The Edge of Justice by Clinton McKinzie Page B

seems as brilliant as a spotlight from where I stand. All sound disappears—the cars moving on the street, the birds in the trees, my big dog's growl. Time and the wind slow until they don't exist. Images are reeling up in my mind and I'm powerless to choke them back down. Then the boy slaps the pipe against his palm. One of the others behind him shouts something I can't make out.
    Struggling to concentrate, I see the boys' heads turn to where a police car is pulling up to the curb. The light reflecting off the windshield conceals the driver. Instead of dropping the pipe and running, the boy's tiny pupils turn again to me, unconcerned with the new presence, but the others begin to back away.
    The boy raises the pipe and snarls again,
“Chupatame, año!”
then swings high and hard, two-handed.
    I watch the pipe coming toward the side of my head as if it's something happening to someone else far away. The memory of another young man's face, Dominic's, floods my vision. The face is grinning, holding the glinting barrel of a shotgun out just below the chin. And then the face jerks back as a hole appears through the bridge of his nose and red mist erupts in the air. With only that year-and-a-half-old blood in my vision, I finally duck, more to escape the red spray in my mind than anything else, and hear the pipe sweep the air above me.
    My eyes and mind clear as I stagger back away from the boy. The deputy has gotten out of the car and is holding his pistol braced on the roof, shouting. Oso is rocking the Land Cruiser on its axles as he roars and throws himself against the too-small window. The boy has his back against the store window, the pipe raised again, but now his rage seems to explode. He begins shouting back at the street cop. Screaming really, madly and for revenge. I can almost feel the drugs pumping through him, upping the volume. As he screams he whips the pipe through the air in short, savage swings.
    The three others are long gone as more police cars arrive. Soon a number of officers are on the sidewalk surrounding the boy, just ten or so feet away, their guns drawn and pointed. I stand behind them telling them to wait, just wait, the kid will put down the pipe.
    “Go ahead, fuckers! I kill you all!”
    The officers are all yelling for him to drop the pipe. Their fingers are on the triggers. Safeties off. You don't touch the trigger unless you're going to shoot. That was the first rule we'd all learned in the police academy. The boy's neck with its “13” tattoo is swollen with rage.
    The tall, thick form of Sergeant Bender suddenly enters the fray, gun in one hand and a charge of pepper spray in the other. He steps between two officers and fires a chemical blast. The kid swings wildly but is too far away to strike anyone, howling obscenities. Miraculously, no one pulls a trigger. I hear myself shouting, “Don't shoot, don't shoot!”
    As the pipe comes around in a full swing I launch myself forward, springing hard with all the power in my hips. My shoulder hits the boy's middle like an ax, cutting him in half, and the two of us slam into the storefront window. The glass bursts under the pressure and we topple over the low wall into the pet store.
    A heavy hail of glass shards rain on my back as I fight to pin the boy while my shoulders take the blows from the end of the pipe. I head-butt him in the face just as the other officers manage to holster their weapons and move into the fray.
    When I'm able to step back and collect my senses, the boy is kneeling on the broken glass with tears streaming from his wild eyes, blood running down his still-snarling mouth, and a tooth hanging, over his lower lip, that's held only by a stringy root. I can see the backs of his fingers reaching up over his shoulders from behind where the deputies have them pinned.
    I feel a hand grip my shoulder. I turn and Sergeant Bender leans toward me to whisper, “You fucking pussy. You should have shot him. For a second I thought I