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hem。 Tolland's kick landed in the boy's flank； and he was sent sprawling； rolled in chalk dust。 Tolland's heel booted the tin and its contents； then he came after its protector a second time。 Monday curled up； anticipating the blow。 But it never landed。 The Gentile's voice came between Tolland and his intention。
〃Don't do that；〃 he said。
Nobody had custody of him； and he could have made another attempt to escape while Tolland went after Monday； but he was still at the edge of the picture； his gaze no longer on it but on its spoiler。
〃What the fuck did you say？〃 Tolland's mouth opened like a toothed wound in his matted beard。
〃I said： Don't 。。。do。。。 that；〃
Whatever pleasure Tolland had derived from this hunt was over now； and there wasn't one among the spectators who didn't know it。 The sport that would have ended with an ear bitten off or a few broken ribs had bee something else entirely； and several of the crowd； having no stomach for what they knew was ing； retired from their places at the ringside。 Even the hardiest of them backed away a few paces； their drugged； drunken； or simply addled minds dimly aware that something far worse than bloodletting was imminent。
Tolland turned on the Gentile； reaching into his jacket as he did so。 A knife emerged； its nine…inch blade marked with nicks and scratches。 At the sight of it； even Irish retreated。 He'd seen Tolland's blade at work only once before； but it was enough。
There were no jabs or taunts now； just Tolland's drink…rotted bulk lurking towards his victim to bring the man down。 The Gentile stepped back as the knife came； his eyes going to the designs underfoot。 They were like the pictures that filled his head to overflowing； brightnesses that had been smeared into gray dust。 But somewhere in the midst of that dust he remembered another place like this： a makeshift town； full of filth and rage； where somebody or something had e for his life as this man was ing； except that this other executioner had carried a fire in his head； to burn the flesh away； and all that he； the Gentile； had owned by way of defense was empty hands。
He raised them now。 They were as marked as the knife the executioner was carrying； their backs bloodied from his attempt to stem the flow from his nose。 He uncurled them； as he'd done many times before； drawing breath as he chose his right over his left and； without understanding why； put it to his mouth。
The pneuma flew before Tolland had time to raise his blade； hitting him on the shoulder with such force he was thrown to the ground。 Shock took his voice away for several seconds； then his hand went to his gushing shoulder and he loosed a noise more shriek than roar。 The few witnesses who'd remained to watch the killing were rooted to the spot； their eyes not on their fallen lord but on his deposer。 Later； when they told this story； they'd all describe what they'd seen in different ways。 Some would talk of a knife produced from hiding； used； and concealed again so fast the eye could barely catch it。 Others of a bullet； spat from between the Gentile's teeth。 But nobody doubted that something remarkable had taken place in these seconds。 A wonder worker had appeared among them and laid the tyrant Tolland low without even touching him。
The wounded man wasn't bested so easily； however。 Though his blade had gone from his fingers （and been surreptitiously swiped by Monday） he still had his tribe to defend him。 He summoned them now； with wild screeches of rage。
〃See what he did？ What are you fuckin' waitin' for？ Take him！ Take the fucker！ No one does that to me！ Irish？ Irish？ Where the fuck are you？ Somebody help me！〃
It was the woman who came to his aid； but he pushed her aside。
〃Where the fuck's Irish？〃
〃I'm here。〃
〃Take hold of the bastard；〃 Tolland said。
Irish didn't move。
〃D'you hear me？ He used some fuckin' Jew…boy trick on me！ You saw him。 Some yid trick； it was。〃
〃I saw him；〃 said Irish。
〃He'll do it again！ He'll do it to you！〃
〃I don't think he's goin' to do anything to anybody。〃
〃Then break his fuckin' head。〃
〃You can do it if you like；〃 Irish said。 〃I'm not touching him。〃
Despite his wounding and his bulk； Tolland was up on his feet in seconds； and going at his sometime lieutenant like a bull； but the Gentile's hand was on his shoulder before his fingers could get to the man's throat。 He stopped in his tracks； and the spectators had sight of the day's second wonder： fear on Tolland's face。 There'd be no ambiguity in their reports of this。 When word went out across the city…as it did within the hour； passed from one asylum Tolland had spoiled with blood to another…the account； though embroidered in the telling； was at root the same。 Drool had run from Tolland's mouth； it said； and his face had got sweaty。 Some said piss ran from the bottom of his trousers and filled his boots。
〃Let Irish alone；〃 the Gentile told him。 〃In fact 。。。let us all alone。〃
Tolland made no reply。 He simply looked at the hand laid on him and seemed to shrink。 It wasn't his wounding that made him so quiescent； or even fear of the Gentile attacking a second time。 He'd sustained injuries far worse than the wound on his shoulder and simply been inflamed to fresh cruelties。 It was the touch he shrank from： the Gentile's hand laid lightly on his shoulder。 He turned and backed away from his wounder； glancing from side to side as he did so； in the hope that there would be somebody to support him。 But everyone； including Irish and Carol； gave him a wide berth。
〃You can't do this；〃 he said when he'd put five yards between himself and the Gentile。 〃I've got friends all over！ Ill see you dead； fucker。 I will。 I'll see you dead！〃
The Gentile simply turned his back on this and stooped to claim from the ground the scattered shards of Monday's chalks。 This casual gesture was in its way more eloquent than any counter…threat or show of power； announcing as it did his plete indifference to the other man's presence。 Tolland stared at the Gentile's bent back for several seconds； as if calculating the risk of mounting another attack。 Then； calculations made； he turned and fled。
〃He's gone；〃 said Monday； who was crouching beside the Gentile and watching over his shoulder。
〃Do you have any more of these？〃 the stranger said； rocking the colors in the cradle of his palm。
〃No。 But I can get some。 Do you draw？〃
The Gentile stood up。 〃Sometimes；〃 he said。
〃Do you copy stuff； like me？〃
〃I don't remember。〃
〃I can teach you； if you want。〃
〃No；〃 the Gentile replied。 〃I'll copy from my head。〃 He looked down at the crayons in his hand。 〃I can empty it that way。〃
〃Could you be doin' with paint as well？〃 Irish asked； as the Gentile's gaze went to the gray concrete all around them。
〃You could get paint？〃
〃Me and Carol here； we can get anything。 Whatever you want； Gentile； we'll get it for you。〃
〃Then 。。。 I want all the colors you can find。〃 〃Is that all？ You don't want something to drink？〃 But the Gentile didn't reply。 He was wandering towards the pillar against which Tolland had first pinned him and was applying a color to it。 The chalk'in his fingers was yellow； and with it he began to draw the circle of th