Precious though they may have been in the eyes of God, Hasim Norman and Cool Breeze Taylor demonstrated no particular value in Roseville.
    Neither had made it out of the ninth grade.  Hasim had been in and out of juvenile detention for seven of his 18 years, and by now had mastered  grand theft auto, assault, shoplifting and cruelty to animals, in addition to all the minor rip-off ploys that came with his territory.
     Cool Breeze, 16, had become expert at dealing dope when the cops weren't looking, and vanishing into the modern ruins of Roseville when they were.  He played basketball aggressively and imaginatively, but couldn't spell "rebound" or read some of the words in the comics.  A ferocious fighter, he carried a scar on his neck and one on his scalp.
     Alongside the westbound track of the Montclair Branch of the Erie-Lackawanna railroad, which sped commuters through the long-closed Roseville station and safely to the suburbs, the two young men sat on a pile of railroad ties under the Park Avenue bridge, drinking malt liquor, smoking reefer and debating whether to keep the new mountain bike they'd just stolen or trade it for more drugs.  Hasim, a short black man with a haircut that resembled a confederate army cap, was for keeping it.  Cool Breeze, wearing a cylindrical haircut and a Boston Celtics jacket, was for liquidating their new asset.
     When they both got up to take a leak against the concrete bridge foundation,  Cool Breeze began waving his member around.  "Yo, do a contest, Hasim!  See who can write his name!"
     Hasim joined in, laughing.  "No 'breviations!"
     A horrible scream pierced their laughter and echoed against the concrete embankments.  From the dirty alley that led to the tracks came a dark figure wearing a crude mask.  He carried a railroad tie in his upraised hands as he ran toward them.  The two stumbled away from the wall, trying to zip up, pissing all over themselves.  With another  yell the black-clad figure reached them and smashed into them, face- high, with the lumber.  They both went down in a sick crunch.
     The figure in black stood there for a second, his breath coming in short blasts of vapor. He looked around, then grabbed the bike and ran with it back down the alley and onto Park Avenue, where he leapt onto it and pedaled furiously.   Near the intersection of Roseville Avenue the mask started slipping down his nose, blinding him.  The driver of the police car had to stand on the brakes to avoid hitting the guy in black pedaling through the red light.   From within came the noises of men with hot coffee in their laps.