“Empty yo’ pockets. Gimme my money,” the woman demanded.

“Help!” Ptolemy shouted.

When she bent down, trying to reach for the old man’s pocket, he twisted to the side and fell over. The woman was in her fifties and dark-skinned. The once-whites of her eyes were now the color of cloudy amber. She grabbed Ptolemy’s shoulder in an attempt to position him for another slap.

That was when Hilly grabbed the woman’s striking wrist. He exerted a great deal of strength as he wrenched her away from his uncle.

“Ow!” she screamed. She tried to slap Hilly with her free hand.

“Hit me an’ I swear I will break yo’ mothahfuckin’ arm, bitch,” Hilly told her.

Almost magically the woman transformed, going down into a half crouch, weeping.

“I jes’ wan’ my money,” she cried. “I jes’ wan’ my money.”

“What money?” Hilly asked.

“It’s a lie,” Ptolemy shouted in a hoarse, broken voice.

“He promised to gimme some money. He said he was gonna give it to me. I need it. I ain’t got nuthin’ an’ everybody knows he’s a rich niggah wit’ a retirement check.”

“Bitch, you bettah get away from heah,” Hilly warned.

“I need it,” she begged.

“Get outta heah now or I’ma go upside your head with my fist,” Hilly warned. He raised a threatening hand and the amber-and-brown-eyed black woman hurried down off the stoop and across the street, wailing as she went.

One or two denizens of La Jolla Place stopped to watch her. But nobody looked at Hilly or spoke.

The street was narrow, with three-story structures down both sides of the block. One or two of the commercial buildings were painted dirty white but everything else was brown. Apartment buildings mostly—a few with ground-floor stores that had gone out of business. The only stores that were still operating were Blanche Monroe’s Laundry and Chow Fun’s take-out Chinese restaurant.

Ptolemy pressed his back against the wall and rose on painful knees. He was trying not to tremble or cry, biting the inside of his lips to gather his courage.