It had to happen—a pit bull would drop a bite sooner than Morales would walk away on the losing end. It would have been okay, but Max was with me. About four steps behind, in my shadow. Morales is about my height but he goes about two–twenty—none of it fat. He was a born head–cracker, not a gunman. That saved his life.He snatched a handful of my jacket, shoved me face–first to the wall, running his rap, telling me if I was carrying I was going back to the joint…when he went dead–quiet. I looked back over my shoulder. Max had one hand on the cop's arm, the other at the back of his neck, bending him backward at an impossible angle. I spun off the wall, making a "drop it" sign to Max. Morales slumped to the sidewalk. I jammed my thumb back in a hitchhiking gesture, twirling my hand, telling Max to disappear.I knelt next to Morales. He was trying to catch his breath and draw his gun off his right hip with his left hand at the same time—the right arm hung limp and useless at his side."You want me to get it for you?" I asked him."Cocksucker!" Almost sobbing with the effort."Take it easy.
