“He can pass something along if it’s real.” He wrote down a number on a scrap of paper. “Call when you’ve got something worth showing.”
On the ninth day Michael went to the market and found Steve, the man Tank had hit. “How much do they take from you every week?” “Fifty bucks. If I don’t pay, they beat me.”
“You want it to stop?” Steve went pale. “How? They’ll kill me.”
“No, they won’t. Tomorrow, Friday, don’t pay. Refuse in front of people.”
“I’ll be there.” “You really will?” “I promise.”
Steve was quiet for a long time, then nodded. Friday. Two o’clock.
Michael stood off to the side of Steve’s row and waited. Tank and Lenny showed up. They moved through the market collecting money.
They stopped at Steve’s stand. “Where’s the money?” “No money.”
“I’m not paying anymore.” Tank and Lenny looked at each other. Tank grabbed Steve by the jacket and drew back his fist.
“Let him go,” Michael said loudly, stepping out from behind the next stall. Tank turned, recognized him, and reached for a knife.
Michael moved fast, grabbed his wrist, and twisted. A sharp crack in the joint. Tank howled and dropped the knife.
A knee to the stomach, and Tank folded. Lenny rushed in, but Michael drove an elbow into his jaw and sent him crashing into a stack of crates. Ten seconds.
Both men were on the ground. Michael picked up the knife, folded it, and tossed it into a trash can. Then he turned and walked away.
People at the market watched in silence. Some with fear. Some with hope. That evening two cars pulled up outside Michael’s building.
Arthur, four bodyguards, and Gus. They came up to the fourth floor and pounded on the door. Michael opened it calmly.
“You out of your mind?” Arthur was barely holding it together. “You put hands on my people? On my turf?”
“They started it.” “I don’t care who started it. I warned you nicely.”
“Stay out of it.” The bodyguards moved forward, but Arthur’s phone rang.
He answered, listened, and his face changed. “That was George Gray,” he said, putting the phone away. “He says if anybody touches you, we’ve got a serious problem.”
Arthur stood there thinking it through. “Fine, Carter. You got lucky today. Don’t count on it lasting.” Then they left.
Michael lit a cigarette by the window. “Won the round, not the fight. Need to move faster.”
He pulled out his notebook and started writing the next steps. Time was short. Arthur wasn’t going to back off on his own.
The day after the fight at the market, the mood in the neighborhood changed. People looked at Michael with respect. Some nodded. Some thanked him quietly.
Steve smiled for the first time in a long while. “Nobody came for money today,” he said. “First time in a year and a half I’ve worked in peace.”
“Don’t celebrate yet,” Michael warned him. “Arthur will try to take control back.” That evening Michael gathered five of the vendors in an abandoned garage…
