David Robbins - Miami Run

Which left the two rushing Hickok. They were both within a stride of the gunman, who had not moved a muscle, when his hands became a literal blur. Both gang members drew up short, gawking, as each one found himself staring down the barrel of a Colt Python .357.

“You boys are being a mite inhospitable,” the gunfighter remarked. His voice hardened. “It’s not nice to be inhospitable.”

Blade stared at Pedro. The gang leader was clutching his knee and groaning, his face contorted in agony.

“What should we do with these turnips?” Hickok asked. “Turn ’em over to the Narcs?”

Blade scanned their vicinity. Many people were standing and watching, but none seemed inclined to interfere. There was no sign of any Narcs.

“No,” he replied. “They might want us to fill out an official report, or take us to their headquarters. Let’s get out of here.”

Hickok winked at the pair in front of him. “Don’t so much as twitch until we’re out of sight, or I’ll ventilate your noggins. Savvy?”

Neither man responded or moved a muscle.

The Warriors slowly backed off.

“They didn’t go for their hardware,” Hickok remarked.

“They probably didn’t want to get the Narcs after them,” Blade deduced. “Carrying firearms may be legal, but I doubt that the Narcs allow random gunplay.”

Hickok twirled the Pythons into their holsters. “What now?”

For an answer, Blade turned and jogged in the direction of a nearby avenue.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” Hickok commented as he kept pace with Blade.

“Uh-oh,” Rikki said.

Hickok ignored the martial artist. “I’m serious. Let’s suppose we find these Masters. Let’s suppose we terminate them.”

“If they’re a threat to the Family, they’ll be terminated,” Blade guaranteed. He spotted a row of buses parked near a monument and angled toward it.

“Will killin’ the Masters stop the drugs?” Hickok queried.

Blade glanced at his friend. “Stop the drugs?”

“Yeah. Do you think blowin’ the Masters away will put an end to the drug use?”

“I doubt it,” Blade said. “Someone, or some group, will take over the operation.”

Hickok frowned. “That’s what I figured. Pity.”

“This drug business has you upset, doesn’t it?” Rikki interjected.

“Yep,” Hickok acknowledged. “I keep thinkin’ of what drugs could do to Ringo.”

“Your son is safe,” Rikki assured him. “The Home is drug free.”

“Only because we keep it that way,” Hickok mentioned. “The Elders teach us to enjoy life naturally, to value our health. As parents, we’re expected to set an example for our young’uns. We have to show ’em that pollutin’ their bodies is the worst thing they could possibly do.”

Rikki nodded. “Any type of addiction hampers our spiritual communion. Chemical poisons prevent us from enjoying a fuller contact with the Spirit.”

“We know that,” Hickok said. “And we try to pass on our values to our young’uns. But what about that boy we saw earlier? The one who asked Blade for some money?” He paused. “That kid is learnin’ to use drugs from his own parents. He’ll be hooked before he’s ten. What kind of life is that?”

“There’s nothing we can do about it,” Blade said.

“I know,” Hickok reluctantly agreed. “I was just thinkin’, is all.”

Blade studied the gunman for a moment. Hickok was genuinely perturbed, and rarely did the Family’s preeminent gunfighter become disturbed over anything. “You don’t need to worry about Ringo,” he assured him.

“I pray I don’t,” Hickok said.

Blade slowed to a casual walk, heading for the buses.

He stared at the monument, a curved wall with the words THE TORCH OF FRIENDSHIP near the top. In front of the wall was a solitary pillar. A man was playing a guitar a few yards from the pillar, a metal cup at his feet. Five people were listening to him, and one of them deposited several coins in the cup.

Blade halted.

The guitarist finished his song and the five listeners dispersed, two of them adding coins to the cup.

“What’s up, pard?” Hickok asked.

“We need money,” Blade noted.

Hickok looked at the musician. “Got you.” He marched toward the guitarist ten feet away.

“Wait—” Blade began, but the gunman kept going.

Hickok stepped up to the musician with his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. “Howdy.”

The guitarist, in the act of tuning his instrument by ear, glanced up.

“Hey, man, how’s it going?”

“Just dandy,” Hickok said.

“Do you have a request?” the guitarist inquired.

“Do you use drugs?”

The man’s green eyes narrowed and he ran his right hand through his shoulder-length brown hair. “Say what?”

“Do you use drugs?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Answer it.”

“Yeah, I do drugs. Doesn’t everybody?”

“I figured you’d say that.”

The musician lowered his guitar. “What’s the big deal? Do you want to hear a request or not?”

“Yep.”

“What’s it called, dude?”

“Do you know This is a Stickup?”

The guitarist pondered for several seconds. “No. Can’t say as I do. How does it go?”

Hickok leaned forward. “It goes like this. You hand over your money, and I let you live.”

The musician grinned. “Are you puttin’ me on, dude?”

Hickok’s voice became flinty. “Do I sound like I’m puttin’ you on, you peckerwood? And if you call me ‘dude’ again, I’m gonna ram my Python barrels up your nose and see what happens when I pull the triggers.”

The guitarist blinked rapidly. “You’re not puttin’ me on!”

“You must have all the intellect in your family,” Hickok quipped.

“You’re really stealin’ my bread!” the man exclaimed in astonishment.

“Keep your voice down!” Hickok warned. “I couldn’t care less about your bread. I want your money . Now.”

The guitarist blanched, his lips quivering. “Like, this is for real!”

“The money,” Hickok prompted, his hands inching toward his Colts.

The musician noticed the movement and swallowed hard. “Take it! It’s all yours!”

“Be a nice… dude… and hand it to me,” Hickok directed.

With supreme care, the guitarist leaned over, retrieved the metal cup, and straightened. “Here. Just don’t shoot me!”

“I wouldn’t think of wastin’ the bullet,” Hickok commented, taking the cup in his left hand. It was two-thirds full.

“Like, this is a cosmic injustice!” the man stated belligerently.

“Get me riled and you’ll see an injustice,” Hickok said.

“I’m an artiste!”

“You’re a dipshit,” Hickok countered. “You’re lettin’ drugs mess up your head and cramp your talent.”

The guitarist snorted derisively. “You’re crazy! What do you know? Drugs expand my mind, dude. They make me more creative.”

“That’s why you’re standin’ here playin’ for small change?” Hickok retorted.

“I need my smack, man.”

“Smack?”

“The Big H.”

“Can you speak English?”

“Heroin, man. It chills me out. If I don’t get my fix, I freak out.”

Hickok gazed into the musician’s slightly disoriented eyes, recognizing the reflection of commingled craving and fear. He extended the cup.

“Here.”

The man gawked at the cup. “What?”

“Here. Take it. You need this more than we do.” Hickok wagged the cup and heard the coins jingle.

“You’re givin’ it back?” the man asked in disbelief.

“Take the damn cup!” Hickok snapped. He suddenly became aware of someone standing behind him and looked over his right shoulder.