THE two street hookers regarded him approvingly as he came around the corner from Broad, a block short of Griffin. "Hey, Big Guy wanna go out tonight? Looking for a good time?"
Linc permitted a smile that stopped short of condescension "I got business tonight. Maybe later." He didn't mean it. Girls were another thing, like dope and Booze, that took over guy lives and ate into their brains. Not that Linc was opposed to a little fooling around when the opportunity was there and made sense. But it wasn't something you shopped for along the street like some kind of acidhead, cyberzom, or other t-dep being milked by every kind of pusher. It wasn't that the girls were at fault—what else were they doing, after all, all but what they had to get what they could, just as he and the rest of the world did? But when something in that line made a dent in his life, it would be in a situation where there could be a little more respect—both ways.
Respect was a big word in Linc's vocabulary. It meant being selective and paying attention to things that mattered and people who made differences. And respect for oneself meant being valuable enough to make sure they would notice you. That was the key to doing better than just getting by and surviving, which was something even the rats in the sewers under the city managed. The value of kids like Linc to the people Kyle worked for—and whom Linc would work for directly one day—was that their own enforcers were known, filed, cataloged, and watched, and a finger trail put together by a sharp DA with big ideas could bring grief and ruin to some important people. But juveniles enjoyed a wider definition of rights and more fundamental presumptions of innocence, with the attendant risk of conviction ranging from more difficult, at worst, to improbable. And even if a bad hand did turn up, the money was there for attorneys who specialized in bargaining this kind of rap down to minimum or nothing. The best there were. Kyle had said so.
Linc's phone beeped. It was Clay again. "The beard's just comin' back out on the street now. Gotta purple kinda parka and a green hat. Slam's right in there behind him, and I'm closin' after 'em. Headin' your way. You made the Griff yet?"
Even better than planned. Linc wouldn't have to spend time hanging around. "Two blocks along," he responded. "Take it like we said."
"Right on."
Had Colomada gone the other way, Linc would have crossed and overtaken on the far side, then doubled back to intercept them from the opposite direction. As things were, he made fast time along the block of shuttered storefronts, a dingy Chinese restaurant, and a late-night food mart, and then crossed the avenue while Colomada and his two tails were still halfway along the block ahead, coming the other way. The street was darker and emptier here, with locked entrances to dirty office buildings, and garbage Dumpsters standing by a truck-loading dock closed behind heavy steel doors. Past the loading dock an alley opened off to the left, opposite a vacant lot being used for parking.
Pulling on the gloves as he walked, Linc paced himself to approach the alley while keeping the same distance from it as Colomada. At the same time Clay and Slam moved up from behind to flank Colomada on either side. Linc was placed to block him if he sensed something amiss and tried to run.
They all reached the mouth of the alley together. As Clay and Slam drew level with the hunched, shuffling figure, they seized his arms suddenly and changed direction to propel him out of sight off the street.
"What—" The beginning of a shout died in a gasp as Linc thudded a solid punch into Colomada's midriff. Colomada slumped back against the wall, arms pinned by the two holding him on either side. Linc hit him several more times to the body—just softening-up blows. With luck, fear would do the rest.
"You've been getting forgetful, Gabriel," Linc said.
Colomada answered in short, heaving bursts. "How. . you know me? Who are you? . . . I don't know what you talk about."
"I think you do. Some friends of mine are short of somewhere around two thousand dollars. They're getting impatient."
Colomada was breathing shakily. In the glow from the street, Linc could make out his eyes wide and staring, mouth gaping as he fought for air. He slipped on the knuckles, making sure to keep his movements slow and visible in the light.
Something that hadn't felt right should have warned him. Something too stiff and unyielding about Colomada's body when Linc hit it.
Linc didn't see exactly what happened in the darkness, but there was rapid, sudden movement and the sound of blows, and Slam doubled over with a gurgle, clutching his throat. Clay's reflexes kicked in at once and he tried to split, but light flooded the alley and two unmarked cars blocked the end, already disgorging uniformed figures. Linc started to wheel the other way.
"Freeze! Right there!"
He found himself looking at the muzzle of a .45, a Police Department shield being brandished, and the face of a very different, mean and nasty-looking Gabriel Colomada.
Running footsteps; a fleeting impression of Clay spread-eagled against one of the cars; Slam being hauled to his feet, retching and choking. Hands were seizing Linc and shoving.
"Against the wall, punk. Reach up it, high." Pain, as a nightstick struck into his kidney; then being frisked, head jerked back and held by the hair. "Both hands down and behind your back." Cuffs jammed on roughly, cutting into his wrists. Lights and sirens. More pushing and shoving, toward one of the cars . . . A blow from behind sent him staggering into the backseat, causing him to hit his head on the top of the door painfully.
"Hey, Chas, don't get too eager there," someone called out sarcastically. "Don't you know he's only a juvenile? We might have to put you on a refresher for sensitivity training."
"He can file a complaint at the station," Colomada's voice snarled from outside as the door slammed shut.