Sam got him and Little Moe out of sight quick, and Elaine tottered after as fast she could lug the box in her Jimmy Choos. As for me, I was still limping along like a man doing the three-legged race solitaire when the lead vehicle came around the curve, and its headlights pinned me like road kill in the making.
I stood and watched, too drained really to be afraid. It was a caravan of four vehicles: two minivans stuffed with Hmong, a low-rider Impala filled with some enthusiastically bullet-headed Mexican kids I’d never seen before, and Big Moe’s Taurus.
“Where is he, you son of a bitch?” Moe shouted hoarsely from the shotgun seat of his ride, holding a bloody rag to the side of his head, his eyes red and crazed. His skinny white brother JoJo was driving, bony knuckles strangling the steering wheel. “Where’s Little Moe?”
“Right here,” Sam said, leading Little Moe from the tree-line for his uncle’s inspection.
Big Moe yelped as he got out the car. A pistol fell and clattered on the asphalt as he dropped to both knees and embraced Little Moe.
Big Moe stood and stalked over to me. He grabbed me hard by the shoulders and ogled me up and down, taking in the makeshift tourniquet tied around my leg.
And then, so help me, this big corn-rowed young black man kissed me full on the lips. Sam smirked at me as Big Moe clutched me hard against him and I patted rapidly at his shoulder.
Big Moe finally let go and turned to face away from us all. His shoulders shook a little while he aimed his broad back at us, but his face was perfectly composed when he finally turned around to face our way again.
“Okay,” was all he said, in a voice that didn’t sound pessimistic at all. He picked up his rod and we all piled into the Taurus.