Lucius vs Raiders jacket

Lucius and the woman passed the bottle back and forth three times before the shouting started. Angry male voice cutting through twilight. Heavy footsteps.

"The fuck is this?"

Raiders jacket from the gas station. Face twisted with suspicion. Eyes darting between the woman and Lucius.

She flinched. Not surprised. Just resigned.

"Just talking," she said, voice small. Twenty-seven, maybe, but sounding younger under his glare.

"Just talking," Raiders jacket mimicked, high-pitched, mocking. "With some fucking bum behind a liquor store."

"It's not—"

He grabbed her arm, yanked her close. "I been looking for you for an hour."

"Sorry."

"Sorry don't cut it." His fingers dug deeper. "Get in the car."

She handed the bottle back to Lucius, wouldn't meet his eyes. Let herself be pulled toward the parking lot.

A small sound escaped her. Not a scream or a call for help. Just a whimper. Like a dog that's been kicked too many times.

Something stirred in Lucius. Not chivalry. Not heroism. Just an echo. His sister's face when Marzetti's guys came around. That same resignation.

Lucius stood, brushed off his jeans. Time to go. Not his fight. Not his woman. Just another night in the city.

He walked toward the alley mouth, opposite direction from them.

"Where you think you're going?" Raiders jacket called after him. "You think I didn't see you with my girl?"

Lucius didn't turn. "Nobody's with your girl, man."

"The fuck you say to me?"

Footsteps behind him. Fast. Lucius half-turned.

Raiders jacket's fist caught him in the temple. White flash. Knees buckling.

"Think you're some kind of hero?" Another blow, glancing off Lucius's shoulder as he fell. "Think you're gonna save her?"

Concrete hard against Lucius's palms. Then weight on his back. Raiders jacket straddling him, breath hot with beer and rage.

"Nobody wants to be saved from me." His fist connected with the back of Lucius's head.

Lucius twisted, bucked, threw the larger man off balance. Rolled. Got halfway to his feet before a boot caught his ribs.

Air exploded from his lungs. Can't breathe. Can't think.

But instinct remained. Prison yard instinct. Skid row instinct. Survival.

Lucius grabbed the ankle before it could retract, yanked. Raiders jacket stumbled. Advantage enough for Lucius to scramble up, back against the wall.

"Just walk away, man," Lucius wheezed. "We got no problem."

"Talking to my girl is a problem." Raiders jacket advanced. "Sharing a bottle is a problem."

The woman stood frozen by the dumpsters. "Mike, please—"

"Shut up." He didn't look at her. Eyes locked on Lucius.

Mike lunged. Wild haymaker that Lucius slipped. But the follow-up connected—knuckles to cheekbone. Copper taste in mouth.

Lucius ducked another swing. His hand found the plastic trash can lid. Heavy-duty commercial grade. Like a shield in his grip.

Mike's next punch glanced off plastic. Confusion crossed his face. The lid wasn't part of the script he'd planned.

Lucius blocked another blow. Then another. Mike growing frustrated, swings wider, wilder.

An opening. Lucius stepped in, swung the lid like a frisbee. Edge caught Mike across the bridge of the nose. Cartilage gave with a wet snap.

Blood. Immediate. Dramatic. Mike stumbled back, hands flying to his face.

"You broke my fucking nose!" Disbelief through bloodied fingers.

Sirens in the distance. Getting closer.

Mike looked toward the sound, then back at Lucius. Calculation behind the rage. Then decision.

He charged, blood-slick hands reaching. Both men went down hard. Rolling in garbage and gravel.

Lucius got on top. Raised the lid again. Brought it down.

Sirens louder. Flashers painting the alley walls blue-red-blue.

"POLICE! BREAK IT UP!"

Voices. Footsteps. Hands grabbing Lucius from behind. Pulling him off. He didn't resist.

Two uniforms. Young guys. One for each fighter.

"He attacked me," Mike said through the blood. "Crazy homeless guy."

The woman stepped forward. "That's not what happened. Mike came at him first."

Mike's eyes flashed murder. "Shut your mouth, Angie."

"Both of you on the ground," the taller cop ordered. "Hands behind your backs."

Plastic zip ties. Cold against wrists. The ritual of arrest. Familiar to Lucius.

"You got ID?" the cop asked Lucius while patting him down.

Lucius nodded toward his pocket. "Wallet."

The cop checked it. "Lucius Taylor." Into his radio: "Run Lucius Taylor, DOB 6-15-89."

The reply crackled back. Lucius couldn't hear it.

Mike's ID produced different results. The cop's eyebrows raised.

"Michael Vasquez. Outstanding warrant for assault from San Bernardino County."

Mike's cursing turned the air blue.

The woman—Angie—moved closer to the officer holding Lucius. "He didn't do anything wrong. Mike started it. I saw the whole thing."

"You're a lying bitch," Mike snarled. "After everything I done for you."

"Step back, ma'am," the officer told Angie. Then to Lucius: "You're being detained for disorderly conduct and public fighting."

"What about him?" Lucius jerked his head toward Mike.

"He's going in too. Plus the warrant."

They were led to separate cruisers. Angie followed Lucius and his officer.

"I'll testify," she said. "It was self-defense."

The cop's face remained neutral. "You can make a statement at the station."

"Will that help him?"

"That's for the judge to decide."

The cruiser's back seat smelled of vomit and despair. Door closed with the heavy finality of cell doors. Through the window, Lucius saw Angie standing in the blue-red wash of emergency lights. She raised a hand—half-wave, half-salute.

Behind her, in the other cruiser, Mike glared hatred through the glass.

The engine started. Radio squawked. The alley and the girl and the night disappeared as they pulled away.