Three days after the talk on the veranda, Mike walked into the Pad and sat beside Micky. The drummer was sitting perfectly still, his half-lidded eyes focused in the general direction of the far wall.
Recognizing the posture of meditation, Mike shifted into a half-lotus position and rested his wrists on his knees, letting his hands dangle in front. He closed his eyes and regulated his breaths to match Micky’s slow ones.
After several minutes Mike glanced down and saw Micky’s hands trembling. They jerked and shook, finally clenching into tight fists. Glancing up, Mike’s heart gave a jump at the strain on Micky’s sweating face. “Micky . . . ” He put his hands over Micky’s.
With a sharp cry Micky jerked them back, his eyes open wide with panic. “No!” he screamed, his breaths sharp and jagged.
“It’s all right, Micky! It’s me! Mike!”
Micky’s wild eyes focused on him. “Mike? Oh . . . it’s you . . . ” He ran a shaky hand over his face.
“What happened, man?”
“N-Nothing.”
“Micky.” He took Micky’s fist and turned it over, feeling it vibrate in his palm. Micky looked up, his eyes still wild even though his face had been carefully schooled back to neutrality. “I . . . I . . . ”
Mike met his eyes and nodded. “Tell me.”
Micky took a deep breath. “I . . . keep reliving it.”
“The attack.”
Micky nodded. “I . . . try not to, but . . . it still hurts, Mike.” Micky’s voice was even softer than usual. He sounded on the verge of tears. Mike had no words, so he put an arm around Micky’s shoulders and patted his arm lightly.
“We’re not supposed to seek revenge. I know that . . . but I still want to hurt them, Mike.” Micky shook his head.
“Would it be revenge?” Davy asked from behind them. “Or justice?”
Micky jumped, startled. “Don’t do that, man!”
“Sorry,” Davy said, but his grin showed he wasn’t, very much.
“I don’t know if it’s revenge or not,” Micky admitted. He stared down at his lap. “They hurt me, so hurting them back would be justice, I guess. But who decides how much they should be hurt?” He put his face in his hands.
“I say we don’t kill them but we pay them back.” Peter stood in the doorway.
Mike looked up at Peter. He was still the leader, the one informally in command, but more and more he found himself seeking confirmation from Peter, seeking reinforcement for the difficult decisions he often had to make. Peter’s face was set in impassivity, but his eyes were blazing. He held up the newspaper. “Mike, that gang hurt someone else.”
Mike leaped up from the couch, Micky right behind him. “What? Who?”
“They didn’t release his name due to his age.” His eyes met Mike’s. “He’s only sixteen.”
Mike’s dark eyes narrowed furiously as his muscles flexed involuntarily. “Those . . . bastards . . . ” He glanced over his shoulder at Micky and nearly lost his balance. Micky’s eyes were nearly glowing, and his eyebrows arched in a way that made Mike swallow hard.
The anger within them, however, was controlled.
“Same gang,” Peter said, eyes on Micky. “The Tanks, right?”
Micky nodded. “Yeah. Beat me because I didn’t pay the toll. Wonder what their excuse was this time.”
Peter looked down at the paper and read, “The boy was quoted as saying he was attacked because he was ‘on their turf and didn’t have money for the toll.’”
“Same excuse,” Micky snorted.
“How is he? How bad’s he hurt?” Davy asked.
“He has three broken ribs, a broken leg, a dislocated arm, a concussion and he complains his ears ring.” Peter threw the paper onto the table. “They had to operate on him to stop the bleeding in his belly.”
Mike shoved away from the table and headed for the closet, Davy right behind him.
“Mike?” Peter called.
Mike paused. “Yeah?”
“We gonna do it?”
Mike took off his hat, placing it carefully on the end table. He needed to say nothing else. Peter met Micky’s eyes and smiled closed-mouthed.
They dressed silently, shedding their beads and jeans and slacks in favor of the heavy black garments that would make them nearly invisible in the moonless night. Peter lifted one final garment from the closet—a new black hat that would keep his light hair from standing out.
Mike raised an eyebrow but said nothing, twirling the staff in his hands, admiring its weight and balance and trying not to think of the bodies it was going to pummel that night.
Micky lifted out the tonfa and blades, handing the blades to Peter, who put them back and pulled out the quieter nunchakus.
“Careful, Peter,” Mike said, a slight smile gracing his lips as he kept his attention focused on his staff. “Those things’ll bite you if you’re not careful.”
“Which is why I’m using them, and not these two,” Peter cracked, nodding at Micky and Davy.
“Ha ha ha,” Micky said, tucking throwing stars into the pouches along his forearms.
“Pass me a couple of those, mate!” Davy said as he gathered his own weaponry. Micky raised one as if to hurl it full force at the Englishman; then he smiled, handing a few of them over. Davy smiled and tucked them into his pockets.
“All right, guys,” Mike said when they’d finished preparing. “Listen and listen good. We’re not going to massacre these guys. We are going to teach them a lesson . . . and maybe turn over the ringleaders to the cops.” He solemn gaze focused on Micky. “Kill only if you have no other choice, got it?”
Peter and Davy nodded solemnly. Micky nodded as well. “I don’t want to kill anyone, Mike. That wouldn’t even be eye for an eye. I just . . . want them to know what it feels like . . . to be hurt, and alone . . . ” He trailed off, his gaze dropping down and away from his friends.
Three hands landed lightly on him, reassuring him through touch. “Look, let’s just . . . do this before I lose control,” Micky said, his voice tight.
Mike nodded and slid the closet door shut. He paused for a moment, debating. Micky’s control was tenuous IN the house . . . how would he handle being on their territory again? Would it fail him, making him lose his focus? Would the rest of them get hurt as a result?
Peter met his eyes. Trust him, they seemed to say. He needs this chance.
Mike nodded. “Micky, this is gonna be your test, man. It’s time t’see if all that meditatin’ did you any good.”
Peter nodded his agreement and support.
Micky raised his chin. “I can do this, Mike.”
On to Seven
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