The bus-stop sign had long since rusted beyond recognition, but the place was marked by an ancient bench of concrete and rotting wood that was in the process of returning to the earth. The look of it did not inspire confidence, but he had waited at this place before and eventually a bus had come along. Paul was not someone who could sit patiently on a bench. Instead he leaned against the side of it to indicate his intentions, without committing himself to the wait. Shielding his eyes, he peered down the highway to where the bus had materialized before, as if directing his impatience in its direction would help hurry it along. He wiped his brow with his hand and then ran it back through his short brown hair.

After a few minutes he heard someone come up behind him and he turned. He was startled to see a beautiful young woman looking back at him. She immediately looked away. Her skin was light brown but there was a paleness about her, like someone who did not like the sun. Her hair was auburn and long, with a slight wave to it. She had it gathered in the back with a carved wooden clasp. Her eyes were dark, almost black, and features were fine, except for her lips, which were full and wide. She wore no makeup that he could see. The fine wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes spoke of someone who liked to laugh but her expression was serious, maybe even a little angry. The plain white dress she was wearing clung to her thighs in the humid air. She clutched her tattered canvas bag against her chest like a shield. He held his glance a little too long and finally she glared back at him with a look of contempt that startled him for a moment.

"My name is Paul," he said, by way of apology.

She swatted at an imaginary fly with a bible she was holding in her hand, but said nothing. They stood at opposite ends of the bench in silence, intruding on each other's thoughts.

After a few minutes, a tired-looking bus pulled up in front of the bench and let out an exhausted hiss of air. The door folded open, and a heavy-set black man in a gray uniform shirt and hat looked down at them impassively. The girl hung back so that Paul would have to board first and declare his seat. He dropped some coins in the box, then moved toward the back so that she would sit somewhere in front of him. He had no plan to talk to her further. Over the years he had learned not to force it. It would happen at its own pace, if at all. It was better to let it find its own drift, like the slowly turning tumbler of a lock. He had a strong feeling about this one though, and no urgency of time. She took a seat near the middle. The bus moved off, making its way into the city a few miles at a time, stopping now and then like a runner trying to catch his breath. It was late afternoon and the air pouring through the open windows felt too thick to breathe.

He thought about how he might spend his evening. New Orleans was a house with many locked doors. Most of those doors opened readily with money. He needed other means. He had spent many weekends wandering around the French Quarter, watching. He learned early on that Bourbon Street was not the French Quarter. It was like a boardwalk where people could dip their toes into sin without being swept away by the tide. It was the other places he wanted. The labyrinth of hidden courtyards leading to unexpected rooms, the sound of a woman's laugh behind a closed gate in a wall topped with broken bottles cemented into the stone, a casual glance through a closing door and the sound of jazz, and ice in glasses, couples in dark alleys, making love against a wall. It was a place that existed only in the night.

The bus came to a stop and two men boarded. The first one was big and slow in his movements. He dropped his change on the floor and had difficulty picking it up with his thick, blunt fingers. The driver waited patiently. The other one was wiry and mean-looking. He cursed at the big one and gave him a shove. All the while his gaze darted about like a snake, tasting the air for an opportunity. He saw the girl and his face distorted into a malicious grin. The big one lumbered down the aisle, looking down at the floor and then he turned back, not knowing where he was supposed to sit. The other one stopped next to the girl, as the bus moved off. He said something to her that Paul could not hear. She snapped back at him and then turned away. He said something else but she ignored him. Finally he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up so that she was forced to look into his face.

"Don't you turn away from me, nigger. I know what you are. You ain't foolin' me. You damn sure ain't no white girl. Move your black ass to the back of the bus."

It was not that Paul had made some carefully considered decision to intervene. Some other part of him had taken control and he became a detached observer of his own movements. His body surged forward, while somewhere lost in the back of his consciousness, a voice was going on about consequences. The big one looked confident. Now that his friend had started doing something familiar, he knew what he was supposed to do. He was there to keep anyone from spoiling the fun. Paul came up behind him. He turned and glowered at Paul with that smug confidence that comes from never being challenged. Paul stepped forward, knees bent and thrust his fist into the center of the man's chest. The big man slumped forward, unable to breathe, a look of shock and fear washed over on his face. There was no need to hit him again. Paul pushed him into a seat.

Paul now had the other one's full attention. He dropped the girl like a used napkin and his eyes widened with fear. Slowly, a look of hatred came over his face. He reached into his back pocket and flicked open a knife, slashing the air in front of him like the tail of a lizard. Paul moved toward him. He watched like Andre had taught him all those years ago. In a fight a man might do any number of unexpected things, but a man with a knife will tell you exactly what he is going to do. How he holds it. How he stands. What his eyes say. It was not the first time Paul had faced a knife. This one just wanted to scare him off. Paul kept moving toward him and he saw panic growing in the man's eyes. The knife-wielding man lunged forward wildly. Paul shifted his weight, avoiding the blade and, at the same time, grasping the man's wrist, pulling forward and twisting until the knife fell onto the floor. He released his grip and pushed the man backward.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl open her Bible and he laughed to himself thinking that she was about to pray for him. Something fell out onto the girl's lap. Then, in a flash of white fury she was on her attacker's back, a straight razor pushed against his throat. A small drop of blood appeared on the man's neck and he went still, his eyes wide with panic. The driver had stopped the bus and he came up behind the girl. Paul watched fascinated, as the line of blood under the blade grew wider.

"Now you put that thing away, Lucinda," the driver said. "I'm sure this gentleman will be happy to take himself and his friend off my bus."

The injured man was shaking now and when he spoke his voice was a high-pitched wail. "Get her off me. Oh, my God, please. Get her off me."

"I think I'll just cut your ugly head off and take it to town in my bag," she said.

The driver gently reached around, grasped the girl's hand and pulled it carefully away from the man's throat.

The man immediately reached up and clutched at his bloodied neck. "She cut me. The bitch cut me. I'm gonna kill you, you fuckin' whore."

"You ain't gonna do nothing, mister," the driver said, "except get you and your friend off my bus and be happy you still got your damn head on your shoulders. Maybe you ain't heard, Jim Crow is dead around here."

The man looked at the girl still holding the razor and then at Paul. "I'll find you," he said to Paul. You gonna see me again."

The girl raised the razor in the air and he had no more to say. He turned and hurried toward the door.

"You, too," the driver said, looking at the big man still slumped over in his seat.

The big man got up slowly, clutching his chest, and walked toward the front, sliding sideways past Paul like he was afraid of being burned. He did not make eye contact. The two men jumped off the bus and the driver turned toward Paul, as if considering whether he should go too. He apparently thought better of it.

"I don't allow no trouble on my bus," was all he said. He got back into his seat and released the brake.

The girl turned to Paul, still angry. "I don't need no help from you," she said, and sat back down.

Her voice sounded hollow and distant, like she had shouted it from the other side of a wall. He stood there in the aisle for a moment trying to gather himself, a little surprised by the girl's reaction. His body felt heavy, like it was being pulled toward the center of the earth. In a few seconds, he started to shake as the adrenaline left his system. His eyelids began to twitch and pretty soon his whole body was throbbing. He closed his eyes and clasped his arms across his chest. There was nothing to do but to let it run its course. After all the scrapes he had been in, it surprised him that it never went away. His thoughts drifted back to the years he had spent in the neighborhood. It was like his mind was rerunning the lessons he was supposed to have learned to keep him out of things like this.