The Juvie Three (7 page)

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—!”

The 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.

“Don't wake him, genius,” says Terence. “The first thing he'll do is call the police.”

Arjay snaps his fingers twice in front of the group leader's chin. “He's not waking so fast. He's really messed up.”

“We have to take him to the hospital!” Gecko exclaims.

“Do you
want
to go back to jail, or are you just stupid?” Terence demands. “We take him in, we're busted!”

“It was an accident!” Arjay insists.

“Think the cops'll buy that from us?”

Gecko and Arjay exchange a look in the city gloom. As angry as they are at Terence, they recognize the truth of his words. When three felons show up with an injured man, the authorities will assume
they
did the injuring. Arjay has already bet and lost on an “accident” defense. He's in no hurry to try it again.

Gecko's eyes widen in disbelief. “So we just
leave
him here?”

“You think I feel great about it?” Terence demands. “Maybe we can move him where he'll get noticed. Someone'll call for help—”

“He's going to the hospital,” Arjay says firmly.

Terence wheels on him. “You're not listening, man—”

A vein bulges on the big boy's forehead. “Either
he
goes, or
you
do!”

Terence backs off, but he doesn't back down. “How do we get him there, huh? Dial nine-one-one and we've got the NYPD on our necks!”

Gecko turns to Terence. “Do you know how to hot-wire a car?”

Arjay perks up. “Drive him ourselves?”

Gecko nods. “And then take off.”

“The cops could still follow us,” Terence points out.

“They can try,” says Gecko Fosse.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Healy doesn't move or make a sound as Gecko and Arjay wrap a towel around his head. The trickles of blood from the nose and ears have stopped, but the wound at the back of the skull is still oozing.

At the curb, Terence is working with a flathead screwdriver on the lock of an old Toyota Camry, jamming and twisting vigorously. For all the stolen vehicles Gecko has driven for Reuben and company, this is the first time he's ever witnessed the procedure firsthand. He's amazed at how quickly Terence is inside the car, prying open the steering column with the flathead. Still, it can't be fast enough for Gecko, not under the circumstances.

Hang in there, Mr. Healy!
There's a roar as the engine catches.

Arjay takes hold of the patient under the arms, while Gecko lifts by the ankles. It's like carrying an inanimate object, a dead weight.

No, not dead. Not yet…

Terence rushes over to help, supporting the torso from underneath. Together, the three of them manage to lay Healy across the rear seat. Terence tries to make his escape then, but Arjay horse-collars him and stuffs him in with the group leader.

“I'm late for a meeting,” he complains. “Besides, there's no room—” He pulls back a split second before Arjay slams the door shut on his face. Gecko clicks the child locks.

The rush is familiar to Gecko—
I'm driving again!
But nothing can erase the tragedy on the fire escape. “Where's the hospital?”

Arjay's eyes widen. “You don't know?”

“We're not allowed a hundred feet from school! You think I've done the grand tour?”

Terence lowers the window. “Hey!” It's almost one a.m., but the avenue is busy. “Where's the nearest hospital around here?”

Eventually, someone directs them to Yorkville Medical Center on Lexington Avenue and Eighty-seventh Street. Gecko swings the Camry across four lanes of traffic, drawing a cascade of angry horns. A truck pulls away from the curb directly into their path. Gecko stomps on the brakes, and they lurch to a halt inches from collision. Healy's unconscious body tumbles off the seat onto Terence.

Shock, followed by revulsion. “Aw, man, he's bleeding on me!”

Arjay twists around to help push the patient back onto the seat. “That's good news. Dead men don't bleed.”

Never before, Gecko is certain, has anyone coaxed such speed out of a Toyota Camry. The sedan hurtles across Ninety-sixth Street to Lexington. They run a red light, shooting the gap between two accordion buses, and roar downtown in the fire lane.

The street signs fly by: Ninety-first…Ninetieth…Eighty-ninth…There it is—Yorkville Medical Center. He aims the Camry up the circular drive to the overhang marked
EMERGENCY
.

The trio hoists Healy out of the backseat. The automatic doors slide open with a whoosh that nearly startles them into dropping him.

“Leave him outside,” hisses Terence. “I'll make sure they know he's here.”

They prop Healy gently against the wall. Hiding his face behind a hand, Terence pokes his head into the emergency room and bellows,
“Oh, my God, he's bleeding!”
and dives in the open rear door of the Camry.

As they peel away, an ambulance howls up the drive, blocking them in. Gecko shifts into reverse and stomps on the accelerator. The peace of Lexington Avenue is shattered by a cacophony of angry horns as the Camry powers backward into moving traffic. Taxis whiz past on both sides; enraged drivers shout and shake their fists.