James Grippando: Last Call

Jack Swyteck Series, Book 07

In silent agreement, the Grove Lords selected their next victim. All of Miami – or at least the bus-riding, project-dwelling population of the Coconut Grove ghetto – seemed to stop and admire the 1964 Chevy Impala cruising down Grand Avenue. The totally refurbished, twenty-year-old classic had all the trappings of the finest in gang wheels. Metallic blue paint job with a flaming red devil atop the hood. Bumpers, mirrors, and side strips in high-polished chrome that glistened in the sunset. Low-ride, hydraulic suspension that left: barely enough ground clearance for a garden snake. The most prized upgrades, of course, were the all-important rims – 180-count spoke radials with 24-karat, gold-plate finish. Not bad for three punks from the 'hood. They'd stolen it from a Latino gang leader who had more flash than firepower. A pair of 9-millimeter bullet holes in the rear quarter panel marked the occasion.

Music blasted at ear-splitting decibels from a boom box in the trunk. The dark-tinted windows rattled with the deep-base vibes of "When Doves Cry," by Prince. Thirteen-year-old Theo Knight rode shotgun. He wore his Nike cap backward, the price tag still dangling from the bill. Sweat pasted an orange Miami Hurricanes football jersey to his back. A Mercedes-Benz hood ornament hung from a thick gold chain around his neck. It was the standard uniform of the Grove Lords, a gang of badass teenagers led by chief thief of the week Isaac Reems. Isaac was behind the wheel. Theo's older brother, Tatum, was sandwiched between them on the bench seat.

Isaac lowered the music so they could talk. "You seen him, right?"

"Uh-huh," said Tatum.

Theo didn't answer.

"Theo?" said Isaac. "You seen him, didn't ya?"

Theo knew exactly who he was talking about. The next white dude they spotted was their agreed-upon target." Yeah, I seen him. Crazy man ridin' straight through nigguh town on a bicycle."

Coconut Grove was one of those mixed communities in south Florida. Long before the developers came with bulldozers and wrecking balls, the Grove was known as a bohemian enclave for tree lovers and flower children of the 1960s. Finding your way through the twisted, narrow residential streets beneath the green tropical canopy was a perennial right of passage in Miami. But to Theo – to any black kid who'd heard the gunshots outside the rundown bars and package stores on Douglas Road – the Grove was a world of extremes. Butting right up against Miami 's most expensive real estate was a ghetto that could service just about anyone's bad habit, from gangs with their random hits, to doctors and lawyers who ventured out in obedience to their addictions. It was easy for affluent white folks to become careless and take a dangerous shortcut on their way home to paradise. And there were plenty of opportunists like the Grove Lords to make them pay for it.

"This one's all yours," said Tatum.

"I know," said Theo.

The cyclist turned on Grand Avenue. The Chevy followed. "Let's tail him for a while," said Isaac. "Make him shit his pants."

Tatum laughed and took a long swig from a half-empty bottle of vodka. He passed it to Theo, who pushed it away.

"What's wrong with you, pussy?" said Tatum.

"I ain't a pussy."

"We'll see," said Isaac. "Pop the glove box."

Theo opened it. Inside was a pearl-handled knife with a six inch, serrated blade that shone like a mirror. It was an impressive weapon, a collector's item with serious pawn value. "What you want me to do with this?"

"Cut him," said Isaac.

"Say what ? I thought I just had to take him down."

"What you think 'take him down' means?" said Isaac. "Show me some blood, brotha'. That's your ticket into the gang."

"I can knock his ass off his bike. That'll get him bloody."

"Fucking road rash?" said Tatum. "You think that's gonna make you a Grove Lord?"

The cyclist was pedaling faster, glancing nervously over his shoulder every few seconds, obviously sensing that he was being followed. "Nobody said nothin' about stabbin' nobody," said Theo.

"You want in the gang or don't you?" said Isaac.

"Yeah. I want in."

Tatum took another hit of vodka. "Then shut up and do your job."

Theo drew a deep breath and let it out. Compared to Tatum, Theo was the good kid in the family. Gang life seemed to come naturally to his older brother. Tatum was always in trouble, and Theo had inherited a bad-boy reputation and a slew of enemies without even trying. Not that Theo was a saint. Even with a thug for an older brother, Theo wouldn't have been considered for membership in the Grove Lords if he hadn't shown potential of his own. But his resume was filled with petty stuff – smash-and-grabs from parked vehicles, some vandalism, that kind of thing. Theo had never really hurt anyone, at least not simply for the fun of it.

The cyclist made another quick left. The Chevy was right behind him. A jerky hand signal told the driver to go around him.

Tatum nearly burst with laughter, slapping the dashboard. "Yeah, right. Like we need you to tell us what to do, white boy."

Isaac smiled. "He knows he's in trouble."

Theo was sullen. "I'm no good with knives."

"Man, why do I have such a pussy for a brother?" said Tatum, groaning.

Theo took a swing at him, but before it landed, Tatum had his younger brother's wrist in one hand and the knife in the other. "Don't you ever turn on me," said Tatum, showing him the tip of the blade.

The cyclist suddenly found a higher gear. He was racing through the green light, crossing six lanes of stopped traffic on U.S. 1.

"Got ourselves a flyer!" said Isaac. He hit the gas, and as the Chevy sped over the gentle crown in the highway, the chassis scraped on asphalt, sending sparks flying. " Shee-it ," said Isaac.

On the other side of the highway, the cyclist made a hard right onto the paved bicycle path.

"He's getting away," said Tatum.

"No, he ain't," said Isaac. The tires screeched as he steered the car onto the bike path in hot pursuit. Tatum howled, cheering on the chase.

The path was like a narrow, winding road beneath the elevated Metrorail tracks. A tall chain-link fence topped with spirals of razor wire bordered the left side, separating the public path from warehouses and auto-repair shops. To the right were the three southbound lanes of U.S. 1, an endless stream of traffic headed in the opposite direction at better than fifty miles per hour. The cyclist had nowhere to go but due north along the bicycle path. He swerved a few feet to the left, and the Chevy followed. The cyclist jerked to the right, and so did the Chevy. Isaac toyed with his prey, practically kissing the bicycle's rear tire with the Impala's big chrome bumper. The rider glanced back over his shoulder, terror on his face. He was inches away from being roadkill when they reached a cross street. The cyclist made a hard left turn.

"He's toast," said Isaac.

It was a side road of broken asphalt and rutted gravel. The rider hit a mud puddle and nearly fell, but he managed to right himself and keep going. He had to stand on the pedals to maintain his speed. The all-out sprint was taking its toll.

"Get ready," Tatum told his brother.

Dead ahead was a solid block wall. The paint-and-body shops on either side had closed hours earlier, their windows and doors protected by roll-down, metal security shutters. White boy had found himself a blind alley. He dropped his bicycle and ran, searching frantically for a way to scale the wall. It was like a sheer cliff. He turned and faced the music – literally – as the noisy low-rider raced toward him. His back was to the wall, his chest heaving, as he braced himself for the worst.