Night Vision

Playboy's College Fiction Contest Winner

Washington University St. Louis, Missouri

My First Apartment: clothes on the floor, dishes in the sink, I don't hear word one from anybody. I knew from the mailboxes that somebody name of Leonard DuPree had the unit next to mine; my first day, I went over to say hello. I could hear that the baseball game was on, but when I knocked, he killed the volume. I knocked again. Nothing. Dirty linoleum hallway, humming fluorescents, stink of a cigar--I stood there and counted the locks on Leonard DuPree's door: one, two, three, four.

I had made the big move to Boston, left my mother and everything else back in Kansas City: I want to meet people, right? A man wants to know his neighbors. Now, if you don't meet a neighbor right away, it's hard to do it at all. I mean, the man lived right next to me. I could hear when he took a shower. In the hall, I smelled what he was eating. Once you get past a few days, maybe a week, it gets embarrassing. What would I say? A few times I heard him working his locks just when I was about to go out, and I'd wait until the hall was quiet. I didn't know what the man looked like.

Of course, I could read his mail. The magazines, at least: They get left out on the steps for anybody to see. I know, for example, that Riggins in 302 gets Oölogist magazine. Eggs. I've seen Riggins in the hall a few times, a little guy, fingers like a baby's. I picture him with his folding aluminum ladder (they show these in the ads) sneaking up into a tree to snatch eggs out of a nest.

Not that I'm a thief. I put everything back when I'm done reading it. But this is what got me onto DuPree in the first place. Now, I like to look at the rod-and-gun magazines as well as any guy, but this was no Field & Stream man. I read articles on "The Home Defense Perimeter" (think of trip-wire flares in your shrubbery), "Consumer's Guide to Assault Rifles," you name it--radiation burns (disgusting, even if the pictures were faked). Bombshelter design. Communist guerrillas in Des Moines. He gets a newsletter from a group called Apocalypse Commandos.

Now, I'm not much of a mixer: I don't bowl or play golf; too clumsy for dancing. Like anybody, I was after some guys to go to a ball game with, have a few beers. I have no objection to a new outlook--a man has to have interests, after all. I'm not a man who shuts his eyes. I figured maybe this stuff DuPree was into would be my angle.

Of course, there were people at work. My first real job after I got my B.S. in communications: It's a direct-mail firm. If you have a credit card, you know what I mean: Could be an oil company, a department store, what difference does it make?--they send you whole bundles of fliers advertising stuff they want you to buy on credit. These people hire us to put together the whole package: select the products, write the ad copy, print the fliers, do the mailing, everything. Comprehensive.

There are some attractive girls in the office. Take Yolanda, by the bubbler. I haven't gotten up the nerve to talk to her. She has this strawberry-blonde hair down her back and comes in wearing these tight skirts that make my toes curl. I go over for a drink five or six times a day. Just one or two gulps and then you crush the cup in your palm. Yolanda Hiss. I picture us back at her place after work, on the couch, a samba playing on the stereo and my hands up under one of her fuzzy sweaters, nothing between her skin and cashmere. She lies back so her hair spreads out on the cushions. Her lipstick is smudged on her upper lip, and when she smiles, I see it on her teeth; but would you care? She's just reaching down to pull her sweater over her head when there's a noise at the door, and then, "Hey, Chico," she says, "what's going on?" And then my luck would be to turn around and see some guy in a leather vest and metal-studded wristbands, hear the quick snick as he opens the black-chrome handle of his butterfly knife and moves toward me, making practice slices through the air.

You could see there wasn't much chance of real movement on that front. Which is why I sent off for the starlight night scope. Here's a simple thing I don't understand. I read the entire Time/Life World War Two series without paying a cent. Last month, I checked my blood pressure and pulse every day--free. Electronically! I had to send the gizmo back, of course, but I have all the numbers written down. Free-trial offers. Why more people don't take advantage, I don't know.

Now, the upscale end of the Leonard DuPree market, as I like to call it, is in high tech. Your laser rifle sights, biotelemetry equipment, infrared cameras, what have you. The starlight scope, for example, is light enhancement. Takes available light and magnifie sit so you can see like it was daytime. Looks like binoculars except bigger and you strap it to your head. This stuff was all there in his magazines: Fighting Man, Survive!, Shooting Monthly.

I kept an eye on outgoing mail. People leave letters sitting out for the mailman to pick up. I tried holding them up to the light, like anybody would, but you can never quite make anything out. So I wrote down the addresses and then went through the magazines, matched them to the ads. This was how I knew DuPree had gone for the night--scope offer-an expensive piece of equipment, the best thing to come along in a while. I had my order in the next day.

Of course, I had my eye on incoming mail, too. Peeked through the little air holes on the front of each box. Funny how some people leave their mail in the box two, three days at a time. Don't they know it's dangerous? I had seen a free-trial offer in a hobbyist's catalog for a battery-powered drill, small and lets you drill at right angles in tight places. I saw how the locks worked. I figured I open my box, reach up and put two small holes through the wall between DuPree's box and mine; then I jam my arm up my box, work my tools through the holes to pop his lock and I'm in. It would be easy.

A few days after I sent off for the night scope, I saw him. I had guessed which one was DuPree's truck all along: two-foot clearance under the axles and a gunrack in the cab. In fancy script just above the front grille, it said, Only the Strong Survive. Back home, you might not have noticed a truck like this. One day after work, it was parked right in front, with the doors open and no one in it. There was a kayak lashed to the top; in the bed were a cooler, a backpack and a pair of boots. I was starting up the walk when he came out--plain white T-shirt and camouflage pants. Couldn't have been more than 25. In one hand, he held a hunting bow--wicked curves and counterweights on stalks. He walked kind of funny, a long stride with a hitch in the middle, a little bounce up onto his toes. Going off to kill animals. There was a strap across his chest; when I passed him, I saw the brass arrowheads poke out of the quiver. His head seemed too small for his body, patchy hair like mold. He kept his eyes turned away. I couldn't think of anything to say.

When I got inside my door, my heart was racing. I pictured him stopping me on the walk, blocking my way. He would do some karate thing, make his hand like a knife and tap me with his finger tips on my breastbone.

"I seen you," he says.

"What's that?"

DuPree smiles without showing his teeth.

"Your hand up the mailbox like you was check in' a cow's ass." He says everything real slow. "One pretty clever fellow."

"No," I say. "Not really." I look down at my shoes, thinking about running, but he's faster.

DuPree raises my chin with his forefinger. His eyes are like smoked glass. He shows me the fingers of his right hand, held together like a wide blade. I see muscles flex between the knuckles. His breath is sweet with mint.

"Touch my mail," he says, "I wave your lungs like flags."

But this was not the way it went, and I stayed out of the mailboxes, and it was two weeks before I saw him again. I had come home from work and gone into my usual routine: put on the TV, took out the frozen broccoli, made a hamburger, tried to relax. I live simply:one pot, one pan. My mattress is on the floor. I turned to the educational channel to look at one of the animal programs. Zebras. Why not? I like the outdoors as much as the next individual. Later, I got undressed and went to bed but couldn't sleep. I was thinking about DuPree. I imagined maybe going along with him one time, up to Maine or wherever, out in the woods doing hot dogs over a fire, and maybe I take along a bottle of schnapps. The fire lights up his face, makes his eyes look bugged out of that round head of his; there are night sounds all around us.

"You shoot?" he asks me.

"No, my father----" I was going to tell him I never got much of a chance because my father died before he could show me.

"Tomorrow, you're gonna shoot," he says.

"Bear," I say.

"You bet," says DuPree. Bear season is why we're up there, and DuPree's brought along a rifle for me to use.

But what if I don't get the chance, because that night, zipped into a mummy bag in the tent, I hear pawing and snuffling outside and barely have time to curse my luck before the claws slice through the wall of the tent like razors? I've heard of this happening.

(continued on page 90) Night Vision (continued from page 78)

Across the street from my window is a parking lot; I heard someone running out there. I listened to sneakers on the pavement, echoing off the buildings all around, a soft, firm patting sound. I listened for a while before I got up on my knees on the bed. I raised the shade a foot and looked out. It was DuPree, all by himself, running laps around the parking lot just inside the chain link fence like he was in his own private compound. Just the one man out there under the streetlights on the asphalt. He wore a sweat suit that could have been gray or white. He ran for a while more and then picked up a jump rope. He went for ten minutes straight, the rope ticking the pavement and up on his toes, pumping. After that, he started on the wind sprints. He got down in a lineman's crouch, then lunged forward. Down low for the first few strides, then his chest up and out, arms making tight uppercuts as he busted it diagonally across the lot. When he finished with that, he ran twice more around, then jumped the fence and walked away down the street.

I lay back down on the bed and shut my eyes. I followed DuPree. In my mind, I went with him down the street and around the corner, past the broken benches at the bus stop and east, across the city, walking those long strides with the hitch, the bounce up on the toes, down the long streets, to another building across town, up the stairs, hand on the banister, clutch and slide, one flight, two flights, three, and I'm there. I open the door to Yolanda's apartment. I don't need to turn on a light. Walk softly to her bedroom, and inside, there's a streak of light that's gotten in under the shade, fallen across her bed. She's asleep on her side, turned away from me, knees drawn up, and I slide in under the covers to nestle against her, feel her warmth, my legs behind hers, shins against her calves, my belly against her soft rear, chest against her back. I reach one arm around and without waking, she takes my hand between her warm palms and holds it against her chest. I lie still, feel her slow rise and fall, let her breaths become my breaths, and that way I get to sleep.

When I got home from work the next day, there was a package on the steps. I got it inside on my eating table and slit the packing tape with a jackknife. Styrofoam pellets all over the place, but it was there. The starlight night scope, heavier than I expected--three or four pounds, easy.

I took it into the bedroom closet, got down on the floor with my back against the wall. I slipped it on over my head, fit my eyes against the rubber sockets and tightened the straps. I pulled the door shut. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. Then I remembered it was light enhancement; you had to have a little light to begin with. So I opened the closet door a tiny crack and, sure enough, I could see my shirts. I could see a ways up inside the sleeves. A $1200 piece of equipment. I picked up a shoe and looked down inside the toe.

There was only one person to show this to. I figured I was ready.

There was a sound like tearing strips of cloth. I banged on his door. The sound stopped and I banged again. Nothing. I waited a minute, then hit the door harder.

"DuPree!" I yelled. I hadn't meant to yell so loud. "Open up," I said.

I waited, and then there was the snick and clack of the four locks.

The door opened a crack, and Leonard DuPree looked at me above a length of chain. He had gray eyes. He kept his mouth shut.

"I'm the guy from next door," I said.

I held up my night scope, and his eyes narrowed.

"You been read in' my magazines," he said.

"No," I said.

"I seen you," he said.

The door shut, then opened all the way. Somehow, when his hand came toward me--you see something in the movies so many times--'I thought he was going to take a fistful of my shirt at the throat and hoist me up so that my toes danced on the floor. I was moving back when his hand stopped, fingers pointed at my stomach.

"Lenny DuPree," he said.

"I live next door." We shook.

DuPree was broad-shouldered but lean. Had a two-day beard and that butch cut, thin fuzz all over his head. A round face, but the skin was tight; muscles moved when he talked.

"Some stunt, reading people's private mail." He smiled without showing his teeth.

I shifted my weight to my other foot. "Not really."

"Oughta get your own subscription sometime." His smile got bigger. "Come on in," he said, and stepped back.

I wasn't sure what to do.

"Aw, come on," DuPree said, waving me in. "I don't give a shit about that."

It was dark in DuPree's apartment, but I knew the layout, same as mine. I walked past the kitchenette--smell of hamburger and onions--into the one big room, DuPree behind me. The shades were drawn and the baseball game was on the TV.

"I didn't read anything personal," I said.

DuPree opened his mouth and laughed without moving his head.

"But you would have, right?"

I didn't say anything to that.

"That's all right, good buddy. I don't give one shit. Fact is, I knew you was gettin' that scope, 'cause I checked your mail." DuPree made a wheezing sound, took me a second to know it was another kind of laugh. "Bet you didn't figure on counterintelligence, huh?"

DuPree seemed relaxed; his arms swung loose as he walked to the other end of the room to switch off the television. I couldn't let my hands hang, put them in my pockets.

He had picked up a roll of duct tape.

"I was just doing a little experiment," he said. "Oughta be up your line."

DuPree made the ripping sound, peeled a strip of tape off the roll. He went to a window and taped the shade shut around the edges, so that no light got in. I saw that most of the windows were already done.

"Here you go," he said, and tossed me another roll of tape.

I turned it around in my hands.

"You got your scope already?" I asked him.

"You bet," he said.

I went to work with the duct tape, and we did the rest of the windows without talking, the room getting darker. My heart was beating fast when he stuck on the last piece of tape. The apartment was as dark as it could be, a little light leaking in under the door to the hallway. I could just make out the outline of my hand in front of my face and, across the room, DuPree, moving.

(continued on page 95) Night Vision (continued from page 90)

I picked up my night scope, slipped into the headband, tightened the straps.

"How about that," DuPree said.

I could see plain as day. DuPree had nothing on his feet, camouflage pants, white T-shirt, hands on his hips. The scope covered half his face, the lenses like huge eyes. The main feature of the room was the king-size water bed with vinyl-clad padded frame and digital heat control. Never seen a girl around his place, but I guess he was prepared. On a dolly near the bed, he had the 19-inch color console rigged up with a VCR. Above the bed, he had a framed poster advertising bird shot, the grouse flushed and rising, the rifle aimed. On another wall was a poster where you looked through a rifle sight, cross hairs in the form of a peace sign trained on an advancing soldier: Peace Through Superior Firepower. One corner of the room had a mat on the floor for his weights: He had a bench-press set complete with leg lifts, grip squeezers, a rack of dumbbells and, next to it, an exercise bike with digital mileage and heart-rate readouts. On the wall above the bike was a piece of paper that said, Work Hard Or Die. Over his sofa was a pretty nice picture of a waterfall and some mountains on black velvet, and there were other things on the wall: old swords and helmets and more sheets of paper stuck on with tape. Words in black marker: The one nearest to me said, Good Posture saves lives.

Below the scope, I saw DuPree's mouth crack into a smile. "A little tired of bein' stuck in this shithole building, am I right?"

I was smiling, too. "You got ideas?" I asked.

"Hoo! A dude who's after ideas." DuPree shook his head and took two loping steps over to his dresser, picked up some kind of short curved sword, might have been Turkish.

"Sure, I got ideas," he sneered, slicing an X in the air. "My big idea is how about we go kick some ass?"

A little later, we were in DuPree's truck, headed for the South End. DuPree had provided the paraphernalia. We both wore black turtlenecks covered with lightweight black jackets that hid the shoulder holsters. As we drove, I practiced reaching under my left arm and pulling out the expanding steel whip: Press a button and the thing zips out to a flexible 18-inch baton with a heavy knob on the end. I slipped my hand through the wrist strap, gripped the handle and tapped the knob against the dashboard.

"I like this," I said. "Only twenty bucks?"

"You bust somebody's skull, you're not careful," DuPree said.

DuPree's holster held a Browning nine-millimeter automatic. "Now, I'm not gonna use this," he had said. "This is just a friendly fight." In his boot was a trench knife with knuckle-duster handle and black Teflon-coated blade, good for the night work.

"This is a nonlethal exercise," DuPree said.

The jackets had shoulder patches, insignia of the Apocalypse Commandos: the letters A.C. with a lightning bolt through them and a skull and crossbones beneath. Apparently, a member name of Stick had been put in the hospital by some people in the South End. "Dominicans," said DuPree. "Baseball fans." We were going to pick up Stick's brother and the three of us go pay a visit.

"Don't worry," DuPree said. "We're just gonna put a little scare into some people."

"I'm not worried," I said.

The truck was set up high on stiff shocks that took the potholes hard. Cars got out of our way. I had the window down and my arm hanging out to feel the night air. It was cool, late August.

"Nice truck," I said. Turned out DuPree was from Iowa, so there was a whole lot that didn't need to be said about trucks and driving with your arm hanging out, looking for something to do. "Good to get out," I said.

"Get out, have some fun," said DuPree.

"Nothing wrong with that."

We pulled alongside the plaza of the Christian Science Mother Church, where there's a reflecting pool couple of football fields long and half a one wide. That's where we saw him: a big black guy up on the rim of the pool, gliding along on roller skates.

"Dumbass gonna get hisself wet, he slips off," said DuPree. He whistled out the window and the guy hopped down off the rim and skated over. He was a good skater, did a couple of spins on the way. He had the jacket and the night scope on a strap over his shoulder, same as us.

"Meatlux," the man said. I was looking for some kind of fancy handshake, but he gave it to me straight. I figure Meatlux was 6'8", not counting the skates. Built like a Buick.

"Call me Meat." His hands were the size of dictionaries. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said.

"Nice skates," I said.

He didn't take his eyes off me. "They serve."

We drove Mass. Ave. toward the South End. I was in the middle, my leg pressed against Meatlux', like sitting next to a warm rock. You could see muscles through his clothes like potatoes through a sack. Meatlux had to bend his head forward in the cab, and there was a bead of sweat running down from his temple to his jaw.

"Are the police in on this?" I asked. "I mean, are they looking for the guys who got your brother?"

Meatlux snorted and looked away out the window.

"Ain't exactly police kind of work," said DuPree.

"Allow me to edify my man here concerning some of the rules of justice," Meatlux said. "By which this great society of ours operates."

"Don't get huffed up," DuPree said.

"Rule number one: Do unto others as they do unto you."

"Be cool," DuPree said.

"Rule number two: Terrify the mothafuckers in the process."

"Always gotta open his mouth before a fight," DuPree said.

"Don't know why we have to have a new man with us," Meatlux announced loudly to the windshield. "Just another body for yours truly to watch out for."

"You just watch out for yourself," I said.

"Ooh, I like that," Meatlux said. "Bad man."

"Dude's all right," DuPree said. "He's got resources."

"Bad little dude with resources, is that right?"

"They serve," I said.

Meatlux shook the seat with his laugh. "Ooh, I like that."

"Dude just got thrown over by his old lady," DuPree said.

I had told DuPree about Yolanda, at work, and he had made more out of it than I intended.

"I hear that," Meatlux said. "Need to swing out a little, am I right? Stir up the holy hormones a little bit. You're talking to a man who knows."

We crossed a bridge over the train tracks and right away, whole blocks of old brown-stones are burned out, windows gone, airraid territory. DuPree decided to leave the truck out of harm's way, so we parked and headed on foot down Columbus Avenue. There was glass all over the street, but Meatlux skated right down the middle, anyway, doing fancy spins and little hops. (continued on page 162) Night Vision (continued from page 95) There were some guys hanging out on the stoops, but they all stopped to watch Meatlux skate.

"Damn showboat," DuPree said to me. "Stay away from the doorways."

We kept off the sidewalk, walking near the curb, the street getting darker as we went, with most of the lights busted. Metal grates were pulled down over the shop fronts; signs in Spanish: No Tocar, Aqui Se Come Bien. Meatlux was making a spectacle, flapping his arms like a bird and screeching so it echoed down the street.

"Way he's trained," DuPree said. "Black belt. You terrify the enemy."

There were little boys running ahead of us on either sidewalk. They ducked in and out of buildings quick as goats. There were girls, too, their braids flapping.

"Kids should be home this time of night," DuPree said.

When we passed open doorways, you could hear people running up and down stairs. I heard ringing telephones and women's voices through upstairs windows. They seemed to be saying urgent things, but of course I don't understand Spanish. There were men looking serious in the doorways, arms folded, dark shirts with the collars wide-open, a little gleam of gold at the neck. I almost wished I could say something they'd understand. I had one quarter of high school Spanish, but the only words I could remember were for fork and airplane. "Tenedor," I said to myself. "Avion." That was about the extent of it.

"Yankee, go home," I heard somebody say, and there was raw laughter in one of the doorways.

DuPree walked with that stride of his, up on his toes. He wasn't even looking at the people on the sidewalk.

"My opinion is surprise," he was saying. "Way I see it, you give 'em terror and surprise the same time. But this is his show. We're just support on this one."

"Is he armed?"

"Shit," said DuPree. "I seen him break guys in half almost by accident." DuPree whistled and Meatlux rolled up beside us, smiling.

"Show him those things you got," DuPree said.

I had seen the eight-pointed Ninja throwing stars in DuPree's magazines. Meatlux held one out, shiny in his big palm.

I was starting to feel a little queasy. "You said nonlethal."

"Fear thee not, my man. I'm just going to sit some people down, is all."

"We just show the flag a little," DuPree said. "Nothin' serious."

"Sweet, sweet is revenge," said Meatlux.

My stomach was tight as a nut when we finally reached the place. Steps led down from the sidewalk to a basement door. Back home, steps like these are covered up with a bulkhead and used to store old garden tools. But here were the words El Club Soprt painted on a wooden board above the door. No windows on the place at all.

"I'm trusting you guys," I said.

"Be cool," DuPree said.

Meatlux had his eyes on the door like he was seeing through it. He spoke softly. "Be cool and terrible."

"You got the fuse box," DuPree said.

Meatlux nodded. "Mine."

"I got the door," DuPree said.

"Me?" I asked.

"Keep thee by my right hand, my man, and witness my wrath." Meatlux crouched down and locked the wheels on his skates. All three of us put on our night scopes.

"Ready," said DuPree.

"Check."

We went through the first door and were in something like an alcove, facing another door. Meatlux moved to his left and opened the fuse box on the wall. "Lights out," he said. DuPree kicked open the inner door and we went in.

"Greetings, sports fans!"

The Dominicans were all talking at once, I figure about 20 of them, in a place no bigger than my basement back home. They sat around small wooden tables, smoking, the air hot and foul with smoke and booze. The concrete floor had manhole-size craters chipped out of it; there was a big crack running down one wall leaking brown ooze. The bar was some planks set on oil drums, the guy behind it so small he must have been standing on a box, white sleeves rolled up on his scrawny arms. The wall behind him was mostly covered with baseball pennants and photos of Latin ballplayers. There was a jukebox against the far wall, dead, and a television set on the end of the bar, ditto. They all must have been watching the game when we hit the power, because their chairs were all pointed that way. Now they scraped around.

The thing was, everybody was in suit and tie. I mean it: charcoal gray, blue pinstripe, Pierre Cardin, you name it. Gold cuff links, shiny shoes--these guys outclassed the bankers downtown. Only exceptions were some of the younger guys, not much more than kids; they wore V-neck sweaters and button down shirts. Everybody was still talking like we weren't there.

"OK, you Zambo mothafuckers," Meatlux yelled, getting their attention. "Allow me the pleasure of some polite conversation."

At the table nearest us, a guy struck a match. The night scope made his face shine like the moon. He was done up in a white suit, black-silk tie, the knot pushed out by a gold collar bar. His face was pocked like he slept on golf cleats.

"Iss a private club," he said.

"We just joined," Meatlux said.

"Hijo de la gran pula" came from the back of the room.

"He refer to your mother's profession," said the man in the white suit.

Meatlux took in the room with a sweep of his hand. "Witness, my man, the pleasures of good society."

Each table had one bottle on it. "Check it out," I said. "Chivas Regal."

Several of the men looked pleased about this. "Aqui lo tomamos suave," said an older guy, fingering the lavender handkerchief that poked from the pocket of his gray suit.

"Here we drink cool," the guy in the white suit said.

"Eat shit," said DuPree.

"The joys of repartee," Meatlux said. There was a fat man at the table working his jaw, trying to say something: "The electric, please, for watching los Yankees bankrupt los Indians of Cleveland."

"Chinga tu madre," Meatlux said.

Everyone started talking again, and a few more people struck matches. One big guy got up and felt his way to the bar, whispered something to the bartender.

Then the guy in the white suit stood up, smiling. Now he held a cigarette lighter with a flame half a foot high, painful to look at. "My friends," he said, "you are wearing your welcome."

"I like that," Meatlux said. The bartender began to hand baseball bats across the bar. These were passed around to several men, who then stood up.

"Looks like we got a ball game," DuPree said.

"Now, gentlemen," Meatlux said, "before we take our leave, there is the matter of the inhospitable treatment afforded my younger sibling."

At this point, something happened that we hadn't figured on. The bartender slapped two big flashlights down onto the bar and there was a white flash like screwdrivers being driven into my eyes. I pulled off the night scope and couldn't see a thing but the two lights. I was aware of a chair flying past my head and a lot of howling. Somebody grabbed my arm; DuPree said something I couldn't make out and pulled me toward the door. I saw Meatlux kick somebody, then something heavy whomped my left arm and I sat down hard, with wood breaking near my head and Meatlux yelling something that sounded Chinese. When I got to my feet, my arm was numb. It looked like Meatlux had knocked a couple of guys down--they were rolling on the floor--and everybody else was yelling without going near him. My left arm wouldn't move, so the best thing I could figure was to go for the steel whip with my right hand. I got it out OK, but before I was ready to hit anything with it, all the noise stopped.

DuPree had pulled his knife. He stood in a half-crouch in the doorway, his back toward the street.

"Whenever you're finished, Meat. I got the door."

The Dominicans kept their distance, everyone waiting for someone else to make the next move. The two on the floor made low groans. Then men began to move, slowly, shifting in the beams that cut like headlights through the room. The light was in my eyes and it was hard to see. The crowd of bats was raised like a thicket.

Over by the bar, an older man was brushing his suit with a whisk broom.

A muscular kid in a V-neck sweater stepped toward me, smiling, the bat resting on his shoulder like he was on deck. He was a lefty. The others inched closer behind him and I could begin to make out the faces. Everybody with some manner of smile, some tight-lipped, some showing teeth. The guy in the white suit was choked up on the bat for the short swing; the fat man had his hands apart as if to bunt; most of the younger guys gripped to hit the long ball.

I wagged my steel whip in front of me, but then it slipped out of my hand, clattered on the floor. I had forgotten to use the wrist strap. A few of the men laughed, and I found myself raising my arms over my head. My left arm wouldn't move, so all I could do was stick my right in the air.

"Friends," I said.

I heard a few sniggers, and then there was one word that came to me.

"Amigos."

The V-neck kid made a sudden move to his right and swung at Meatlux. Meatlux took the bat away from him and knocked him down with some fancy legwork, the kid on the floor holding his knee and yelling something horrible. The guy in the white suit jabbed me in the chest with the end of his bat, knocked me back against the wall.

"Closing time," DuPree said, and Meatlux moved past me to follow him out the door.

"Exeunt, stage rear," Meatlux said. "Farewell, citizens."

I turned to follow, but somebody on the floor grabbed my foot and I stumbled. I had a hand on the doorframe and pulled myself up, then made it up the stairs to the street.

They were already half a block away, DuPree running, Meatlux skating, faster than I could imagine, whooping as they went. I tried to start after them, but there were hands on me. Little hands. Kids. They could have been asking for money, little spic kids with moist hands and those big brown eyes, grabbing my arms. Boys and girls both, their hair cut in bangs and dirt smeared on their faces like in some food-relief poster.

"Mister," they said. "Hey, mister."

I pushed through them and ran. DuPree and Meatlux were a block ahead, getting hard to see in the dim light. My left arm still wouldn't move and I used my right hand to hold it to my side. There was pain in my chest and I had trouble breathing, but I was running just the same. The night scope was still there, bouncing against my chest, the strap cutting into my neck.

When I checked back over my shoulder, I saw there was no one following. Just the group of kids on the sidewalk staring after me. I put my head down and tried to make my feet move faster. When I looked up, DuPree and Meatlux were gone. The truck was only two blocks away, maybe three, I didn't remember. The street was empty ahead. They'd have to come for me. They'd come and get me. I hurt, and it hurt to run, but that would be conditioning, I figured. It was my first time. It was just a matter of getting into shape.

"When his hand came toward me, I thought he was going to take a fistful of my shirt."

'"Sure, I got ideas', he sneered, slicing an X in the air. 'My big idea is how about we go kick some ass?'"

'"My opinion is surprise', he was saying. 'Way I see it, you give 'em terror and surprise the same time.'"

Other prize winners in Playboy's College Fiction Contest: Second prize, "A Jelly of Light," by Steve Watkins, Florida State University, Tallahassee, Florida; Third prize, "Triangulation," by Robert Grindy, Indiana University, Bloomington, Indiana;" Paragraphs," by Kerry Hudson, University of Florida, Gainesville, Florida; "Pele's Tears," by Jeff Raines, Stanford University, Stanford, California.