Lassiter

40 The Hummer

Sweaty and thirsty, Kip dribbled the basketball along the sidewalk. He’d been shooting buckets at the outdoor court in Peacock Park along the bay in the Grove. One hundred jump shots and one hundred free throws. Just like Uncle Jake taught him.

A man was cleaning the windshield of a big-ass gray Hummer parked next to the bike rack where Kip had locked his Cannondale.

Kip wouldn’t have paid much attention, but the car was so big and the chassis so high, the guy had to stand on the running board to reach the middle of the windshield. Big guy, too, in a muscle tee. Sloping shoulders, pumped delts, tats covering both arms and running up his neck.

Kip unlocked his bike chain and squeezed the basketball into his backpack.

“Nice bike,” the guy said, stepping off the running board.

“Nice wheels,” Kip said.

“Ever ride in one?”

“Nah.”

The guy shot a look toward the street, and Kip noticed the five-pointed crown tattoo on the back of his skull. Latin Kings. A sheriff’s deputy had lectured at school, taught them all about the local gangs. The Kings were badasses.

“You wanna take a ride?” The gangbanger circled around him. The Hummer’s passenger door was open.

“You some kind of perv?”

The guy laughed. “Just being nice, kid. I’m a friend of the family.”

“What family?”

“Jeez, you don’t remember. Me and your uncle are tight.”

“What’s his name?” Suspicious as hell.

“Jake. Jake Lassiter. Used to play for the Dolphins.”

“Uh-huh. What’s your name?”

It took a second before the guy said, “Bill.”

Kip sized up the situation. They were in a cul-de-sac just thirty feet from the bay at the end of the park. Only one way out, McFarlane Road, where cars were cruising by. But the perv was three feet away.

He’d knock me off the bike and throw me into the Hummer.

“Lock your bike back up, I’ll take you for a spin over to Jungle Island.”

“Okay, sure.”

Kip fumbled with the lock, and the perv stepped closer.

“Carbon frame?” the guy asked, grabbing the handlebars.

“Yeah.”

The perv’s hands were occupied. This might be his only chance, Kip thought. His uncle had taught him the side-blade kick against the heavy bag. With his weight on his left leg, Kip quickly shot his right knee toward his chest, pivoted, and snapped a foot squarely into the guy’s balls.

The air whoomphed out of the guy, and he sunk to his knees, gasping.

Kip hopped on the bike, bounced off the curb into the street, and pedaled like hell. He was too scared to look back.