On the other hand, on the opposite side of town from The Heights both geographically and economically, was Filmore Heights. As dangerous as The Heights was safe, Filmore Heights was the sort of neighborhood you didn't walk after dark unless you were either armed, stupidly brave, or in a group of at least four. Preferably all of the above. The newspapers had more than once reported on poor schmucks who had mixed up a friend telling them The Heights and Filmore Heights, and had died because of it.
Standing on the roof of the low store, I could see a good chunk of Filmore Avenue, which was the namesake of Filmore Heights. The city bus that lumbered down the street was empty, the sides covered in graffiti.
Further down the block, I saw movement, which I expected. My targets for the evening were coming to their meeting spot. I was ready.
One of the things that makes Filmore Heights so dangerous is the gang activity. Filmore Avenue, at least the northeast quarter of it, was controlled by one of the most dangerous, the Eighty-Eights. So-called because of the Neo-Nazi symbolism involving the number, they weren't skinheads. They were however white supremacists, who had formed in the late nineties after a wave of other gangs, spearheaded by the Latin Kings and the Gangster Disciples, tore Filmore Heights apart in violent turf warfare with the already established Familias and Crips. The white kids of Filmore, caught between four ethnic gangs that didn't like them in the least, were slowly pushed until a charismatic leader, Bryan Sweeney, formed a gang of only white kids to fight back. Quickly adopting a white supremacist ideology, they countered the larger numbers of their rivals with a ferocity and bloodthirsty lack of restraint that stunned even the hardcore gangsters in the other sets. Soon, the 88's had not only secured their original neighborhood, but had expanded their territory, taking over most of the northeast side of Filmore Heights.
About ten years after their founding however, the 88s had become just as corrupting as the gangs they had fought against, running drugs, protection rackets, and every other form of gang bullshit you can think of. By this point, they were nothing more than racist punks, the type I despised more than any other for personal reasons.
Pulling my face mask down, I kept my eyes peeled as 88s began to assemble in the parking lot of the convenience store, which had the unfortunate luck of being at 8988 Filmore Avenue. Finally, at eleven fifteen or so, the group for that night was assembled. I listened as they talked normal gang bullshit, nothing important, but still keeping my ears peeled. Two of them went inside to help themselves to free beer, which the poor owner, a Korean immigrant who was barely tolerated by the 88s since his protection money was so high, let them take for free. Better to write off the six packs on his taxes than to get his entire store destroyed.
There were about six of them outside when I pulled my two sticks from their holders on my back. Similar to a escrima stick, they were actually made of aluminum, with a nasty surprise inside if I needed it, a seven inch long spring loaded spike I could deploy with the push of two buttons on the handle. So far in the few weeks I'd been doing this, I hadn't used the spikes yet.
Muttering a quick prayer, I jumped from the top of the building onto the nearest 88, using him to buffer my fall while at the same time taking him out of the fight. Rolling, I swung my left hand out and nailed another 88 in the kneecap, with wonderful results as I heard a bone crack and the man collapse in a howl of pain.
The rest of the fight was somewhat of a blur, mainly because someone did hit me in the back of the head pretty hard at one point. I could feel blood trickling down the back of my neck as I stood in the parking lot, sweat and a bit of blood dripping off my mask from another cut over my eyebrow that went all the way to the bone. Putting my sticks away, I looked inside, where the owner was picking up the phone to call the cops. Before he could finish dialing, I took off running to my car, parked three blocks away.
What can I say? Marcus Smiley wasn't the only person inspiring me to try and make a difference.
* * *
Mark
That night, after dinner, Sophie and I were able to get some alone time. "Are you sure your hands are okay?" she asked me as we lay on our bed. It was a nice gesture from Tabby that Sophie and I kept the so-called master bedroom of the house, even though hers was still pretty large as well. We didn't invite people over often, so there wasn't a need for a elaborate deception as to who had what in the house. We just lived as we needed.
The bedroom wasn't super large, we didn't really feel the need for a huge space, but in a nod to Sophie's desire for a comfortable bed, we did have a very large custom made mattress with high thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and an organic merino wool bedspread, all custom made to fit the bed. I was rubbing massage oil between my hands before rubbing down Sophie's back, which glistened in the dim lights of the room.