Survival Of The Fittest

9

The Observer

The neighborhood was worse than he remembered.

Nice houses on his friend's street. Big, by his standards, most of them still decently maintained, at least from what he could see in the darkness. But to get there he'd passed through boulevards lined with pawnshops, liquor stores, and bars. Other businesses, to be sure, but at this hour they were all shuttered and the street was given over to girls in minimal clothing and guys drinking out of paper bags.

Night sounds: music, car engines, laughter now and then, rarely happy. People hanging out on corners or half-concealed in the shadows. Dark-skinned people, with nothing to do.

He was glad the Toyota was small and inconspicuous. Even so, occasionally someone stared as he passed.

Watching him, hands in pockets, slouching.

The half-naked girls paraded up and down or just stood at the curb, their pimps out of eyeshot but no doubt waiting.

He knew all about that kind of thing. Knew all the games.

His friend had told him not to be shocked and he'd come equipped, the nine-millimeter out of its box beneath the seat and tucked on the left side of his waistband where he could draw it out quickly with his gun hand.

His gun hand… nice way to put it.

So here he was, reasonably ready for surprises, but, of course, the key was not to be surprised.

Suddenly his thoughts were drowned out by music from a passing car. Big sedan, chassis so low it nearly scraped the asphalt. Kids with shaved heads bobbing up and down. Throbbing bass beat. Not music. Words. Chanting- shouting to electric drums.

Ugly, angry rant that passed for poetry.

Someone shouted and he looked around and checked his rearview mirror.

A siren shrieked in the distance. Got louder.

The ultimate danger.

He pulled to the curb and an ambulance passed and Dopplered to silence.

Silence had been Irit's world.

Had she been cued into some internal universe, able to feel the vibrations of her own heartbeat?

He'd been thinking about her all day and into the night, imagining and supposing and replaying the scene. But when he began the drive to his friend's house he forced himself to stop because he needed to concentrate on the present.

Still, so many distractions. This city… this neighborhood, all the changes.

Don't be shocked.

He turned off onto a night-black side street, then another, and another, until he found himself in a completely different world: dim, silent, the big houses austere as bureaucrats.

His friend's house looked the same, except for the FOR SALE sign staked in front.

It was good he'd caught him in time.

Surprise!

He pulled into the driveway, behind the dark van.

Touching the gun, he looked around again, got out, alarmed the car, and walked up the flower-lined pathway to the paneled front door.

Ringing the bell, he uttered his name in response to the shouted “Who is it?”

The door opened and he got a face full of smile.

“Hey!”

He stepped in and the two of them embraced briefly. To his friend's left was an old mahogany mail table against the wall. On it, a large manila envelope.

“Yeah, that's it.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. Got time to come in? Coffee?”

“Sure. Thanks for that, too.”

His friend laughed and they went into the kitchen of the big house.

The envelope in his hand, stiff and dry.

The guy had come through. Taking risks.

But when had anything worthwhile ever come easy?

He sat and watched as his friend poured coffee, saying, “Easy drive over?”

“No problem.”

“Good. Told you it got bad.”

“Things change.”

“Yeah, but they rarely improve. So… you're back in the game. From the looks of it we've got plenty to talk about.”

“That we do.”

The hand stilled. “Black, right?”

“Good memory.”

“Not as good as it used to be.” The hand paused again. “Maybe that's for the better.”