The Hotshot. Jule McBride

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СКАЧАТЬ to look sheepish. “I guess I got carried away. I wound up straying from the beaten path.”

      He jerked his chin upward in a New Yorker’s version of a nod. “Did you take the subway?”

      He was so nonchalant that, moments before, he could have been standing outside The Lion King, not a movie called Suzie Licks my Boots. Trudy inhaled sharply, sensing a sudden movement behind her. Turning, her eyes landed in the park where streetlights didn’t penetrate. Just as her eyes focused closer, air swished on either side of her. She gasped, “My bags!”

      As they were whisked from the pavement, she glimpsed the snatcher—a white kid on a graffiti-covered skateboard. He was about fourteen, with short pink hair and beaded necklaces that jangled against his chest as he turned away. He was in her face one second, gone the next. “Wait! You can’t take those!”

      But he was gone, airborne as he hopped the railing, clutching a bag in each hand, his skateboard clinging to his sneakers as if glued to them, unaffected by gravity. The rollers slammed down hard as the board hit concrete, then he pumped with a foot. As he glided through the park, the receding sound of rollers seemed loud in the still night, despite the heavy traffic. Truman caught up to her, then passed at a run, easily hurdling the rail, yelling, “You okay?”

      “I’m not hurt! Forget about the bags!”

      “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back. I’ll get them!”

      Truman was fast and graceful, running like a sleek animal with the wind in his damp hair until the darkness of the park swallowed him. Trudy realized she’d frozen on the sidewalk, and that Truman was still chasing the kid, who’d clearly intended to cut through the park and go east on Forty-second Street toward Fifth Avenue. Truman couldn’t retrieve the bags! She’d sooner die that have him see what was inside. The bags were wet from the rain, too! What if they ripped and all those love oils and French ticklers scattered onto the sidewalk?

      Her face flaming, Trudy bolted down Forty-first Street, her sneakered feet pounding the cement. Instead of cutting through the park, she ran along the shadowy stone facade of the massive library. She had to reach Fifth Avenue before Truman. If the kid ran south, maybe she’d catch him first. By not cutting through the park, she was gaining leverage.

      Please, she thought. Let me get those bags before Truman.

      AS HE RAN, TRUMAN focused on the kid’s back and wished Trudy hadn’t gotten turned around in such a bad neighborhood. She could have gotten hurt. Fortunately, this guy was just a punk. He had pink hair and was wearing more necklaces than you’d find in a jewelry store. He was on a skateboard, though, so catching him was a pain. Panting as he weaved around people on the sidewalk, Truman wished he’d brought a weapon, just in case, but when he was off-duty, he rarely carried.

      “Stop,” he shouted. “Put down the bags.”

      “Those are Trudy’s bags!” someone yelled as he neared the entrance to the library.

      Who out here knew Trudy? Most of the guys in the park were drug dealers, but there was no time to reason it out. “Lucky me,” Truman whispered as the kid circled the corner onto Fifth Avenue and hopped off the skateboard. Stilling the rollers with his hand, he vanished up the library steps on foot, hauling the bags. Away from the street, it was dark, and the kid was hoping Truman would continue running and assume he’d lost his quarry in the crowds.

      The kid was hiding—either behind one of the columns near the library’s brass revolving doors, or behind one of two mammoth marble lions. Stately, the lions were perched on their haunches halfway up the wide stone steps, guarding the library like sentinels, their huge paws extended and long manes flowing.

      Pausing to catch his breath, Truman glanced around, but didn’t see Trudy. He’d hated leaving her at the south entrance of Bryant Park. It was dark there, not that the library steps were any better lit. Squinting into inky blackness, he moved slowly upward, keeping his eyes peeled, a slight smile curling his lips.

      The shopping bags had bogged the kid down. The bags looked heavy, too. It’s a wonder, Truman thought, shaking his head, the damage women can do when they shop. But what stores were in the neighborhood? He frowned. Bloomingdale’s was on the East Side, Barneys was downtown, and Agnès B. was in Soho. The Warner Brothers and Disney stores, he realized, his smile broadening. They were running sales. No doubt, Trudy was getting a head start on Christmas, buying stuff for the four nephews she’d mentioned during their ride-alongs.

      Strangely, she’d turned out to be the type. After that first rocky encounter, she’d started changing for no reason Truman could fathom. She’d begun trying to get to know him, and he’d become more curious about her, too. Despite her ambition, and the fact that her brothers were the heirs apparent to her father’s newspaper, she loved them. Both were married, each with toddlers, all little boys…

      “Stealing kids’ Christmas presents,” Truman muttered with disgust as he edged stealthily around the paw of a lion. Well, he’d retrieve the gifts. The punk was just on the other side of the statue. Truman tilted his head to listen, then heard a low, mechanical hum.

      He almost laughed. The skateboarder’s jostling had caused one of the toys Trudy had bought the kids to switch on. Whatever it was, it was battery-operated. Now there was a rustle of paper. The guy was reaching into the bag, trying to turn off the toy.

      “I hear you,” Truman singsonged. Dodging around the lion, he feinted left, then doubled back, changing directions once more. The confused teenager barreled into him, nearly knocking him down, and Truman grabbed the bags. “Here. Why don’t I take those?”

      “Believe me,” muttered the teen over his shoulder, grabbing his skateboard and running down the steps, “You can have them. I don’t want that kind of stuff!”

      Truman chuckled, imagining the kid opening the bags and examining his haul—only to realize he’d stolen two bags of T-shirts, Pokémon toys, Batmobiles and the like. Relieved, he saw Trudy rounding the corner and lifted the bags. “Got them!”

      Something had definitely gotten jostled. It was too dark to see, but Truman dug a hand into one of the bags until his fingers locked around whatever was vibrating. Lifting it from the bag, he squinted at the object. It was about six inches long and about two inches thick at the base. “Some kind of fighter jet,” he supposed. “Or an alien rocket ship.” Yeah. It looked like one of those flesh-colored toys that came with a paint set, so you could decorate it yourself. Usually, the colors were green and black, for camouflage. When they were kids, his brother Sully used to love this stuff.

      Still fiddling with the gizmo, he mistook the approaching footsteps for Trudy’s and glanced up. “Hey, what’s this thing anyway?” he asked, staring into the dark. “One of those remote-control rockets?”

      “Them’s Trudy’s,” a deep male voice said. “Don’t you be messing with Trudy’s bags, boy. You give them back.”

      “What?” Truman stepped toward the light, simultaneously realizing that the base of the toy twisted, and that a huge black man was in front of him. No wonder he hadn’t seen him. The man’s skin was the exact color of the darkness.

      “Don’t you be messing with Trudy,” he said again.

      The second before the man’s fist connected with his jaw, Truman gasped. It was impossible, but all at once, he realized he was gripping a penis! Staring in shock, his first thought was that he wasn’t gay, so this couldn’t be happening. His second was that this wasn’t an appropriate gift for Trudy’s СКАЧАТЬ