epub or mobi
"I got a double score to settle with you. How
do you want it? With this?"
He drew a button-knife and flicked it open.
Candlelight streaked the deadly blade. Buck shivered. A hand pressed against
his. Something hard rested in his palm. He raised his hand, saw the knife and
flung it aside.
Johnny Lip laughed in his face. "Like I
thought," he said. "'You're a punk. All your generations are
punks."
His followers laughed. Those who sided with Buck
stood silent, waiting.
"You're a real punk, a twenty-four carat
punk," Johnny Lip went on, sure of himself.
Buck found his tongue at last. "Fists talk. Put
the knife away," he said.
"You scared of the stabber?"
"No, I'm thinking of your mom. If you die,
she'll have to catch another pimp."
He stepped into the room. The light was dim, the shade drawn. A figure lay on the couch, face up, like a corpse. Orange peels littered the floor, four pop bottles stood on a table - the debris of an addict's sugary appetite.
Flash didn't move. "You hear that sound?" he said,
listening to the music. "That's the best."
"You don't get
tired of the same piece?" Left-Hand said, nodding dubiously.
"Tired? Man,
that's divine. That's Lionel Hampton with his own sound. I go for him."
Left-Hand shrugged.
"It's just music."
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