I moved over to the side of the parking slab, clambered over the deflector rail and studied the shadows under the third level roadway. I could barely make out the catwalks and service ways. I was wondering whether to pull off my hard-soled shoes for the climb when I heard footsteps, close. I gauged the distance to the hack, and saw I couldn't make it. I got back over the rail and waited.
He came into sight, rangy, shock-haired and preternaturally thin in tight traditional dress.
When he got close I saw that he was young, in his early twenties at most. He would be carrying a knife.
"Hey, Mister," he whined. "Got a cigarette?"
"Sure, young fellow," I said, sounding a little nervous. I threw in a shaky laugh to help build the picture. I took a cigarette from a pack, put the pack back in my pocket, held the weed out. He strutted up to me, reached out and flipped the cigarette from my fingers. I edged back and used the laugh again.
"Hey, he liked that," the punk whined. "He thinks that's funny. He got a sense of humor."
"Heh, heh," I said. "Just out getting a little air."
"Gimme another cigarette, funny man."
I took the pack out, watching. I got out a cigarette and held it gingerly, arm bent. As he reached for it, I drew back. He snatched for it. That put him in position.