I tell him Dom's out the picture.
It hurts to think about that, so I don't. Focus on what needs doing, that's what Dom would say.
I tell him I'm taking Morris down and then, when I'm leader, I'll make him second. Frankie won't like it, but he'll haveta deal.
I tell him I already beat Paulson, who's dumber than a dead frog and thinks he should be leader because he's oldest. Dumb fuck forgets that he was older than Dom, and that didn't do him any good.
After I tell him, he drifts over to the yard that night, the boys know to let him in. Pretty much everyone's there. They know Morris wants me gone.
They think I'm drinking the beer that Sammy lifted right out an unguarded delivery truck, plus the Jack that's being passed around. I ain't. I still hear Dom's voice: being in control is worth more than being wasted.
I like being in control.
Morris is taller than me. Taller than Spaghetti, maybe. He's seventeen to my fifteen and he'd be on the freaking basketball team if he still went to school. But he twitches. He twitches before he throws a punch, and I can see it clear as anything. He might as well take out an ad in the frigging paper.
He snatches the bottle of Jack out my hand as it makes its way around.
"Little kids shouldn't drink hard liquor," he says.
The guys who aren't blitzed start moving back. There's only one way this is going to end. I know what he wants, he wants to rile me, he wants me to bleat that I ain't a little kid and then he'll show everyone that I'm wrong.
"Help yourself," I say lazily. "I'm happy with beer."
"Wise ass," he taunts me, "think you're something? Think you're someone? Think because you were Dom's little pet puppy, you got the right to step up to me? Dom ain't gonna save your sorry ass this time."
I stand up, real slow, and that surprises him, he thought I'd be mad. He ain't been watching me.
He pushes some more. Tells me that Dom was an idiot, to let me tag along, some fucking little kid who didn't know shit from shit. That's a mistake and Morris don't see it. There are boys younger than me here, including Curly. Boys who looked up to Dom. Boys who don't wanna be called tag-alongs. If Morris took me, he'd have trouble with them, because he just trashed their respect.
Fear is one thing, Dom said to me, but respect is another. Be tough but be fair. Be consistent. They don't gotta like you as a friend, to follow you.
I remind Morris that Dom was good to him. Point out that he had his back more than once.
He sneers and says that Dom couldn't see past the end of his dick and that's why he's in the slammer, fifteen to life, and no skirt was worth that.
And that's his second mistake. Because now the older guys, who thought Dom's broad was tuff enough and the fact that she was married made her hotter and him tougher, now they think that Morris is an idiot and a back stabbing one at that.
He's doing my job for me. They wouldn't follow him now if he paid them.
And then he twitches.
I duck to the side and come up with a punch under his ribs and a kick to his knee. I remember he has a weak knee, from some old injury. I remember everything I need to as we trade blows.
He still has the size advantage and he gets in a decent hit to my face – I'm ducking again and he connects with my forehead, not my nose. He grabs my hair, like a girl, and pitches both of us down. The guys are making room, some of 'em are calling encouragement as we punch and roll. I know who's on my side. I try to identify who's rooting for him.
I can't stay down, he's too big, if I let him keep me down he can crush me. I get my knee up into his groin and he recoils just far enough for me to swing back around, so I'm on top and I can smash my elbow into his face. Blood erupts from his nose. I know how that feels. I hop up on my feet and kick him in the ribs, twice, three times.
Morris curls up, coughing, spluttering blood.
"Are we done?" I ask, like we were having some civilized discussion, although I'm panting. I feint that I'm going to punch his face and he flinches back. He nods. We're done.
I look around the boys. Every face, one by one. They nod. Some look happier than others, Frank and Spaghetti are grinning widest, but they all nod. And I finally wipe the blood away from my eyebrow, where Morris has spilt it open. One more thing needs doing, but I'll get to that.
I hold out my hand for the Jack and the bottle appears. I swill my mouth out and spit to the side. One of my teeth has cut the inside of my mouth, that's all.
Curly's off to one side, practically hopping up and down with excitement. Christ, how am I ever gonna make him watchful?
"Okay," I tell them. "This is my gang now, savvy? We ain't the Yard boys no more. This is the Shepard gang. You don't like it, you walk now." I wait a moment. No one moves, not even Paulson, not Morris, who is sitting up and hugging his ribs.
I think about Dom, briefly, but fifteen to life is fifteen to life. This is my turf now.
When the boys are all drinking again, blazing up if that's what they're into, yakking and boasting and settling into corners of the yard, I go over to the gate. The adrenaline is pumping still and I feel high on it, but I'm not showing it, I'm staying cool.
He never moved the whole time. I didn't include him when I faced them all after the fight. He stayed right there, leaning on the fence, smoking.
"Carter was hollering for Morris," he tells me. I file the information away.
"So," I say. "You want second? You're it."
Winston looks thoughtful. He smiles slightly, blowing smoke sideways.
"Nah," he says. "I don't do second."
And, there we have my take on why, if they're so similar, Dallas isn't in the Shepard gang. Approve?
