Pike concentrated on the two men, squinting against the bright morning light even behind his dark glasses.

She tapped her horn again.

“Are you going to move or what? I need some gas.”

Pike stayed with the men.

“Jerk.”

She backed up and moved to another pump.

Pike watched the two men have a brief conversation, then continue past the clothing store to a sandwich shop. A hand-painted sign on the front window read: Wilson’s TakeOut—po’boys & sandwiches.

The two men started to enter, but immediately backed away. A middle-aged woman carrying a white bag and a large purse came out. When she emerged, one of the men quickly turned to the street and the other brought his hand to his eyes, clearly trying to hide. The tell was so obvious the corner of Pike’s mouth twitched, which was as close to a smile as Pike ever came.

When the woman was gone, the two men entered the sandwich shop.

Pike knew they were likely two guys looking to surprise a friend or buy a couple of sandwiches, but he wanted to see how it played out.

Pike crossed the street between passing cars. The sandwich shop was small, with two tiny tables up front by the window and a short counter in the rear where you ordered your food. A chalkboard menu and a New Orleans Saints Super Bowl Champions poster were on the walls behind the counter, along with a door that probably led to a storage room or pantry.

The events unfolding inside the takeout shop had happened quickly. When Pike reached the door, the two men had an older man on the floor, one punching the man’s head, the other kicking his back. The man had rolled into a ball, trying to protect himself.

The two hitters hesitated when Pike opened the door, both of them sucking air like surfacing whales. Pike saw their hands were empty, though someone else might have been behind the counter or in the back room. Then the guy throwing punches went back to pounding, and the kicker turned toward Pike, his face mottled and threatening. Pike thought of nature films he’d seen with silverback gorillas puffing themselves to look fierce.

“You wan’ this, bitch? Get outta here.”

Pike didn’t get out. He stepped inside and closed the door.

Pike saw a flick of surprise in the kicker’s eyes, and the puncher hesitated again. They had expected him to run, one man against two, but Pike did not run.

The victim—the man on the floor—still curled into a ball, mumbled—

“I’m okay. Jesus—”

—even as the kicker puffed himself larger. He raised his fists and stomped toward Pike, a street brawler high on his own violence, trying to frighten Pike away.