Thank you for your reviews, Nick. I'm glad you're liking this new version of the fic. In this chapter you'll know more about that sinister character, and his association with a certain notorious bully. Talking about bad influences and strong motivations… hope you all like it!

-.-.-.-.-.-

Meanwhile, a certain black Buick was driving on Lincoln Boulevard towards Ocean Bluffs. They crossed the fence of a large mansion on a lonely street, overlooking the pier. The car pulled over by the main entrance, and all its occupants, save for the driver, stepped out. They entered the house and headed for the studio.

"Everything is ready, boss" - said the leader of the group, Broodie, to a certain character who was sitting behind his desk - "We gave Harris the message... and took care of the ...other issue, as you instructed us."

"You did, eh? Very resourceful," said the old man in white, who was none other than Don Luchese. "What's your estimate of the... time for the event?" he asked.

"Well... I'd say, one, one and a half hours at most, milord. He will have this... shocking experience while on his way to the Santa Monica Market. In the highway. It will be a... very tragic accident, and with his van in such a notoriously bad shape, no one will suspect there was foul play involved. He will become just another number in the statistics."

"I don't want errors, Broodie."

"Don't worry, sire. This can't fail. There are three little devices on his van; I planted them myself. The moment he reaches 60 miles an hour, the devices will go off, blasting his brakes, steering and transmission. There's no way he can control his van after that. And the damage to the parts will most likely be atributed to the crash or to the poor maintenance the stiff gave to his ride."

"Ya know, I'm not entirely of one mind about this. But a great man once said, eggs must be broken to serve breakfast. Once Harris meets his untimely death, we'll seize his belongings as preferred creditors, right, Antonio?" - asked the Don to his accountant, a thin man with thick glasses who was sitting at his right.

"That's correct, sire. All the documents are ready; I'll file them in court the moment the cops return a report on the... occurrence. You'll take posession of that old tub and all its contents this evening, or some time very early tomorrow, at the latest."

"Good. I like it when things go smoothly. Now, tell me; what would the foreclosure value be for the Abundance? Twenty, thirty grand?" - asked the Don.

"Something like that, sire" - said the accountant - "Enough to pay for Harris' debts, and still make a profit."

"Good, good. All we have to do now is listen to the dispatch scanner. But I wish there was something else to do until the... event."

"Hmm... Well, there's this street hockey game..." - said Broodie - "I seem to remember that the team you're financing was playing against a bunch of really promising kids... we arranged it to be broadcasted via public access TV and AM radio."

"Oh! Really? The bambinos play today? Good! I'd almost wanna go outside and watch it... What's that kid's name, by the way? Lorenzo?"

"Lars, sire. Lars Rodriguez. He's a Spanic..." - snarled Broodie with disdain.

"A Latino..." - provided the accountant without rising his eyes from his books - "From Mexico, I believe..."

"Oh, I don't care about his origins, gentlemen, as long as he and his team win for me. It makes me proud. Besides, sponsoring him is a very good, easy, and inexpensive way to build a respectable image for our businesses, particularly that sports clothing and accesories store... what's it called, Antonio?"

"SnoMart, sire."

"Yeah, that one. Nobody suspects we're using it to launder dirty money and I like it that way. Damn; I would like to go there and see the game, but we have to pay attention to the dispatches pn the police frequency. So, let's do the next best thing, and watch it on the tv, shall we?" he invited. His men nodded. The Don pressed a button on his intercom.

"Pierre? Salami, cheese, bread, and... uh, beer and pretzels for my men here. Pronto!" he commanded.

Minutes later a door opened and a uniform-clad waiter entered the room, pushing a cart with various beverages and other stuff. He put it in the middle of the room and started serving Don Luchese and his men.

"Want me to turn on the TV, milord?" - the waiter asked.

"Grazia, grazia!" The Don said, as he and his men took their rest in easy chairs around a flatscreen TV that was as big as a mattress.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was five past eight when Sammy got out of his house. Otto and Reggie were already out, practicing some passes. Twister was also coming; his brother had left moments before to join Pi, Sputz and Animal.

The four friends reunited in the Rockets' backyard, as usual. Twister was still rubbing his left shoulder, which was a bit tender after Lars' whomping; but all in all, the kids were ready for action.

"Woogie, woogie, woogie!" – said the kids, wiggling their fingers in their trademark salutation.

"Good morning, Twist, Sam! Are you ready to rumble?" – asked Otto.

"Definitely ready to go, Ottoman!" – answered Twister, giving Otto a high five.

"Squid-man reports ready to defeat the enemy; team Rocket!" – replied Sammy, giving also a high five to Reggie.

"What happened to your shoulder, bro?" – asked Otto, pointing to Twister's arm.

"Nothing serious, Ottoman. Lars and I had our regular morning battle and he sprained my arm… the usual stuff, you know."

"How rude! That brother of yours is a real savage, Twist!" – said Reggie.

"Nah. I'm used to it, Rocket girl; it would be very weird if he treated me differently. It wouldn't be... normal."

Twister stuck out his tongue in a very mischievous grin that made the kids laugh heartedly.

"Anyway" - he continued, seeing Ray's 1948 Ford "woody" station wagon still in the garage - "where is Raymundo? It's getting late"

"Well… it's Sunday; I guess Tito and Dad went to the market for supplies. They do it every week." – answered Reggie.

"He'll be here on time. Let's warm up while we wait." – said Otto, skating in circles around his friends.

"Yeah!"

The children began a warm-up routine that Otto himself had devised. The boy was a natural, gifted sportsman, and had no difficulty at all finding ways to make himself and his friends every day more proficient on the extreme sports they liked. Even Sammy had improved notably his surfing and skating abilities under Otto's guidance and not-so-patient advice.

-.-.-.-.-

"The lil' rascals want to see you, milord!" - Said an attendant from the door. Don Luchese nodded, and the attendant stepped away, letting Lars and the Lasers in the room.

"You called us, Luchese?" - asked Lars insolently. Broodie frowned; that boy really needed to learn some manners. He would love to give him a lesson, but the Don was enthused with that teen and his bunch of hoodlums. He gave a stern look to Lars, and the boy returned it defiantly.

"Yes, my son" - said the Don, not noticing, or more exactly ignoring the teen's insolence and his little duel with the lieutenant - "I just wanted to wish you luck in the game. I've heard this boy, Otto, is a very good player..."

"That shrimp!" - said Lars, interrupting the Don and causing Broodie to frown again - "He's just a little sea urchin and I'll make sushi with him, you'll see! Neither he nor his bunch of barnacles will know what hit them!"

"That's the spirit, my son!" - chuckled the Don, noticing Broodie's reaction to the teen - "But don't underestimate your adversaries. A wise man knows that there are no small enemies. And I have to tell you: I've been watching them, particularly Otto and that goalie of them, 'stonewall' Dullard. Maybe I should hire them to play with you in the state championship, instead of those two Bozos of yours..." - said the Don, pointing to a blushing Sputz and Animal and making Broodie grin mockingly.

"Pfft!" - Lars scoffed - "First they have to finish this game in one piece! Mark my words, Luchese, and you, Broodie: when this game is over, there will be at least one new guest in the hospital!"

Lars marked his threat with his trademark evil laugh, making Luchese smile in satisfaction. Even Broodie cracked half a smile: perhaps the brat had some future in the organization, after all.

"Good." - the Don said - "That's what I wanted to hear. Now, go, Lorenzo, and win that game for SnoMart!"

"Argh! Lars! my name is Lars, you dork!"

"Yeah, whatever" - said the Don waving a hand dismissively and pressing a button on his desk. Almost immediately, the attendant entered the room.

"Luca will drive you to the game" - said the Don nodding to the attendant, who also was the driver of the black Buick - "But before that you'll stop in the shop and pick new uniforms. Now, go, and win for me."

Lars and his goons nodded and followed the driver out of the room. They crossed paths in the aisle with Mick McGuire, the hitman. The man stopped and put a hand on Lars' shoulder, grinning crookedly.

"I put my money on you, guys" - he said - "don't let me down!"

Everyone but Lars shuddered.

"Don't worry, McGuire" - said Lars with the same crooked smile - "So did I. This game is ours!"

Inside the room, Don Luchese and Broodie saw this little scene. When the kids left behind Luca, the lieutenant turned to the boss.

"I still can't see why you like that kid Lars so much. He's just a bitchy lil' son of a gun!" - said Broodie with a snarl.

"Well" - answered the Don, ignoring the remark - "Call it 'paternal instinct', if you like. I was just like that boy when I was his age. Besides, he has all it takes to be an important member of our organization, so you better treat him well; who knows? You might end up working for him one day."