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not for the new dent in his nose and the blood that lay stunned across his cheeks.
    My father pushed me out of the way as Mr. Lowery surged at him, low and sidewinding. It seemed unreal: Dad in his penny loafers and corduroy slacks fighting Adam Lowery’s father in his chambray work shirt. Mr. Lowery hit my father in the stomach. The air whoofed out of him—“Dad!” I cried—then my father, whoI’d never seen throw a punch, brought his fist around in a sweeping roundhouse that clipped Mr. Lowery on the chin.
    A pair of cop cars had been idling at the Country Style Donuts across the street. Now they crossed silently, skipping the curb and rolling into the lot. Four uniformed officers stepped out. They stood with their hands on their hips, smirking, not quite ready to get involved.
    A hand grabbed my jacket and jerked me backwards. My shoulder collided with Dunk’s—we were both gripped at the end of two huge muscular arms.
    “Stay out of the fray, boys,” Bruiser Mahoney said. “You’re liable to lose something.”
    He sat us on the pavement and rucked into the fray. “Stop this mess!” he cried, towering like a colossus. He grabbed one of Mr. Hillicker’s buddies by the scruff of his neck and rag-dolled him across the asphalt. “Cease and desist!”
    Another man fell out of the scrum clutching his arm. Blood squeezed between his clenched fingers. “He cut me!” he shrieked.
    I could have seen a flash of silver in Mr. Diggs’ hand—something that shone like a sliver of moonlight.
    “Break this shit up!” the cops shouted, wading in with their batons swinging. “Give it up, you bastards!”
    Bruiser Mahoney stepped away, panting just a bit. Beads of sweat dotted his brow.
    “Come on, boys.” His hands gripped our forearms. He half led, half lifted us: only my toes touched the ground.
    “My dad …” Dunk said.
    “Your dad’s in a whack of trouble, son. Nothing to be done for it.”
    The brawl raged on. The cruiser’s lights bathed the scene in blue and red flashes. In hindsight, it was shocking that neither our dads nor the police saw us being led away by a goliath wrestler in scuffedcowboy boots and a buckskin jacket. Equally shocking was the fact that neither Dunk nor I called out to our fathers.
    Bruiser Mahoney’s brown cargo van was parked around back of the arena near the Dumpsters. He popped the side door and said: “Hop in, boys.”
    We sat hip to hip on the ripped bench seat. The van smelled of sweat and turpentine. The left side of the windshield was milky with cracks. A plastic hula girl was stuck to the dash. In the back were a few army duffels, boxes of bodybuilding magazines, sleeping bags and about a million empty Coke cans.
    “What’s going to happen to our dads?” I asked Mahoney.
    “They’re spending a night in the nick,” Bruiser said, contorting himself into the front seat. His wide shoulders made it look as if a Kenmore fridge were occupying the space behind the wheel. “Buckle your seat belts.”
    The van hacked to life. Mahoney drove with his headlights off. The plastic hula girl’s hips swayed as we bounced over the curb.
    “It’s nothing serious,” Mahoney said. “Just grown men fighting. They’ll be out tomorrow no worse for wear.” He craned his head round and winked at us. “Every man ought to spend a night in the stony lonesome once in his life!”
    He snapped on the radio. “Karma Chameleon” by Culture Club was playing.
    “This glitzy fairy can really carry a tune,” he said, snapping his fingers.
    We drove down Parkside and pulled up beside a 5.0 Mustang. A farmer-tanned arm hung casually out the open window. There was a tattoo of a wolf howling at the moon on that arm, except the skin drooped so that the moon looked more like a teardrop—which would be poetic, I guess, if it had been on purpose.
    Mahoney pulled up closer. I caught a flash of the driver: in his mid-thirties, his face deeply seamed and his skin a queer off-yellow like a watery