When Friday turned the corner onto Van Buren, Harry motioned her to pull over. Before the car had stopped, Harry was already opening the door.
“What’s up?” Friday asked.
Harry was walking toward the deep doorway of a boarded-up movie theater, where a skinny mugger in a black watch cap and pea jacket was flashing a serrated bread knife at a young couple. The woman had dropped a yellow plastic shopping bag with a logo of an impossibly spiked boot and the words Seven Inches to Heaven—Halavey Shoe Store.
Half-blocked by the skinny mugger was a fat mugger in a ridiculous white cowboy hat, too-small black T-shirt, which revealed a roll of waxy belly flesh. He had a moon face and, instead of arms, flippers.
Harry braced the skinny mugger.
“Put the knife down, kid,” Harry said to the skinny mugger, who stepped closer to the couple. Harry nodded at the fat mugger. “Back off, Fish.”
“My name,” Fish said, “is Aryell.”
Friday approached.
“My mother named me Aryell, you fuck,” Fish said.
“One,” Harry counted.
“All I want is what’s in her pocketbook,” the skinny mugger said, his knife close to the woman’s neck.
“Two,” Harry said.
Holding the girl, the skinny mugger backed deeper into the old theater arcade.
“Drive away,” Fish said, backing up next to and half-hiding behind his partner, “or we’re all unhappy in the morning.”
Harry kicked the skinny mugger in the balls and grabbed his knife hand by the wrist. He hip-checked the girl out of the way and slammed the ball of his hand into the skinny mugger’s chin. The skinny mugger dropped the knife and collapsed onto the sidewalk.
Harry picked up the knife.
“We’re not cops, pally,” Harry said. “You’re dancing with the stars now.”
The two muggers scrammed.
Without saying thank you, the couple also ran. With the yellow shopping bag.
“You didn’t give them fair warning,” Friday said. “You never said three.”
“Screw them,” Harry said. “They’re just street rats.”
“This isn’t like you, Harry,” Friday said.
Harry said, “Let’s get that fuck Cotton!”