One mustard-yellow pickup truck, blue lightning on the side, passenger window covered in a black garbage bag.
And behind the truck: one turquoise Vespa with a leopard-print seat.
I feel like I might pass out. And maybe that’s why it takes my brain a couple of extra seconds to realize that one of the people lounging around in the chairs is Davy. In a way that’s good, because I suddenly feel like committing a wild and vicious attack on him. But in another way, it’s really, really bad, because Porter isn’t dazed like me. Just the opposite, in fact. He’s a laser beam, and he’s headed straight for his former best friend.
?e two other seated people scatter. Davy now sees Porter coming and the look on his face is absolute panic. He rushes to leap up, but his foot slips, and he can’t quite stand. Porter lunges with both arms, shoving him with so much unhinged violence that Davy ies backward. Boy and metal both slam against a concrete pylon and slide across the oor.
“You piece of shit,” Porter says, stalking Davy to where he’s now crumpled in a heap by the tire of his truck. “Too much of a coward to steal from me, so you jacked her stuff?”
Davy’s groaning and holding his head in his hand. I’m worried he’s got a concussion, but when he opens his eyes and looks up at Porter, there’s nothing but rage. “I hate you.”
“?at makes two of us, junkie.”
Davy cries out, a horrible battle cry that tears through the air and bounces around the garage. In quick succession, he leverages onto his good leg, grabs the folding chair, and swings upward. I scream. ?e chair bashes into Porter’s face. His head jerks sideways. Blood spatters. ?e chair leg slips out of Davy’s hands and sails through the air, clanging into his truck.
Porter’s doubled over.
I try to run to him, but strong hands clamp around my arms. “Whoa,” Fast Mike says in my ear. “He’s okay. Let those boys work it out themselves.”
But he’s wrong. Porter’s not okay. When he pulls his hand away from his face, there’s blood all over it. A big gash crosses his cheek. Dumb boy that he is, he just shakes his head like a wet dog and refocuses.
“?at’s it,” he growls and slams his st into Davy’s face. Hard.
After that, the whole thing is a mess. ?ey’re on top of each other, both throwing punches that land God knows where. It’s not like a well-staged boxing match or a movie, it’s just chaotic and weird, and more grappling than anything else. ?ey’re shouting and grunting and slugging each other in the ribs so hard, something’s going to break or get punctured.
?is is a nightmare.
I’m terri ed they’re actually going to kill each other. ?ese aren’t wimpy kids on the playground, giving each other bloody noses. ?ey’re rabid wolves, straining with muscle, teeth bared. And someone’s going down.
“Let me go,” I tell Fast Mike. I can’t let Porter do this. If he gets seriously hurt, I don’t know what I’ll do. But I can help somehow … can’t I? I look around for something to break up the
ght. Maybe I can hit Davy on the head with something—
I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. Davy’s grabbing Porter’s hair—his hair! He has a stful of Porter’s dark curls, and he’s wrenching his head back … is he going to bite his face? WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?
Porter’s lower body twists. He gives a powerful back kick to Davy’s bad knee.
A sickening crunch! echoes around the garage.
Davy drops to the oor.
He doesn’t get up. He’s clutching his knee, mouth open. Silent tears begin falling.
Porter’s chest heaves. All the veins stand out on his arms. A thick line of blood ows down his cheek and neck, disappearing into the black of his security guard uniform. “I’m calling your grandma, and I’m gonna tell her what you did today,” Porter says as he stands over his friend, looking down at him. “I’m also telling my folks. I’ve given you so many chances, and you’ve thrown them all in my face. I can’t ever trust you again. We’re done.”
“Love is the only thing that can save this poor creature.”
—Gene Wilder, Young Frankenstein (1974)
16
We load Baby in the back of Porter’s van. Except for the seat lock being popped, she seems to be in one piece. We found my helmet and all my stuff scattered behind the seat of Davy’s truck. We also found my scooter lock hanging off his tailgate; he’d removed it with industrial bolt cutters.
Turns out that one of the two people sitting with Davy when we rst walked into the garage was a friend of Davy’s. Seeing how he was planning on helping Davy sell my scooter, I didn’t say anything to the guy, but Porter told him to drive Davy to the hospital. When they left, Davy could walk—barely—but he was going to need X-rays. And probably some pain medication, which was just lovely, considering what I now know about Davy’s history with drugs.
But after all that, Davy didn’t say one word to me. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye or acknowledge I was in the same room. Truth was, I couldn’t really face him, either. It was humiliating for both of us, I guess. And I’m pretty much in such a state of shock over the whole ght that I can barely speak.
When we’re ready to leave, Porter thanks Fast Mike, who advises me on a better-quality scooter lock. Turns out that his motorcycle garage isn’t a chop shop at all; he was seconds away from kicking Davy out before he got the phone call about Porter looking for my Vespa. So once again, my assumptions and I are completely off the mark. He says to Porter, “Tell your mama next time she wants to sell a bike like that, to come to me rst. I’ll give her a good deal.”
