Nixon was across the street and thirty yards away when Harrison started shooting. Pop pop pop pop pop pop—a great staccato gust of bullets. Steadily, Nixon says, Harrison unloaded both guns into the fat man's car, stippling the red Toyota Tundra with bullet holes as the fat man ducked in his seat. Eventually, the fat man sat up and sped off, heading straight toward Nixon's position as Harrison darted into the street and continued to shoot.
Now Nixon was in the line of fire. He turned and ran. He ran as fast as he could with his belly and his smoker's cough as bullets slivered through doors and lodged in walls.
Behind him, unbeknownst to Nixon, a bullet ripped through the fat man's hand. Another bullet shattered the glass of a car containing multiple adults and a 2-year-old boy. The adults instantly bailed, abandoning the little boy in the car, the glass flowering into razor-sharp petals and bloodying the boy's eye.
And yes, Robert Nixon was also hit. Once, in the back. He didn't realize it at first. Too much adrenaline. Then he scraped his left hand against his right shoulder. He felt a hole in his black T-shirt. His fingers came back stained with blood.
By this time, Marvin Harrison and the fat man had both fled.