Finally he blurted, “Al, I want to leave the gang.”

“Leave? Whaddaya mean?”

Ron told him about Dewey. “I’d still work for you, for the gang. I’d fix anything you want, anytime you want. For free.”

But Al was frowning. “Can’t letcha go. Too much stirrin’ right now. Gangs ain’t supposed t’ let guys quit. It’s a bad thing. ’Specially right now, with this Dino crap an’ th’ Muslims an’ all.” He shook his head. “The answer’s gotta be no.”

Ron asked, “Suppose I stay a member of the gang, but just live in the market area, with this old guy. How would that be?”

“I dunno,” Al said slowly. “I gotta think about it . . . later, after all this trouble settles down.”

With a shrug, Ron said, “Okay. Later.” Don’t even mention Sylvia to him. Don’t even think about it!

Ron started for the door that led downstairs. Al called to him, “Hey, don’t take off on yer own, now, unnerstand? I’d just hafta send a coupla guys t’ drag ya back. Don’t make me do that.”

Ron nodded. “I won’t.”

Al studied him for a long, silent moment. “I’m sorry it’s gotta be this way.”

“So am I,” Ron said.

That night Ron’s sleep was filled with dreams. He dreamed of Dewey, of Al, of the dark somber Muslims walking through the streets of the market area with their rifles slung over their shoulders. He dreamed of Sylvia. Mostly of her.

He dreamed that she was crying. Then Davey started screaming.

Ron’s eyes snapped open. It wasn’t a dream. Davey was screaming!

It was still dark. Davey screamed again, a high, thin screech of pain and terror.

Ron leaped from his mattress, pulled on his pants as he ran, and raced downstairs to Sylvia’s room. The door was open, the lights were on.

Sylvia was kneeling beside her mattress with a torn sheet wrapped around her. She was crying and holding Davey in her arms. The boy had stopped screaming, but he was crying now too, with quick panic-filled gulping sobs. Sylvia rocked back and forth with Davey’s curly black hair nestled against her breast.

Ron knelt beside her. Her lip was split and bleeding. There was an ugly bruise on her throat.

Then he saw Davey. The boy’s face had four straight red welts across one check—finger marks. One eye was swollen. He was trembling, shaking with terror, whimpering.

“Dino,” said Sylvia. Her voice was strained, slurred. “He wanted me t’ go with him. He’s quittin’ th’ gang. Started slappin’ me around when I wouldn’t go with him . . . Davey tried t’ protect me an’ he beat up on Davey. Kicked him . . .”

Ron found that he was shaking now. He turned and found Al coming in. There were more people out in the hallway.

Barely able to control himself, Ron got to his feet and went to the door. He pushed through the growing crowd in the hallway and raced upstairs. On his worktable was an automatic pistol. In fifteen seconds he had clicked all its parts together, worked the action twice to make sure it was ready to fire, and then started back downstairs.