Read The Trojan Sea for Free Online Page A

station where he got off, to his apartment just past Archibald Walk. During daylight it was a safe enough walk, but after dark he preferred to catch a cab, if one was available.
    Stuart came out of the station and decided to wait a few minutes to see if a cab might drive by. He checked his watch. Come on, he thought.
    Three African-American teenagers, all wearing the latest gear, ambled by and stopped at the entrance to the Metro station. They were full of life and trading good-natured insults as they discussed the merits of certain young females. It was all part of the life in his neighborhood and one of the reasons he liked living there. A fourth teenager joined them, and the insults grew loud as the words flew back and forth. Stuart got a good look at the newcomer when he stepped under a streetlight. He was much older than the three boys and definitely not a teenager.
    Alarm bells went off in Stuart’s head, and he moved away. Again he checked his watch. No taxi tonight, he thought. He decided to walk just as a street-sweeper truck lumbered around the corner. Suddenly the words changed tone, now ugly and menacing. Stuart hurried past, moving toward the approaching sweeper as the four young men started to push and challenge.
    Stuart saw a knife flash, and the latecomer broke away, running directly at him. Stuart froze. The man barreled into Stuart and knocked him into the path of the oncoming sweeper. The screech of brakes deafened Stuart as headlights blinded him. He knew he was dead.
    Something snapped inside, filling him with rage.
    He threw himself to the ground, centering up on the sweeper’s bumper, anything to get away from the big wheels. He flattened his right cheek and stomach against the asphalt as the truck rolled over him. He felt the back of his coat rip as it slammed to a stop.
    Stuart lay under the sweeper, afraid to move. He could feel the weight of the truck on his back and his glasses smashed under his cheek. He saw feet run past and heard shouting. Then the cab door swung open, and he felt the driver getting off. The belly of an incredibly overweight man appeared as the driver knelt down beside the truck. Then his face emerged. “Am I hurt?” Stuart asked.
    “You’re talking,” the driver said. “I’ll get a flashlight and call for help. Don’t move.”
    “Don’t get back into the truck!” Stuart shouted. But his warning was too late, and the truck rocked on him. Stuart moaned. “He got back in.”
    The next few minutes turned into an eternity as the police and then a fire truck arrived. Everyone kept telling Stuart not to move, and finally a paramedic, a slender woman, crawled under the truck. “Well,” she said, “good evening, sir.”
    “Does your husband know we’re meeting like this?” he muttered between clenched teeth.
    “He’s not the jealous kind.” She examined him and took his pulse. “I think you’re okay. We’re going to jack up the truck in a few minutes.”
    He closed his eyes as the emergency crew shoved a hydraulic jack under the chassis and started to pump. Someone grabbed his ankles and gently pulled him free. He looked up into the smiling face of the paramedic. “You are one lucky man,” she announced.
     
     
    It was after midnight when Stuart got home. He dropped his ruined uniform coat in a chair and headed for the shower. He stripped off his clothes and examined himself in the mirror. Other than a few minor scrapes and bruises, he was fine. He could feel the onset of stiffness the examining doctor had warned him about. The hot water felt good as it coursed over his body. He got out, toweled himself dry, and padded into the kitchen, ravenously hungry. The flashing light on his answering machine announced that he had two messages.
    The first one was from his ex-wife. “Hi, honey. This is Jenny. Give me a call whenever.” He gave a little snort. The unspoken protocols of their divorce were well established, and she wanted money. If the call was about