by Tim Green
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Back Ads
About the Author
Books by Tim Green
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Summer sunshine baked the blacktop in the street.
Like his best friend, Liam O’Donnell, Cory wore only his football pants, socks, and cleats. Sweat drizzled down their bare twelve-year-old chests. Vents on the roof of the corner market whined, coughing hot air so the coolers inside worked, the ice pops didn’t melt, and the soda stayed frosty cold.
It was a long walk uphill to Glenwood Park. Helmets and shoulder pads had been tucked inside practice jerseys that were twisted at the belly and slung across their backs, acting like small sacks. Cory secretly eyed his friend’s bare chest. Liam was like a small tank, with the compact muscles of a weight lifter bulging from skin tanned by a shirtless summer. Despite his training, Cory was short of a six-pack. The sheen of sweat on his body reminded him of the walrus at the zoo.
“Wish Coach Mellon didn’t decide who starts Saturday based on looks,” Cory said, only half-kidding.
Liam flexed his arm, showing a bulge Cory could only dream of. “Pretty, right?”
Cory snorted.
“How do you know I’ll start?”
“You will.” Cory kicked a stone. “Mellon-head loves you.”
“He might love you if you didn’t argue with him all the time.” Liam gave Cory’s shoulder a soft punch.
“I can’t help it.” Cory knew his friend was right. Just two days ago he’d gotten into it with their coach. “An outside sweep is a thirty-eight or a forty-eight. A thirty-six is off-tackle whether there’s a tight end or not.”
“He’s our coach, Cory.”
“And it’s not smart to make players go through an entire practice without water. That ‘old-school’ stuff doesn’t cut it with me. Everyone knows you maximize performance by staying hydrated. Even a Mellon-head should know that.”
Liam patted his back. “You gotta relax. Save all that smart stuff for the courtroom, when you’re a real lawyer.”
“I’ll try.”
Liam’s family had moved into the poor Irish neighborhood on the city’s west side at the very end of fifth grade. Most people didn’t know Liam as well as Cory did, and they sometimes mistook him for a high schooler.
Cory knew different. Liam was just a silly kid like most of the rest heading into sixth grade. The world, their neighborhood, and even his older brother’s belt slipped past Liam like butter off a hot knife. Liam just let it all go, looking out on it all with that big grin and always finding something funny about things, even the welts that made Cory wince.
“I’ll go into the army one day. I’ll go straight to sergeant with these stripes,” he said once, grinning and pointing to the raised strips of skin on his left arm. “No Private O’Donnell for me.”
So when they rounded the street corner and saw Liam’s older brother, Finn, with some friends cluttered around the metal back door of the Shamrock Club, Liam grinned and waved while Cory looked down at the laces on his cleats. And when Liam’s older brother motioned for them to come close and be quiet, Cory tried to grab his friend by the arm, but it was too late.
Liam veered right off the sidewalk and over the crumbs of broken pavement and glass, trying to look easy.
The whole thing said trouble in a million different ways.
2
More than the stench of the Dumpster told Cory to just run without looking back, but that would have meant leaving Liam behind. Coach Mellon would make the whole team run till they barfed if Cory showed up to a Saturday morning practice without Liam. They had a big game Sunday, and Liam was their star player. Coach Mellon said teammates had to look out for one another. They were a football family.
More than that, though, tomorrow was going to be the turning point in Liam’s life. Everyone knew the HBS varsity head coach was coming to the game, and everyone knew what it could mean for Liam. Cory and Liam shared the same dream: high school superstars and Division I all-Americans, all leading to the NFL. Getting a scholarship to attend HBS, Howard Bissinger School, the elite private school known for its football program, was a big first step.
Liam had already been to visit HBS and even met the people he’d be living with. All scholarship kids had a host family. He just needed this last good game to seal the deal.
Liam was the only one who didn’t seem all that excited. Why else would he even think about stopping for some trouble on his way to practice? Cory cared, though. He cared for Liam, and then there was the tiniest little gem of an idea sparkling in the corner of his mind that tomorrow’s game could mean something for him as well.
So Cory followed, studying the situation without letting Liam’s brother or his friends catch his eye.
Finn was an older, elongated version of Liam. His face had the same features—but he was always scowling. His muscles were taut, like his little brother’s, only stretched out over a six-foot-three frame. Nearly a foot taller than Liam, he didn’t have to work to be menacing.
Finn’s friend Hoagie was as wide as he was tall, but he wasn’t named after a sandwich. His last name was Hogan. His pants were hanging halfway down his wide butt and he looked not only mean but stupid, with droopy brown eyes.
And then there was Dirty. Any one of the three boys could give
Cory bad dreams with just a look, but Dirty had a special stink of evil. The oldest and shortest in the bunch, Dirty had small, beetle-black eyes with a nasty, scrunched-up face. His long, dirty-blond hair hung like a curtain, covering one eye. He’d twitch his neck like a horse shooing a fly whenever he wanted to see the world with two eyes.
Dirty flicked his cigarette onto the ground and then slipped a piece of rebar—a long, rusty piece of steel that looked like a giant pretzel rod—into a padlock on the back door of the Shamrock Club. He yanked it down, snapping the lock, before he handed the rebar to Liam. “Wow. You broke it open, Liam.” He looked at Cory. “You an’ your friend Flapjack better keep an eye out while we get some stuff inside that needs gettin’.”
Cory got called “Flapjack” because he’d eaten too much at the church pancake breakfast two years ago and got sick on Father Haywood’s shoes.
“You keep watch.” Finn shot Liam a meaningful look.
Liam swallowed and nodded fast. “Okay.”
The older boys all laughed and disappeared inside quick as smoke.
“We shouldn’t do this,” Cory whispered as he watched the semi-closed door while Liam watched the sidewalk and the street.
“They won’t be long.” Liam giggled. “You see their faces? Hoagie looked like he’s about to pee his pants. Besides, I don’t need any stripes on my backside before the big game tomorrow. Guess that’s how the old man did it before he skipped town. Finn doesn’t want me growing up the wrong way.”
Liam laughed, but it was a laugh muddy with pain.
They waited, watching. After five long minutes, Cory said, “You go to practice. I’ll watch.”
“Where I come from you don’t just leave a friend behind.” Liam sounded insulted.
“Just go.” Cory sighed. “Coach doesn’t care if I’m there or not.”
“Don’t say that. He doesn’t like you, but he knows how good you are,” Liam said. “Heck, you’re as good as me.”
“You think that?” Cory’s jaw dropped. He believed he had talent—talent his grumpy coach didn’t appreciate—and he’d been working hard. But even he didn’t believe he’d reached Liam’s level.
“Well, almost as good.” Liam kissed his biceps and laughed. “Let’s shoot for it. We’ll let fate decide.”
Liam started pumping his fist up and down. “Rock, paper, scissors . . .”
“Shoot.” Cory held out a flat hand to Liam’s scissors. “Scissors cuts paper. Get going.”
“Okay, but you better watch good.” Liam handed him the rebar, a tone of warning in his voice. “I’m serious about the butt-whipping if someone isn’t on lookout when he comes back.”
Cory snatched the rebar. “I never messed you up before, did I?”
“That’s why you’re my best friend.” Liam grinned and took off in a jog toward Glenwood Park, where they practiced three nights a week and on Saturday mornings.
Too much time went by before Cory crept back to the door. He strained to hear the sound of ransacking inside the Shamrock Club’s kitchen. All he heard was the walk-in refrigerator straining against the heat.
“Finn?” He said it softly first, then louder before pushing the door open and stepping over the rotted threshold.
Through the club, past the bar he could see the front door. It hung open with hot sunlight forcing its way in. Cory felt both relieved that his job was over and annoyed that they’d left him waiting like that.
He thought of Coach Mellon and bolted out the back door just as an enormous figure filled it.
Cory bounced back off the policeman’s iron gut, tripped, and sat down hard on the linoleum floor.
3
The rebar clattered into the silence as Cory looked at the policeman. He was white haired, with pale green eyes and a name tag that read THORPE. The cop eyed Cory with what might have been amusement. “You can’t be fourteen.”
“I’m twelve,” Cory said, knowing how it all looked.
Thorpe nodded at the rebar before shaking his head. “Used to be burglary was a grown man’s profession.”
“I-I-I’m not,” Cory said. “I didn’t.”
“Get up.” Thorpe sounded tired and annoyed.
Cory left the rebar and stood. The policeman raised his hand and Cory flinched.
“You heard too many stories.” Thorpe brushed a dust bunny off Cory’s bare shoulder. “I don’t hit kids, even if they are burglars.”
Cory shook his head violently.
“Oh yeah? Well, someone busted this door in, and you got the rebar. I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but you don’t have to be on this side of the city. If you didn’t do it, you better tell me who did.”
Cory closed his lips tight.
“Oh, that’s a big boy. You take the fall. You and I both know you’ll go in front of the family court judge and he’ll slap your wrist and send you home. You might end up in counseling at school. No need to go through that. I’ll let all that trouble slide, but you gotta tell me who the bad guys are.” Thorpe bent down and put his hands on Cory’s shoulders. “You see, my partner’s a rookie. He’s gonna want to go by the book. He gets excited.”
“FREEZE!”
Cory and Thorpe spun around to find a second policeman with his gun drawn and pointed their way from the sunny opening on the front side of the club.
4
“Kenny! Put the gun down!” Thorpe glowered at his partner.
Officer Kenny marched through the doorway with both hands on his gun, now pointing it at the floor. “They broke in through the front. I thought they might be in here, still.”
“They broke out the front, Kenny.” Thorpe nudged the rebar with the toe of his dusty black shoe.
Kenny sniffed the air. “Smells like someone peed.”
“It’s a Westside bar, Kenny,” Thorpe said. “Let’s take this kid home.”
“But down to family court first, right?” Kenny turned his eyes on Cory like a cat sizing up a fat, juicy robin. “So we can book him? I heard they got room in Hillbrook.”
Cory felt his throat tighten. Hillbrook was the name of the infamous juvenile detention center. It was only for the very worst kids, kids who committed violent crimes but were too young for jail. But even though it was a place for kids, it was reputed to be a horror show. When kids came back from Hillbrook, they were never quite right. Just the name sent chills down Cory’s back.
“Maybe he gives up who did this and we bring him to his momma. You got a momma, kid?” Thorpe asked.
Cory nodded, thankful they didn’t ask about a dad. That was too long of a story.
“Good. Now all you got to do is tell us who the real criminals are,” Thorpe said.
Cory still shook his head. He was afraid of the police and of Hillbrook, and he was afraid of his mom, too—but not as afraid as he was of Dirty and Finn. He’d never tell.
Still, the policemen made a show of having Cory cover his belly by putting on his practice jersey. Then they put him in the back of their black-and-white squad car and turned on the siren. Cory hung his head and turned away as people on the sidewalks stopped to stare. The cops drove him downtown into the parking lot of the Public Safety Building. It was a stone fortress. Everyone on the Westside knew they kept the real criminals there.
The cops sat in the car, grilling him.
“You don’t want us to take you in this place,” Kenny said. “Just give us the names and we’ll drive you home.”
“Look, kid, just tell us what they looked like.” Thorpe spun around in his seat. “You can do that much.”
Cory remained silent.
Kenny shook his head in disgust. “You need to wise up, kid. Once you go through those doors, there’s no going back.”
“He’s right,” Thorpe said. “It’ll be a lot better for you to tell us . . .”
Cory’s silence continued to flood the inside of the police car.
“Let’s book him, Thorpe.” Kenny pounded a fist into his other hand.
“Wait.”
> Silence.
“C’mon,” Kenny whined. “Let’s book him.”
Cory’s lips remained closed, though. He knew his options, but even Hillbrook couldn’t be as bad as waiting for Dirty to jump out of the shadows at some unknown moment.
Finally, Thorpe sighed and fired up the car engine.
“What’re you doing?” Kenny’s jaw dropped. “C’mon, Thorpe. Kid’s a burglar.”
Thorpe had both hands on the wheel, and he looked back at Cory before addressing his rookie partner. “Really, Kenny? You and your Hillbrook. You’re gonna tell me what to do?”
“Well, no,” Kenny mumbled. He sulked the whole way to Cory’s house, a run-down place he and his mom rented on Hope Avenue. The policemen escorted him to the door while the neighborhood kids oohed and aahed and squealed with delight at the sight of Cory in a cop sandwich.
“Flap-jack got arrest-ed . . . Flap-jack got arrest-ed.” Their singsong voices danced in the heat.
After several rings, his mom answered the door. Seeing the police, she gasped and snatched Cory to her side like a lost puppy. He wished she had clobbered him like most of the other moms on Hope Avenue would have done. Cory saw how the police looked at her bright yellow bathing suit beneath the open white dress shirt she’d taken from her last boyfriend. His mom must have been in the backyard.
“What’s this?” Cory’s mom was small and fragile as a bird, but life had made her tough. She glared accusingly at the police.
Thorpe huffed and rested Cory’s football gear on the cracked stoop. “He was involved in a burglary, ma’am.”
“A what?” Cory’s mom stiffened, and her grip on his arm tightened.
Cory winced. “I didn’t, Mom. Some big kids made me be the lookout. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Why don’t you go catch them?” She turned her glare back at the police.
“We may have some more questions for him, ma’am.” Officer Kenny tore his eyes loose from the yellow bathing suit and had a sudden interest in his belt buckle.
Thorpe had no problem meeting Cory’s mom’s stare and matching it with his unblinking pale green eyes. “We could have charged him with criminal trespassing and burglary third, but my sense is that he wasn’t the mastermind in all this. He was there, but I’m not sure he had any intent to commit a crime.”
Cory’s mom frowned. “Of course he didn’t.”
