There was zero police coverage in Western Baltimore County, the toughest precinct, with the most aggressive cops, who have reduced crime by 11% over the past year. During the day the coverage is half normal. At night, they are all protecting the white people who matter, not the working whites of Middle River, who have their own population of urban blacks. The blacks of Hawthorne have migrated out of the worst neighborhood in East Baltimore, where projects were leveled a few years ago, to set up their drug dealing and pimping businesses among the stoners of this waterfront community.

They are notably absent from our store. Before the riots we had thugs in there flexing and posturing at us. Since the riots, and the disappearance of the police, they have not ventured on the lot. The neighborhood blacks have had numerous fights with us on the store front and have not fared well. It occurs to me that we are now the militia strongpoint, the only body of cohesive, able-bodied men in this area. Miss Mary’s son, who once lost his job here beating the shit out of four armed hoodrats on the front walk—and throwing one through the window—stops in to check on us. He’s a prime athlete with a kind demeanor and about 20 knife scars from attacks by his fellow blacks.

At 2:55, as I finish my break, a middle aged black man brings a fat, well-dressed, young white girl through the front door and gives her to Bubba, who has me summon our night captain. She is crying her eyes out.

She is pretty, about 5’ 8” and 230 pounds, with red hair in pig tails, a tastefully chosen outfit suitable for upscale dining, and a thankfully functional set of footwear, consisting of some kind of sandals. Her powdery makeup is caked and she is heaving her chest, about to pass out.

Crystal had gone out to dance with a friend, who dropped her off at her grandparent’s house instead of in the city where the curfew is in force. Her grandparents were either dead asleep or absent. She ran her phone dead calling them as she stood out front.

After about a half hour a group of black men spotted her and approached.

She walked off toward the shopping center.

They followed her.

She picked up her pace.

They picked up their pace.

She began to run.

They began to run after her, and she panicked, screaming and running faster than she had ever thought possible.

One of our customers—a mature black man with a big round head and thick nose tackle build—spotted the savage pursuit, pulled over, got her in the car, and made his way to our location.

The thugs did not pursue.

We have a box of pallet slats for defending the store and our night captain has a reputation for chasing punks through the neighborhood.

As he took care of her and helped her make calls—allowing her to use the office as a safe room—I went back to work.

This morning at six, when Bubba was getting off, I asked him, “What happened with Crystal?”

He frowned and drawled, “She could not get in touch with anyone and we’re not allowed to leave the store and go back in the neighborhood. I called the cops at 3:19 and they did not even answer. I called them again at 3:45 and they said they were dispatching an officer. He never came.”

I said, “Yeah, because he’s over in Towson protecting the white bread.”

He then shrugged his shoulders and said, “She walked off, hopefully down Eastern and not back into the neighborhood.”

When Big Chev, our virulent hard case racist customer, came down the aisle, I told him about Crystal and the black guy that saved her, and he responded, “With the cops all mamma’s boys and pussies, and letting these monkeys do what they want, this is what you get. When the good cооns like him are gone, what will the world be like then? It ‘ill be Planet of the Apes—and it will be what we deserve for not slaughtering these animals.”