Free Pier Pressure by Dorothy Francis

Don’t want any more talk with the police. I’ve had the full course for today and I’m sure you have, too.”
    “Yeah,” Punt agreed. “Tomorrow’s soon enough. I don’t mind driving you home. Glad to escape the planning session upstairs, and there’s nothing anyone can do right now to relieve Dad’s grief. Anyway, he’d rather listen to Jass than to me.”
    “Planning session?” I ignored the veiled allusion to the rift between Punt and his dad.
    “Yeah. Dad and Jass are already planning Margaux’s memorial, deciding who to include in such a private service. I wanted to tell them to include me out, but I suppose that’s wishful thinking.”
    I hoped the invitation list wouldn’t include my name either, yet I knew it would. It wasn’t that I disliked Margaux or disliked celebrating her life, but I hated funerals and memorial services—especially those for victims of violence such as Margaux…and my mother. I didn’t share my feelings with Punt, nor did he share his with me. We both slid into his Karmann Ghia and when he turned the corner into the early evening traffic, I touched his arm and pointed.
    “There, Punt! Look! Right there on the sidewalk dead ahead of us! Well…he’s behind us now. We’ve passed him. Slow down. That kid’s riding my bicycle.”
    Punt braked the car. “You sure? Bikes tend to look a lot alike. Especially after dark.”
    “I’m sure. Those baskets are my trademark. You don’t see many bikes with green baskets that glow in the dark mounted on each side of the rear wheel.”
    Punt pulled the convertible into a vacant driveway, opened his door, and yelled at the blond-haired kid on the bike who looked to be no more than eleven or twelve. Even though the night had grown chilly, the kid was barefoot and he wore only a tank top and cut-offs.
    “Hey, Buddy,” Punt called out, and I joined him on the sidewalk as we jogged toward the boy. “Where’d you get that bike?”
    For a moment the boy looked as if he might drop the bike and run, but after a second or two, he turned and pushed the bike toward us.
    Punt said no more. Towering above the kid, he stared down at him with a gaze cold enough to freeze ice.
    “Gee, mister. I didn’t steal the bike. A guy on the street gave it to me. Really. That’s pure truth. I’m no thief.”
    “What guy?” Punt and I both looked up and down the street, seeing nobody in sight in either direction. The boy’s lower lip trembled as he followed our gaze and shrugged. “A big guy came riding up to me on the bike and said, ‘Hey kid, you want a neat bike?’”
    “We’re supposed to believe a story like that?” Punt asked. “Tell us the truth and give the bike back. That’s all we want. The bike back.”
    “But that’s exactly how it came down.” The boy glared at us and stamped a bare foot against the concrete. “I’m late getting home from Mallory and I knew Mom would skin me alive. So I had speeded up from walking to jogging when this big guy appeared from nowhere, gliding along sort of slow-like on this here bike.”
    The boy hesitated and I prompted him. “Then what happened?”
    “He offered me the bike. He shoved it at me and disappeared, jogging off toward Highway 1. He didn’t even hang around to see if I wanted it. But I guess he knew I would. Who’d turn down a free bike?”
    “What’d he look like?” I stepped closer to the bike and gave it the once-over, seeing no damage. “Can you describe him?”
    “Beer belly.” The kid grinned. “Big guy. And tall. Wore jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt. If he hadn’t been so nice to me, I’d have been scared of him, that’s for sure.”
    “Probably a thousand people on Key West tonight would fit that description,” Punt said. “Give us the bike and get on home. Don’t borrow any more bikes—at least not tonight.”
    The boy thrust the bike at Punt and turned to leave. We watched him take a few steps, then he stopped and turned back toward us.
    “One thing