Minor Poet and I Shot Elmore Leonard

Downtown Detroit on a black hot Saturday night,rolling down Woodwarddriving fast along CassSafe, but not,in a two ton metal cocoon with wheelsHenry Ford owns my carhis name is on itthat's how i knowthat the man with sunglassesin a rust colored trench coatstanding next to a green graffiti covered dumpsterat the mouth of an alley leading to the First Gateis really Elmore Leonard.
So I pull up to curb in front of him,slide down the driver's window and shout,"Hey Dutch! Need a ride?"He turns his head side to side,steps out of a shadow that dissolves instantly andeyes my late model Taurus with fiction suspicionand rolls a charred butt cigar endwith his silent tongue--around his mouthbetween gray stubble lipsand projectile spitsa perfect bullet shaped loogiedead center onto white chalk sidewalkcrime scene cop remains.
Now this pissed me offmore than his successyet out of respect to sceneI invited him to my readingand tossed M. L. Liebler's namelike a shiny silver dollarinto the night between uswhich he caught with his right hand,fist first in the air,like an anarchist's salute in enemy landand I made a Glock handand squeezed the triggerdying to kill the bigger,better gun.