David Robbins - Miami Run

“Please!” Mohawk mimicked the boy.

“I want to go home!”

“You want to run to Daddy and Mommy!” Mohawk snapped. “Well, your ass is ours!”

“I haven’t done nothin’!”

“Oh?” Mohawk gazed at his peers. “He says he ain’t done nothin’!”

Some of the gang snickered.

Mohawk grabbed the front of Stevey’s shirt. “Who are you tryin’ to kid? You’ve insulted us.”

“I did not!”

“You won’t buy our shit.”

“I don’t want any!”

Mohawk made a smacking noise with his lips and released the boy.

“You just don’t understand the facts of life, Stevey. I’ll do you a favor. I’ll tell you how it is.” He paused, then tapped his chest. “I’m a registered pusher, dude. I make my bread by hustlin’ smack, bennies, weed, and anything else you need—”

“But I don’t need it!” Stevey interrupted.

Mohawk slapped the boy across the mouth. “Shut your face when I’m talkin’ to you!”

Stevey’s legs nearly buckled.

“I’m beginnin’ to think you’re a real lowlife,” Mohawk told the boy.

“Haven’t I offered you a ten-percent discount? Who else would give you a deal like that?”

Stevey didn’t answer.

“But if that’s not good enough for you, then how about a fifteen-percent discount?” Mohawk asked. “Just for the first three months.”

“No,” Stevey said.

“What?”

“I don’t want any drugs.”

Mohawk frowned. “He doesn’t want any drugs!”

“He’s a goody-two-shoes!” cracked one of the other gang members.

“Mommy’s boy!” mocked another.

“The little turd!” declared a third.

“What are we going to do with you?” Mohawk asked.

“Let me go!” Stevey pleaded.

“No can do,” Mohawk said. “You’re givin’ my reputation a bad mark. If I don’t sell to you, then some of the others might get it into their heads not to buy. I can’t allow that. This is my assigned turf, man. I have a quota to meet. My commission money don’t grow on trees.”

“What if I buy just a little?”

“And then what? Flush it down the John? I know you, you chickenshit bastard. You won’t use it.”

“No one would know.”

“ I’d know!”

Stevey gazed at the ring of harsh faces and gulped. “What are you going to do?”

“What do you think, nerd?” Mohawk responded. He reached into the right front pocket of his leather jacket.

Stevey’s eyes widened. “No!”

“Yes.” Mohawk’s hand emerged holding a closed knife. His thumb moved, there was a loud click, and a six-inch blade snapped out.

“No!” Stevey repeated, taking a step backwards.

“If it was up to me,” Mohawk said, “I’d cut you a few times and be done with it. But I know you’d run to your folks and blow the whistle, and they’d probably file a formal complaint with my Dealer. Technically, I’m not supposed to force my business on anyone.” He shrugged and grinned. “But you know how it goes. We all have to eat.” He wagged the knife.

Stevey seemed frozen in place.

“Stand still,” Mohawk advised. “I’ll make this short and sweet.” He drew back his right hand.

“Release the boy!”

Mohawk whirled at the sound of the low, firm voice coming from his rear. He did a double take at the sight of the small man in black ten yards away, immediately noting that the man was armed with an automatic rifle and a sword. But the rifle was slung over the man’s right shoulder, and the sword was in a scabbard on his left hip. The man’s hands were empty, dangling at his sides. “Who the hell are you?”

“Release the boy,” the man in black repeated.

Mohawk motioned with his left hand, and within seconds the man in black was surrounded by the entire gang. Three members produced knives, one a pair of brass knuckles, one a blackjack, and another slid a foot-long metal rod from his left sleeve.

The man in black remained motionless.

“I asked you who you are?” Mohawk reiterated angrily.

“If this boy does not want his body polluted by your drugs,” the man in black stated, “you will not sell them to him.”

Mohawk glowered. “Mister, you’ve got one hell of a nerve talkin’ to me like that! Do you know who I am?”

“Someone whose sense of self-importance is greatly exaggerated,” the man replied.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means the boy and I will depart without interference.”

“You think so, huh?” Mohawk asked, and snickered.

“I know so.”

Mohawk’s brown eyes narrowed. The stranger had yet to make a move for his weapons. The chump was just asking for it! “Take him!” he ordered.

They tried.

Three of the gang members closed in on the diminutive figure in black, two of them with their knives extended.

The man in black uttered a peculiar, catlike noise, his body dropping into a squat and his hands rising. One moment he was perfectly still; the next he was a black blur as he executed a series of spinning roundhouse kicks. Once. Twice. Three times in all. And with each kick, with each devastating spin, a gang member was sent sailing through the air to crash onto the cracked playground asphalt.

“Get him!” Mohawk bellowed.

The burly youth with the brass knuckles tried to deliver an uppercut to the stranger’s chin. Instead, the palm of the man’s right hand slammed into his chin, snapping his head back, and he crumpled.

“I’ll get this prick!” declared the one with the metal rod, taking two quick strides and swinging the bar.

With consummate ease, the man in black deftly ducked under the blow, then spun his body in a coiled arc, his left leg whipping outward, his left foot driving into the youth’s midsection and knocking the gang member over six feet to sprawl onto the ground.

“Get the bastard!” Mohawk screamed.

The man in black suddenly moved even faster, taking the offensive, his legs flashing up and around, his feet landing off decisive blows in half as many seconds.

Mohawk abruptly found himself the only one left, with the man in black three feet off, in a crouching stance.

“It is over.”

“Suck on this!” Mohawk snapped, and charged, whipping his switchblade toward the man’s face.

Stevey, an astonished witness to the squence of events, gaped as the man in black easily blocked the knife, then retaliated with an open-hand blow to his foe’s nose.

Mohawk screeched as his nostrils were crushed. He felt an agonizing pain in his forehead, then tumbled, gurgling and spraying blood.

“Are you all right?” the man asked Stevey.

Stevey nodded vigorously. “Thanks,” he blurted.

The man in black smiled and walked up to the boy. He placed his right hand on Stevey’s shoulder. “You were very brave. A person must be true to their convicions. These others had no right to force you to take drugs.”

Stevey watched several of the gang thrashing in anguish. “I never saw anyone move like you.”

The man’s smile broadened. “Practice.” He glanced at the alley to the west. “I must leave. May the Spirit guide you at all times.” He turned and jogged toward the alley.

“Hey! Wait!” Stevey called.

He stopped and turned.

“What’s your name? I need to know your name!”

“I am called Rikki.”

Stevey nodded, grinned, then ran to the south.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi watched the boy for several seconds, then resumed his sprint to the alley. He slowed slightly as he reached the chain-link fence, his hands flicking out and grabbing the top metal rail, and with a light-footed spring he vaulted into the alley, clearing the four-foot-high fence with a foot to spare. His companions were waiting.