We walked past the garage, where there was no staff present. The alarm was going off, announcing to those who had broken in the side of the building that the police were on their way, and that they should exit.

We continued on by and halted, as two large, well-dressed and helmeted, upscale Dindu warriors zoomed around in the center of the street, describing a U-turn on their high-powered Japanese racing bikes and then rode up onto the curb in front of us. They dismounted as we stood back. They then entered the barber shop and took a seat as we walked by and I gawked at the large photo of Ali standing over Sonny Liston posted in the window.

In the middle of the intersection of Christopher and Harford, four Harley Davidsons rumbled. When we turned to look we did not see Dante and the Chosen Sons but three older black bikers, with German-style black helmets and leathers on, escorting a very large female of the silver-backed kind, who was attempting to learn how to driver her Harley, which was wheezing audibly. Megan said, “Those men should take that dumb bitch to a parking lot before her fat ass decorated the grill of a city bus. She said this as the #19 to Carney zoomed by the crawling bikers.

We turned the corner to the remodeled dollar store, passed a blonde junky who was doing the 90 degree dopefiend lean and dug into her big purse absently. I held the door for Megan to enter, and then headed downhill, out Harford Road to the Sikh Liquor Store, right on the edge of Valentino Boy territory. I did not go as far as the bus stop which is no longer used at night, but only covered two of the five remaining blocks, past Anthony Goh’s now relocated World Wushu Federation American Headquarters [now, like most storefronts, a Dindu beauty salon] and entered the extremely well stocked and merchandized liquor store, staffed against robbery by three.

The owners son—a tall, young man in traditional indigo turban—stood back behind the register until I took my sunglasses off. The register is on a raised platform. Next to him is his meat shield, the guy who puts stuff in a bag and will soak up lead when the Dindus come in. The owner’s son keeps a hand gun on a shelf under the register, not removing his hand until I walk past their flanker and state my business. I want a half pint of Makers Mark.

In order to step up to the counter I had to pass the tall man in T-shirt and jeans—who seems nervous—and has a folding knife in the palm of his half-pocketed right hand.

As I make my purchase they all three wish me a good day, and then organize against the next potential gunman, the large Dindu with the beard, looking at rum and vodka on the discount rack.

Outside I pass two Valentino Set members who have just escorted a muscular dirt bag and his slutty girlfriend—two white trash dopers—to the extremity of their range. She was fussing with her bunched up shorts and flip flops and he was smacking his grimy fist into his palm, an extremely muscular, gravelly voiced blonde man with a skin-scorching tan, in wife beater and jeans.

Up the hill I go with my wax-sealed bottle of spirits.