A young woman, who’d been walking across the median hand-in-hand with a small boy, screamed.
Beside Dylan, Roland began luridly cursing under his breath.
The woman’s child was now wailing with fright. She pulled the boy to the ground, protected him with her body, and yelled at the two fighters to stop. Her shouts and the child’s hysteria seemed to bring the fighters to their senses.
They broke apart suddenly, falling back from each other. But their stances remained combatant, and there was a moment when one of them seemed on the verge of attacking again.
But he must have reconsidered. He shoved past the other and streaked down the middle of the median until he saw a break in traffic and crossed the street in a dead run. When he reached the other side, he disappeared into the narrow, dark space between two buildings.
The other, who’d run in the opposite direction, leaped from the median directly into oncoming traffic. He narrowly missed being struck by a delivery truck. Horn blaring, it swerved into the median and crashed into a tree. That didn’t slow the runner down. He made it across the street far down the block from Roland’s restaurant and disappeared from Dylan’s view.
The woman had stopped screaming, although her little boy continued to cry hysterically. Concerned witnesses ran to the median to see if they needed aid.
The driver of the delivery truck, apparently uninjured, had jumped from his cab and was attracting a growing audience of curiosity-seekers by gesturing wildly at the smashed grill of his truck while giving his account of the incident.
Roland, who’d been taking in all the action, turned to Dylan. “I’m sorry about this. It’s the fuckin’ homeless. We’re being overrun. They—” The high-pitched wail of a siren interrupted his tirade. “Jesus,” he hissed. “All we need.”
A police car rounded the corner, lights flashing. It screeched to a halt parallel to the median. Two officers charged out of the car and plunged into the thick of the increasing chaos.
Roland swore. “This is bad for my business.”
People who’d been having dinner in his restaurant werepushing through the door and spilling out onto the sidewalk. She and Roland were soon encircled by people who were either frightened or merely curious and demanding to know what was going on. Wild speculations about bombs and shooters were creating even more confusion.
Roland spotted his maître d’ and pulled him aside. “There was a skirmish in the median. It’s over. Calm everyone down and get them back inside. I’m gonna go talk to the cops, smooth things over.”
The tuxedoed man responded without question and did his best to circulate and spread the word that there was nothing more to see. But not everyone was as willing to return to the dining room as others.
In the shuffling crowd, Dylan got separated from Roland, who was halfway across the boulevard by now, oblivious to motorists who were honking at him. When he reached the median, he plowed his way through the throng that had formed.
Dylan was jostled by Roland’s customers, who were either heeding the maître d’s suggestion that they return to the dining room or moving in the opposite direction in an attempt to get a better view of the happenings.
She’d lost sight of her hired car because she’d been moved back so far from the curb and there were dozens of people now between her and it. As undignified as it would be, she’d have to push her way through.
Murmuring, “Excuse me,” she was attempting to step around a rather large man when her elbow was hooked from behind.
“This way.”
Before she was fully aware of what was happening, she was wheeled around and propelled forward. She immediately dug her heels in and tried to wrest her elbow free. “Let go of me.”
“It’s me, it’s me. Keep walking.”
She jerked her head up and looked into the face of a homeless man who had Mitch Haskell’s brilliant, unmistakable eyes. “Wha… What are you doing? What’s that on your face? Why are you dressed like that? Is thatblood?”
“Yeah. The little fucker stuck me.”
“You were…” She braked again and motioned back toward the median. “You were… The fight…?”
“Wasn’t a fair fight. He had a blade.”
Suddenly she realized that his breathing was rapid and hot. Beads of sweat rolled out from under a stocking cap down his forehead and into his eyes. His right hand still had a grip on her elbow. His left was pressed against his left side. Blood was seeping through his fingers.
“My God, Mitch. You’re hurt. We’ve got to get you help.”
He shook his head. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
“You need a doctor.”
“I’ve got one,Dr. Reede.”
