, something like a camera, as the Yellow Nigger presses the trigger safety of the Glock, my Glock, aiming fifteen sonic booms into the starboard side of my skull.
    I say: I don’t like people pointing pistols at me. Guess you don’t either.
    I turn to Renny, tell him: Yank the magazine and put the weapon down.
    Then I look at his homeys, say: Your guy here can kill me. But he won’t. There’s a reason he won’t kill me, and it’s a good reason. It’s the same reason I didn’t kill him, and I could have, you saw me, I could have blown his brains to jelly and my friend here could have made you dance the hot lead cha-cha and then we could have gone on down to Denny’s and gotten ourselves some pancakes.
    So I could have killed him and I didn’t. We could have killed you and we didn’t. We could have gone to Denny’s, damn it, and we didn’t.
    Why? Because we got no fight with you. We got no reason to fight with you. We got only one reason even to be with you. And that’s cash.
    I look down at the bed.
    Okay, so there’s another reason. Guns.
    That guy Kruikshank, the one outside with Juan E, is the man who’s gonna get you both of these things. Me, I’m the guy who’s gonna make sure nobody gets in the way. Or that, if they do, they get hurt.
    There’s only one way this is gonna work, and it’s the hard way. Meaning we trust each other, we look out for each other’s back. This guy, his name’s Renny Two Hand, this guy and I are your backup. Which means we’re gonna kill any motherfucker who looks sideways at you. And you guys are our backup. Which means we put our lives in your hands. Just like your lives were just in ours. So listen:
    You were all just dead men.
    I roll my eyes toward the Yellow Nigger.
    Now I’m the dead man. But I think we like each other a lot better alive.