He cuts her off with another searing glare. Arjay is not a tough kid, but he didn’t make it through fourteen months in Remsenville without developing the Look. Nonverbal communication is a vital survival skill in prison.
He squeezes through the front door and begins the arduous task of cramming the bag into one of the building’s trash cans. Four floors up, Mrs. Liebowitz is grimacing down at him from her window.
He retrieves his basket and descends the musty flight to the basement. It’s a claustrophobic place, especially for Arjay—low ceilings, flickering fluorescent lighting, and a pungent smell that combines mold and rotting fruit. But the atmosphere is pleasant compared with the looks he receives from Gecko and Terence.
“What?” he asks.
Gecko hands him a crumpled card. “It was in the pocket of your jeans.”
He unfolds it. The Empire State Building. The postcard.
“And you’re ragging on me for taking risks?” Terence accuses.
“No contact with our families for six months,” Gecko adds.
Arjay studies his sneakers. “I didn’t have the guts to mail it. It’s just hard. At least in jail, your folks can visit you. This is like we’ve dropped off the face of the earth!”
Terence is unmoved. “Nobody visited me, dog. Course, I wasn’t exactly centrally located. But if I was doing my time in our toilet bowl, my old man wouldn’t have bothered to lift the seat to check on me.”
“I was only at Atchison for a couple of months,” Gecko puts in. “My mom would have gotten around to me. My brother’s in a worse place, so she focuses on him.”
“To hell with them all, man,” Terence says bitterly. “You turn on the TV, you see these families all lovey-dovey and supportive. Science fiction. Your only friends are your dogs. A solid crew, that’s money.”
Gecko bristles. “Just because you’ve got problems with your old man doesn’t mean my family’s like that. My mom works three jobs. She’s got a lot on her mind.”
Arjay steps between them. “Don’t you guys start anything because of my screwup.” He tears the postcard into tiny shreds over the garbage can. “See—it’s finished. No harm done.”
As they stuff the machine for a final load, it occurs to Arjay that he’s the only one with a home to miss. Terence wants nothing to do with his family, and Gecko seems all but abandoned by his. The painful surprise is that Arjay is actually at a disadvantage because he comes from a great mom and dad. The others just have to feel sorry for themselves. He has to agonize over his parents too.
Victoria Ko is sporting a glittering sterling silver and marcasite necklace that she definitely wasn’t wearing at last week’s group therapy session.
It does not escape the luminous blue eyes of Dr. Avery. “It’s lovely,” she says carefully. “Where did you—get it?”
“You like?” The girl cranes her neck, modeling. “It’s from the jewelry counter at Bergdorf’s.”
Casey is disgusted. “She means how did you take it out of Bergdorf’s? In a bag with a sales slip or stuffed inside your bra?”
“So she boosted it, so what?” Terence says with a yawn. “It’s like the stuff’s just sitting there, begging to be jacked.”
Arjay delivers a sharp wallop of warning to the back of his head.
“It’s cool,” Terence assures him. “Doctor-patient privilege—inadmissible in court. You can spill your guts. You can even talk about that kid you whacked.”
Arjay’s neck muscles bulge, but his response is measured, quiet. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Terence shrugs. “No lock on Healy’s filing cabinet. I know you and your dog Garibaldi took out somebody. I’m down with that. Back in Chicago, my crew—”
“Garibaldi isn’t my ‘dog,’ you idiot!” Arjay seethes under tight control. “It’s the statue the guy hit his head on! It was an accident.”
Dr. Avery moves quickly to steer the subject in a different direction. “All right, Terence. What were you going to say about your ‘crew’?”
“Just that we had it going on,” Terence replies in a subdued tone. “Nobody messed with us, not even the cops.”
“Yet you got arrested.”
A shrug. “It happens.”
Casey speaks up. “All I did was cut school, and they’ve got me with killers and gang leaders and…” Her black-polished fingernail stops at Gecko.
“I drove without a license,” Gecko supplies.
“Yeah,” snorts Terence, “in a stolen car full of swag.”
“I just drove,” Gecko says stubbornly. “What and where, blame that on my brother.”
“Why?” Anita seems genuinely confused. “If you drove the car, what does your brother have to do with it?”
Drew is cluing in. “He’s the one who stole it, right? He stole the car and made you drive it, just like my brother—”
“It’s a totally different thing,” Gecko interrupts irritably. “You think Reuben’s heard of the Alan Whatsisface Project? He doesn’t even like music—except to make me dance to his tune.”
“So what does that say to you?” interjects Dr. Avery.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Gecko mutters. “Your boyfriend’s off-limits? Fine. My brother is too.”
“Your brother,” snorts Casey. “More like your crutch. Must be nice to have a built-in scapegoat so you can cry ‘no fair’ when you get what you deserve.”
Arjay’s voice is quiet. “Maybe you should spend some time behind bars before telling us what people deserve.”
“Let’s take a moment,” Dr. Avery advises.
But Casey’s point is not lost on Gecko. Is that what his not thinking is all about? Did he let Reuben push him around so that, no matter what happened, it would be his brother’s fault?
He remembers that fateful vacation—Gecko, age nine, behind the wheel of the go-kart, burning up the boardwalk track. Even as a little kid, he couldn’t miss the lightbulb going off above teenage Reuben’s head. Some part of him has always understood that his brother was molding and shaping the ultimate getaway driver. But not thinking kept the notion buried.
Was it just because I never had the guts to stand up to Reuben?
Or could it be what Casey said—a crutch, an excuse to keep doing the illegal thing he loved, while laying the blame on somebody else?
Gecko glowers at the punk rock girl. Right or wrong, she definitely has a point about one thing: truancy, downloading music, petty shoplifting—in the eyes of the world, Casey, Drew, and Victoria are regular teens who need a little therapeutic help over the rough terrain of adolescence. Gecko, Arjay, and Terence, by contrast, are hard-core criminals.
It’ll take a lot more than a supermodel shrink to bridge that chasm.
The mood is sour when Healy collects them in the lobby.
The group leader immediately senses that something is not right. “Out with it,” he prompts as they head north on Third Avenue. “What happened?”
Gecko is generally depressed, but Arjay has a specific grievance. “Ever hear of keeping your mouth shut?” he growls at Terence. “You should try it sometime. It’s a wonderful hobby.”
“Bite me,” Terence retorts irritably.
“It’s therapy,” Healy reminds them. “It’s going to get personal, and there will be days that you walk out of that room ticked off at each other. Deal with it. We still have to live together.”
“You’re not the one with your guts under a microscope,” Arjay mumbles.
“Been there, done that,” Healy replies honestly. “Cheer up, guys. Your luck is about to change. Look what I got us for dinner tonight.” He reaches into a plastic bag and pulls out a large crusty loaf, covered in seeds.
Terence is skeptical. “Bread and water again?”
“None of you Philistines grew up in the city, so I’ll forgive your ignorance. This, gentlemen, is a caraway rye from Schnitlick’s bakery. People come all the way from Pennsylvania for one of these. I’ve got some cold cuts at home. You n
ever had it so good.”
Arjay frowns at the oblong slab. “I don’t know whether to eat it or punt it.”
“Have it your way—” Healy grasps the loaf like a football and fire passes it into Arjay’s chest.
The big boy is so shocked that he barely manages to close his arms around it. “Jeez, Mr. Healy.”
The group leader snatches it back and pantomimes a quarterback’s three-step drop. “Terence—go long!”
“Forget it, man—”
But the rye is already in the air. Terence leaps, getting his fingertips on the shrink-wrap and gathering in the package. Grinning mischievously, he rears back and flings the loaf at Healy’s face. The group leader snatches it out of the air a split second before it would have taken his head off.
Healy cackles in triumph. “All right, Gecko, your turn!” And the bread is headed his way.
He catches it and tosses it carefully back. The three boys are not quite sure what to make of this easy playfulness. Gecko spent his childhood tiptoeing around the Wrath of Reuben, and fun has never fit into the street reputation Terence is always trying to cultivate. As for Arjay—he’s not a football fan, and for good reason. His life has been in free fall ever since the Hawthorne Hawks tried to recruit him.
Yet there’s Healy, laughing and shouting with an infectious enthusiasm. It doesn’t seem to bother him at all when their dinner gets bounced off walls and pavement—not even when it rolls into the road and is narrowly missed by a double-decker sightseeing bus.
The avenue is crowded, but when they turn the corner onto Ninety-seventh, the “game” opens considerably. Arjay palms the rye in his massive hand, determined to expiate his football demons with one long bomb.
The receivers, Healy included, take off down the block, and the big boy launches a Hail Mary.
Gecko glances over his shoulder and spies the pass arcing high over the streetlights.
“Heads up!” Arjay shouts.
There is a thump followed by a cry of shock as the projectile bounces off the figure of a large woman standing in front of their building.
Gecko rushes up and scoops the dented rye off the sidewalk. “Sorry, lady—”
A wheeze comes from Healy that has nothing to do with his forty-yard sprint.
It’s Ms. Vaughn.
The social worker’s expression changes from dismay to rage. “Mr. Healy! What on earth—?”
The group leader is a sight to behold, dripping sweat, face flushed, panting with exertion. “Sorry, Ms. Vaughn. We didn’t mean to hit anybody.”
“Why are you hurling food around at all?”
Healy looks sheepish. “The boys seemed kind of down. I thought a little fun might cheer them up.” He notices Mrs. Liebowitz watching from the stoop, taking it all in. It’s like being in a foxhole, surrounded by enemies.
“They don’t need cheering up. They need to be contained.” Ms. Vaughn’s face, never friendly, grows creased with disapproval. “I don’t have to remind you that they’re all convicted felons, who could be scattering to the four winds while you catch your breath. This is not going to look good in my report.”
“Scattering?” pants Terence. “I’ve barely got the strength left for a nap.”
A terrified Arjay jogs up behind him.
Healy takes another stab at explanation. “Rehabilitation is a tough road. These kids have a better chance of making it if there are a few pleasant moments in their lives.”
She’s unmoved. “Rehabilitation is your second priority. Your first is protecting the general public. These boys are volatile enough without you encouraging them to be wild. I haven’t even set foot inside the apartment, and already I’ve caught you committing numerous violations and endangering the public safety.”
“Hey, man,” Terence wisecracks, “if the bread’s not pressing charges—”
Arjay puts a chummy arm around his shoulders and squeezes hard enough to crush bone.
The social worker glances impatiently at her watch. “Well, let’s get on with it. I have other drop-ins scheduled—too many, as a matter of fact. And rest assured that every unwashed sock and speck of dust will be duly noted.”
Squaring her ample shoulders, she marches up the steps to the front door, Healy and his charges following meekly behind. They receive the usual scowl from Mrs. Liebowitz. As Healy lets them in, their neighbor pulls Ms. Vaughn aside.
Now, here’s the cherry on the bitter ice-cream sundae, Gecko reflects. Visions of a return to Atchison swim before his eyes. They all know exactly the kind of character witness Mrs. Liebowitz is going to be.
“I’m guessing that you never raised children,” the elderly woman tells her. “You should be worrying about keeping them from harming innocent people, not about dirty socks. That’s a waste of your time and my tax dollars.”
The three teenagers exchange meaningful looks. When it comes to sheer nastiness, Ms. Vaughn still has a few things to learn from Mrs. Liebowitz.
And here we are, thinks Gecko, caught in the crossfire.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There’s no such thing as total darkness in Manhattan. The glow of the city creeps into even the most isolated alley and air shaft. Light coming through the steel window grille projects bars on the wall beside Terence’s lower bunk, a jailhouse image.
No, not just an image. It is jail. The grate’s purpose is to keep intruders out, but here it’s serving to keep the inmates in. The only other exit is the front door, and that’s a dead end. Healy alone knows the alarm code.
It’s a solid setup, security-wise—except that clutched in Terence’s fist as he lies in bed, waiting, is the key to the grille.
He’s gratified to hear deep, even breathing from Arjay, and nothing at all from Gecko, who’s normally such a restless sleeper that he kicks up a constant rustle. From the smaller bedroom, Healy’s buzz-saw snoring, which often keeps them awake, is unmistakable.
The nightstand clock reads 12:37. His meeting with DeAndre is scheduled for one a.m. in the alley beside the electronics store.
DeAndre. Just the thought of his razor-cut dollar sign brings a smile to Terence’s lips. Now, there’s an individual who recognizes a business opportunity. Not like those hayseeds back in Chicago. They never appreciated what Terence had to offer. But New York, New York—like the song says, if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. He and DeAndre are going to own this town, and it all starts tonight.
Silently, he creeps out of bed, shrugs into jeans and a sweatshirt, and scuffs into sneakers.
The key is a perfect fit and turns without a sound. The grille is another story. Stiff from age and lack of use, the hinges squeak sharply as it slides open. He freezes, senses alert, like a rabbit under attack. His roommates are still out. The coast is clear. He raises the window. More noise—the groan of metal on metal.
And then it’s done. He ducks through the opening and finds himself on the ancient slats of the fire escape. Adrenaline surges through his body as he starts down the steps. There’s nothing quite like the thrill of making a move.
He’s passing the third-floor landing when he’s grabbed from behind. “Where are you going?” It’s Gecko, always in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Mind your own business!”
“No!” Gecko rasps.
“I’ll be back in an hour!”
“You’ll be back now.” Another hand closes on Terence’s shoulder. A very large hand that will not shake off so easily.
“This has nothing to do with you,” Terence pleads with Arjay. “I’ve got to meet a guy!” There seems to be no talking his way out of this standoff. He takes stock of his options. He could make mincemeat out of Gecko, but the big dog?
Terence shoves Gecko with all his strength into Arjay and twists away, his frantic footfalls ringing on the iron steps. Gecko grabs him around the waist and jams him against the railing. Arjay tries to wade into the fray, but Terence kicks at him with flailing sneakers.
“Hey—!”
T
he combatants look up. Healy is at the window, groggy, astonished, and angry, all at once.
Gecko punches at Terence. “Now look what you’ve done!”
“If you’d left me alone, he’d still be asleep!” Terence snarls back.
Healy is on the fire escape now, dressed only in T-shirt and gym shorts, barefoot on the metal stairs. “Don’t move a muscle, you guys!”
Terence struggles to free himself, but Arjay has a hold on his wrist tight enough to pulverize it.
“Let’s get out of here!” Terence urges.
“No!” Arjay cuts him off.
“We go with Healy now, we’re back in juvie!”
“Shut up!”
The group leader is just a few steps away. Terence knows he can’t outmuscle Arjay, but if there’s one thing the streets of Chicago taught him, it’s how to fight dirty. He launches himself at the much larger boy, driving his head with crushing force into Arjay’s chin. The impact sends Arjay sprawling backward right into Healy, knocking him up and over the rail. With a cry of shock, the group leader plunges three stories into the garbage cans below.
“Mr. Healy!” Gecko gasps, leading the stampede down the fire escape.
With a superhuman burst of strength, he yanks on the lever that lowers the ladder to street level. The clatter of the wrought-iron extension screeching into place is earsplitting enough to rouse half the city, but Gecko can’t think beyond the group leader. He scrambles to the bottom and jumps to the pavement beside Healy, who lies flat on his back amid the wreckage of the trash, unmoving and unconscious. A puddle of blood widens on the concrete around his head, a dark halo.
“He’s dead! He’s dead! He’s dead! He’s—”
Arjay drops to the pavement. He wants to quiet Gecko, but the sight of the group leader sucks the air from his lungs and convulses him with dry heaves. It’s Adam Hoffman all over again. “Oh, God—”
“Shut up, man, you want the cops on our necks?” Terence hops down and bends low over the victim. “He’s alive!”
Hope soars in Gecko’s heart. Terence is right. Healy is still breathing. His chest rises and falls almost imperceptibly.
“Mr. Healy,” he says softly.