Concerning a Brick Thrown By a King

When the Fop was felled with a brick there was only a sound like dropped pottery and woman's scream. Tupelo saw the Fop sprawled on the ground like a soulless puppet, a chunk of old red brick next to his head, a brick thrown by a King. Where the King was he didn't know, but the King it had to be. Ambling Henry had abandoned his newsprint bench to support the Silver Lady, using his crushed tweed hat to fan the Fop. Tupelo ran back to help roll him off the path into the safety of the bushes.

Henry escorted the Silver Lady from the park, Tupelo fled to the Church of the Immaculate Conception. They always let you stay in the sanctuary of a church, if you sat in the back and didn't smell too bad. Sometimes you could even get fed, on Saturdays when the elderly parish ladies served gallons of canned clam chowder to the poor and down-trodden who sought shelter within its halls.
The church was on the Street of Friars, part of the old town, if you could designate such a thing in this city; a long, undulating cobblestone stretch lined by dark brick buildings crowded with noisy families, hanging laundry and xenophobic businesses. Runoff water trickled down the street ceaselessly, carrying the occasional take-out box and lifeless plush animal. Tupelo shambled his way past stalls and steam clouds smelling of shrimp and andouille, trying to stay on the edges but away from the shadows. He had the skeleton in the vial on a shoestring around his neck, but nursed doubts. And he had secretly left his best seahorse with the Silver Lady, just in case.
He wasn't afraid of the Ragamuffin King; he had no need to be. One couldn't be too careful these days. It could be an odd world, full of beautifully dangerous people.
He ascended the church's stone steps, glistening and reflecting back the street below -- an image, a world forever trapped between the darkness and humanity below, and the light, warmth and sanctuary above. At the great red doors to the vestibule he turned to take in the street behind him: wet, contumelious, a blinking muddy trolley rattling its way down the rail and brick path like a giant subterranean creature ambling its way to earth. Tupelo saw what looked like the Silver Lady cross the street, ducking behind the trolley and slipping into the steamy throat of an alley.
And like a curtain moved aside the trolley rolled on, its clanging bell revealing the Ragamuffin King standing in front of a well lit red awning kiosk, fingerless gloves clutching something in wax paper. Tupelo watched him bring a wad of it to his mouth, then follow into the steam alley behind the Silver Lady.
For reasons he would not be able to articulate, Tupelo found himself dancing down the steps, across black cobblestones, and, because he was not stupid, entering the veil of smoke slowly and cautiously.