“So what’s the job?” Frank questioned, ignoring the catcalls coming from the gang.
“Job? What’d Juve tell yeh ‘bout no job?” The laughter died away, causing the chill of unfriendliness to return.
“His trainin’ course, Rapi.”
Rapi pushed back his unique cap and examined Frank.
“C’mere, frankfurter.” More laughter from the gang.
Frank walked, and felt as though he were walking a mile. He slowly lowered his head to listen to Rapi. “Righto. Today we was going to knock over dat meat shop. This posse don’t get no respect anymore. Store owner won’t pay us. Wat you got to do, with Juve”—He nodded at Juve who had come over to listen in with the rest of the gang—“is steal a bit of the meat from the place. You take dis bag”—Rapi jostled a backpack in Frank’s face—“and place deh meat in ‘ere. Then move out, and cycle around back here. You two, since Juve is so-so interested in you”—grunts of amusement dispersed throughout the group, causing Frank’s eternal shame to haunt him once again—“are due back in five minutes, our time, since you, Juve, bollixed the instructions up wit Frankiepoo for too long. Yeh’ll were late. Might I suggest that you aren’t a second time.” More shouts of laughter rang throughout the alley as Rapi drew a .45 from his jacket. Frank’s stomach seemed to spasm; this may be a gang in the projects, but only gangs with notoriety have guns, such as the Al Capones, thought Frank. He and Juve turned and ran to the pipe, crawled at top speed, shot out like a cork out of a bottle, and paused, panting, as they looked at each other.