Beasley had been a latchkey kid with decent grades, though he spent most of his time on the streets, just watching people, occasionally tipping off the police when he saw something that shouldn't be happening in his neighborhood. There had been plenty of opportunities to get involved with drugs and gangs, but Beasley had avoided those invitations. He'd seen too many of those punks get their faces shoved down onto the hoods of police cars. Those same punks often referred to him as the weird guy who never talked. That was fine with him. He was a student of human nature.

Beasley grinned as he locked gazes with a freckle-faced kid about sixteen or seventeen seated on the window ledge, hands jammed into the pockets of his dirty pull-over, black ski cap pulled down over his ears. His long, reddish brown hair wandered down past that cap, and he repeatedly backhanded his runny nose.

He was Beasley, half a lifetime ago.

The kid just looked at him, then averted his gaze. Beasley stepped inside, announced by the store's familiar ding-dong, and went to the coffee machine.

An elderly African-American couple stood at the counter, bickering with the heavyset clerk over their expired coupon for milk; otherwise, the store was empty.

Beasley finished making his coffee, grabbed his paper, and by the time he reached the counter, the old folks were gone. The clerk rang him up, and he left the store.

The kid was still there, watching. Beasley thought of asking why he wasn't in school but decided not to hassle him. Beasley had been on the other end of that conversation way too many times. Nearly slipping on the wet pavement, he crossed to his bike.

And just as he tucked his newspaper under his arm and was about to fish out his keys, something thudded against the back of his head. He glanced ever so slightly over his shoulder, saw the kid standing there, his arm extended.

"This ain't no toy gun. Your keys! Now!" The kid shoved his pistol harder into Beasley's skull.

"Easy, buddy. I was just pulling them out."

"You hand them to me. And you don't turn around."

"Okay."

Beasley drew in a long, slow breath to calm himself. He reached into his pocket, felt the keys, but he didn't grab them. He visualized his move . . . then made it.

Whirling and wrenching his hand from his coat, Beasley struck the kid's forearm with his own, then slid his hand down and ripped the gun from the kid's grip.

Dumbfounded, the kid gasped and stepped back, turned, about to run, then slipped in a puddle.

Beasley shook his head in disgust. "Better stay down, buddy."

Breathless, the kid rolled to face Beasley, tears forming in his eyes.

Beasley gritted his teeth. "What are you doing?"

"I don't know."

"What are you doing with your life? Throwing it away trying to jack me?"