Antonio's concern for me is touching but it’s cost me long seconds. As I emerge, blinking against the sunlight, Wonder Boy has vanished.

Fuck!

Have I lost him?

I spin, scanning all around, seeking my quarry, ignoring the curious stares of passers-by…

… The line of parked cars…

Doorways…

… along the block…

… the other side of the street…

Zip. Nada…

Then, sprinting across the street, dodging the traffic, I make it to the corner: the clothes store I used as my lurking spot when I first came here.

How long did he hold me up?

Twenty seconds?

Thirty?

How far can the bastard have gone?

Then, I see him again, tall against the crowd.

He emerges from the next door along from Antonio’s, a small hair-salon-cum-barber-shop. Shoving something into his pocket, he turns my way…

The clothing store?

It appears Santa Claus is doing his rounds, collecting his gifts from all the little boys and girls on his list, regardless of whether they’re naughty or nice.

the street to merge with the hubbub of people, then double-back on myself to wait, watching the store entrance as he enters, strolling in as though he owns

the people… Own

him inside, looming

has her trapped, enclosed between his chest and arms, and the wall. Even from here, I can see

on her space as he cages her with his body. But it’s different between them;

…and accept…

… the rules.

the real

If that were Jenny…

My gut tightens…

Then, inwardly, I chuckle.

a knee in his groin and a knife/broken-bottle/metal-comb at his throat. The only time anyone ever took my daughter down, she

Stabbing at the till, she snatches

to take

to intimidate someone who knows how to

that smirk from your

It’s not the time…

reference, adding it to my list

he re-emerges,

Always the pocket…

Never the attache

next stop: a tobacconist

as I point to the first brand I recognise… “Vinte, por favor. E um isqueiro…” …

making a show of opening the packet, unravelling the plastic wrap, taking one out then, as I’m about to light up, Wonder Boy reappears. He doesn’t even look my way as, taking a sharp left,

the cigarette back into the pack, when

lighter, the yellow-tipped flame flickering in the breeze. The beggar inhales deeply, smoke drifting from his nostrils, then gives me

“My pleasure...” … then turn to

Shit!

Where is he?

in sight, lost in the

Have I lost him?

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