Heist

slips and I know my friends will believe me.

  Stick pounds his fist into the palm of his hand. "Big D. We'll get him tomorrow."

  "No!" I turn, my feet uprooting from their spot. "Leave him alone." Images of Big D's face, beaten and bruised, and his body lying in the alleyway, haunt me. The truth of his life weighs on me and I know he's not all that different from Stick or me. "We're going to leave him alone from now on."

  "Whatever." Stick shrugs. "You've got to lighten up. Just think. Your dad's up with the big guy in the sky, probably robbing the heavenly treasure stores and having the time of his life."

  I rub my hands down the sides of Tommy's pants. "How'd he die?"

  Stick and Turbo are silent. I can't look at them because I know what I'll see: the question in their eyes and the frown that express their doubts in my sanity.

  Stick reaches out for me but then drops his arm back to his side. "What do you mean? How'd he die?"

  "I mean I can't remember. I blocked it out." This excuse is more rational and more believable than the truth. "I'm not crazy. Just tell me."

  "Someone slipped him the knife in his cell in the middle of the night. No one found him 'till morning," Stick says in a low voice. "Sorry, dude."

  "Wait! Prison?" I ask.

  Stick punches me lightly in the arm. "The diamond heist?"

  "Right." I gulp. I forgot about that. "Who did it?"

  "Some guy named Kronin paid off a guard."

  The name paralyzes me. I don't move. The gears in my mind grind slowly. Kronin? But he should've been caught. I left his name with Frank. I feel his presence, hovering at the edge of the cemetery. Something went terribly wrong. I groan. It's my fault.

  I fall to the ground. The dirt flies. My hands dig into the soil, throwing it left and right. Words tumble out but I can't hear them. My focus is on my dad. He's trapped and I need to save him. If I can just get to him then I can explain. In this time warp he could still be alive, waiting for me to save him. It's all a mistake. I shovel away the dirt by the scoopfuls.

  I feel the grip on my body and around my waist. My back slams into the hardened spring ground. Stick's face is in mine, his heartbreak leaking out his eyes and splattering my cheeks. His breathing is heavy and there are no words that can breech this divide.

  Grit is under my fingernails and roots sticks into my back. I close my eyes and my chest heaves as I grasp my truth. Stick rolls off me but then thinking twice he wraps his arms around me in the first hug he's ever given. His arms feel awkward but he pushes past that.

  "Man, I'd trade my dad for your dad in a second." His voice breaks. "My old man should be under this dirt, not yours. Not yours. Life's shit." He loses it and cries into my shoulder.

  "Uh, guys? You okay?" Turbo asks.

  Stick pulls away and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. I reach out and grab a handful of dirt. The rich soil is cool and I grind it between my fingers as if somehow I can change what has happened. I make a promise to myself, the words like a whisper in my mind. I'll fix it. Somehow. I'll fix it.

  I always keep my promises.

  I stand and shake off the grief. This isn't real. It's a time lapse that can be fixed. I want to explain to Stick that this won't last, this gravestone won't be here in the morning, and he won't remember any of it.

  "Excuse me, boys. Don't mean to interrupt."

  I don't have to look. I know the voice and I know it's time for me to say goodbye to my friends. Stick and Turbo jump to their feet. They brush off crushed leaves from last fall to regain their cool and tough exterior, which is what most of the world sees. Stick's the first to go on the attack.

  "So, old man, you must have taken a wrong turn." Stick presses his lips together and narrows his eyes.

  Frank cocks an eyebrow at me.

  "Do you know this guy?" Turbo rubs his hands together.

  "Meet my Uncle Frank."

  Stick turns his ferocious glare from Frank to me as if he doesn't believe that for a second.

  "You know how it is with weddings and funerals. Relatives show up you don't even know exist."

  No one says a word. My grief morphs into anger brimming under the surface, ready to explode. "I'm okay, guys. Why don't you go on to school? I'll catch you later."

  Stick and I pass knowing looks and finally he nods and leaves, Turbo following close behind.

  11:35 a.m.

  Frank sits on a stump, his old man knobby knees sticking out through the material of his pants. His face is worn and lined with worry, back to the older Frank I first met. And again, he seems as at ease in the cemetery as he did in the interrogation room or at the courthouse.

  I move away from Dad's grave and lean against the oak tree. Even under the hot sun, shivers rattle my teeth, so I clamp my mouth shut.

  "Are you ready to accept the truth?" Frank asks.

  Truth, I have learned, isn't dependable, but that's not the answer Frank wants. Maybe he knows other truths. "How come you let Kronin go free?"

  Frank blinks and stumbles over his words. "Go free?" He's aggravated and it shows in the way his body tenses. "Why that thieving scoundrel is still behind bars and will be for years to come."

  It's my turn to blink and take a step back. "Then how the hell did he pay a guard to off my dad?" I cringe at the invading images, of Dad, pulling the knife from his gut, in his cell, blood seeping through his fingers and pooling on the floor. The knife slipping from his cold fingers.

  He died alone.

  "Jack," Frank leans forward, his eyes, sincere, "you've got the wrong Kronin."

  I remember Kyle Kronin talking about his older brother and that stupid saying about moles and squirrels. The truth slips out with a sigh. "It wasn't Kyle."

  "We're assuming it was Kyle who killed your dad. It's Kyle's older brother, Ian, who robbed the Gardner with your dad and is now in jail. And I don't think he meant to have your dad killed. The wound wasn't deadly, but the blood loss?."

  "Didya lock Kyle up yet?"

  "We're still making our case. We haven't found him yet."

  I pace. "What the hell did he have against my dad?"

  "The paintings, Jack. After Ian Kronin, his older brother, was arrested, your dad hid the paintings. Kyle wanted what he believed to be his share. When he didn't get it?."

  A blue jay swoops down, pecks at the ground, and then flies away. "I get it." I sent Ian Kronin to jail, thinking that was the end of the Kronins, and Dad would be free. So my dad, buried six feet under, in a cold, wooden coffin, his lips formed into a smile, no blood pumping through his body-is truly my fault.

  Frank stands and coughs into his cupped hand, then straightens, all business. "About those paintings."

  "What about them?" I catch on fast when the greedy gleam appears in his eyes. "Are you serious? You're here to find the paintings? You're not even going to say, 'hey, sorry about your dad, kid.' Just 'where are the paintings'? Forget it. I don't know and I don't care."

  Frank leans against a tree and closes his eyes, his hand over his stomach.

  I forget about Frank's lack of empathy. "Wait! You can't leave yet. I need answers."

  Frank's eyes pop open and stare with intensity. "Just like I need the paintings."

  "Fine. If I find them, you can have them. But what do I do now? How can I save my dad?"

  "You have a choice to make."

  "That's what my dad told me, but I keep making the wrong choices!"

  "No, son. You refuse to see the truth. Once you see the truth and accept it, then you'll have a choice to make." Frank pales. "No matter how many times you go back, you can't change what happened."

  I close the gap between us and grab Frank by the collar. "My dad might be an art thief here and now, but that's because of me. You'll see-"

  My hands slam into the nearby birch tree. Frank has disappeared. Gone back to wherever he came from. I slam my fist against the trunk again.

  "You'll see."

  3:05 a.m.

  I climb the fire escape to
our apartment. The metal stairs creak and the paint flecks off with my every step. This way in is only for emergencies, but if I enter through the shop, Mom will know. I can't face her right now. There's nothing left to talk about, just empty memories from last year and the guilt.

  I reach the window and it's open a crack. The warm air escapes. I pull it up all the way and climb through unable to shake the dread. I stand, numb at what I see.

  The apartment is completely trashed. The kitchen cupboards are emptied and hang open. Tupperware and knives and forks litter the floor. I fall against the wall, my heart constricting.

  Memories lie broken all over the apartment.

  An ugly gash in the recliner stretches from top to bottom and the stuffing flows out like intestines. Dad loved that chair.

  The bookshelves Mom painted lie on their sides in splinters.

  Mom's nice dishes, passed down from her great grandmother, sprinkle the kitchen floor like breadcrumbs on top of a casserole.

  Furniture is upended, their legs in the air. Curtains hang by threads, ripped up the middle. Mom's desk is emptied, the papers scattered, the history of her life and finances in fragmented piles.

  Any paintings or pictures on the wall are gone and all that's left are the clean squares of wall where they hung.

  This is personal. A common day thief wouldn't want our photographs.

  Kronin. The paintings.

  I stumble through the rest of the small apartment to find more of the same. I hear muffled cries from the bathroom and stand outside of it. I can't bear to tell Mom I've been suspended.

  "I can't stand it." Her voice is shattered glass.

  Guilt slashes through me like the thief slashed