by Sonya Clark
Petty theft and this shelter had been keeping her going in the three months she’d been free.
The line moved slow and steady. Conversation flowed around her, mostly young runaways who knew each other. A girl with ratty braids and hard green eyes caught Dani’s attention. The kid was fifteen, sixteen at the most. Those flinty, bleak eyes had seen more than she should have, and it was all ugly.
Like looking in a mirror. Dani dropped her gaze back to the floor and closed the lid on memories before they had a chance to become overwhelming.
An actual job – that was what she needed. Something legal so she stayed out of trouble, but just shady enough that her lack of ID wouldn’t be a problem. How the hell was she supposed to find something like that? She had no connections in Point Sable, even after three months. Mostly because she’d avoided even the slightest interaction, but crap, it was time to change that.
Dani ate her meal at the far end of a long table, hunched over her plate and avoiding conversation. Once finished, she dropped off her tray and spoke to one of the volunteers. “Is Thorpe around?”
The volunteer, gray-haired and wearing an apron, gave her a baleful look. “What do you need with Mr. Thorpe?”
Dani swallowed a surge of irrational anger and the desire to tell the old man to mind his own damn business. “I wanted to ask him if he knew about any jobs.” Thorpe ran the shelter and made himself available to anyone wanting to talk or needing help. This asshole didn’t trust anyone under fifty and was protective of his boss. Dani was pretty sure he’d been homeless once himself. That didn’t put her in the mood to put up with his shit but she didn’t want to shove her way past him.
“A job, huh? You wantin’ a real job or some bullshit? Cause Mr. Thorpe, he don’t deal in bullshit. You know what I’m saying?”
“I want a job, not bullshit.” She jerked her chin toward the kitchen entrance. “Can I go talk to Mr. Thorpe?”
The mister seemed to mollify the self-appointed watchdog. He gave his best glare for several more seconds before his features softened and he nodded. “Go on.”
The shelter used to be a community center years ago, back when communities on the south side of Point Sable had such things. Dani didn’t know much more than that about the place. The kitchen equipment looked original, including scarred, decades-old prep tables and big, clunky industrial appliances.
Thorpe attacked the cooktop with a metal spatula, scraping grease and other food debris from the still-cooling surface. He was a rangy man in his late fifties. His skin was a sepia brown, deeply lined with a scattering of dark freckles across the bridge of his nose and under his deep set eyes. Most of his short, curly hair was gray but a few lingering strands of black held on here and there. Dani watched him work, unsure of how best to approach him.
He took care of that for her. “You just gonna stand there, or do you have something to say?” He glanced at her, a faint smile softening his words.
“I heard you sometimes help people find jobs. I’m looking for work.”
“Work’s a good thing to have.” Thorpe continued to clean while he spoke. “You been to the Workforce Development office?”
She’d never heard of it. “What’s that?”
“It’s a state office, help people find jobs, get training.” He glanced at her. “You got ID?”
Her first time on the streets, years ago, she’d learned the hard way not to give away too much about herself. That instinct returned, a screaming urgency in her head and her gut. But Thorpe had a solid reputation. She’d never seen him treat anyone badly, and she’d been watching.
And she needed help. So she swallowed her trepidation and answered his question. “No. But I don’t want to do anything bad. Maybe wait tables or clean houses for cash. Something like that.”
A clatter came from the back of the kitchen. Dani nudged her hearing up, like mentally turning a dial, and found the source. Someone was outside the back door, in the alley. She clenched her fists and rose slightly on the balls of her feet, ready to run at whoever was on the other side of that door.
It opened, and a slender man with dark gold hair struggled to wrestle a mop and bucket through the door.
Thorpe paused in his cleaning to observe the much younger man. “You look like you stayed dry this time.”
Golden hair laughed. “Mostly.” He maneuvered the mop bucket to a space marked off for cleaning supplies as best he could on its worn out wheels.
Thorpe gestured at a spot on the floor. “That drain’s been stopped up for months. Don’t have the money to get someone out here to work on it.”
The guy from last night – she’d taken a twenty from him and told him to go back uptown when he’d asked for directions to the shelter. Had he seen her face? She’d done her best to hide herself with the hoodie, but it wasn’t perfect.
He looked right at her. No recognition, but something sparked in his electric blue eyes that made her nervous.
Don’t run. Walk out like it’s no big deal. Just don’t run and draw more attention to yourself.
Dani eased backward a couple of steps and forced herself to sound casual. “Hey, I think I’ll check back about a job another time.”
“Oh, don’t mind him.” Thorpe chuckled. “He’s just serving his community.”
“In a sober and orderly fashion.” The guy’s smile was as brilliant as his eyes. He didn’t belong here. Too clean, too pretty, too untouched by the kind of things that kept her awake long into the night.
Should she say something else, or just walk out? She had no idea. With a half-hearted wave directed at Thorpe, Dani left the kitchen. Once clear of the swinging metal doors, she sped up and didn’t slow down until she was two blocks away.
***
Kevin spent the rest of his shift wondering about the brown-eyed girl who’d apparently changed her mind about asking Thorpe for help. Swallowed up by clothes too big for her, she looked young and fragile, like so many of the girls he’d seen in the shelter in his two nights here. The sight of a blond teen who resembled his sister at that age had nearly caused his heart to burst with a confusing mix of anger and guilt. How did these kids survive on the streets? How did they wind up like this, with no one but each other and a stranger or two to care about them? All the arguments he’d had with his parents growing up, all the times he’d disappointed both himself and them, and he’d never once considered leaving. As much as he’d frustrated his parents, they’d never come close to throwing him out, either.
Would it have been different if his father had worked on a factory floor, instead of owning several? Kevin didn’t think so. Family meant everything to the Moynihans. More than the fortune, more than the social standing. That bond, instilled since birth, was why Kevin felt no jealousy over his brother’s position at Moynihan Consolidated. Why Sean would have gladly welcomed his younger brother into the company. A united front and always having each other’s backs – that was the Moynihans. Even when they annoyed the hell out of each other.
So it was inconceivable to Kevin that so many people lacked the support they needed, especially kids. It was as foreign to him as the extreme poverty he’d glimpsed, the people with eyes full of fear and desperation or worse, nothing at all.
White liberal guilt, he told himself. That’s what he was feeling. So be it. Tomorrow he would arrange for a plumber to come to the shelter to fix the drain and any other similar problems.
Or rather, have someone do it. Kevin may not have worked at the family company but there was an assistant on the payroll to take care of things for him. He would call her in the morning.
Tonight, he would finish up his four hours of community service, clean the kitchen as best he was able, and try to stay out of the way.
A singular pair of dark eyes stayed on his mind, though. Even malnourished and ragged, the girl was beautiful. So much so that he worried for her safety. Hopefully she would spend the night in the shelter and not on the streets, and soon find a more permanent solution. It wasn’t up
to him to save her. He would do his community service and he would use his money and contacts to help the shelter itself, but he was nobody’s savior.
His hands were raw after hours of scrubbing and washing. At least he hadn’t ruined his shoes this time. He bade Mr. Thorpe good night, took one more look around to make sure he’d put everything back in the right place, then left.
The pavement was wet and the air tasted of rain and chemicals. At one time that chemical smell would have indicated an all-night shift at one of the many factories in the neighborhood. Now those factories were long shuttered. The stench was probably a meth lab.
The least flashy vehicle he owned was parked in the vacant lot across from the shelter. Before Kevin even crossed the street, he could see that the rims were missing and the driver’s side window had been busted. So much for the car alarm being worth a damn. He swore and jogged the rest of the distance. Each tire was punctured and flat. The stereo was missing. So was his favorite pair of sunglasses, damn it. Kevin swore as he fished in his pocket for his cell phone.
A circle of cold metal touched the back of his neck, raising goosebumps on his flesh and a knot of fear in his stomach.
“Your wallet and watch, now.” The mugger’s voice was young, nervous, as if he were just as scared as Kevin. The gun trembled.
“Okay.” Kevin licked his lips. “Okay, let’s both stay calm.”
“I didn’t say you could talk. Hurry it up.”
Slowly so as not to spook the kid, Kevin withdrew his wallet and slipped off his watch. He held on to both, one in each hand, and raised his arms. The gun barrel slid across the skin underneath his hair.
Jesus, this kid’s going to shoot me just because he’s so fucking nervous.
The mugger snatched the wallet and watch from Kevin’s hands. “On your knees. Now.”
Kevin shut his eyes, his heart jackhammering. “I haven’t seen your face. Let’s both walk away, okay?”
The butt of the gun slammed into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Kevin cried out in pain.
“On your knees,” the mugger shouted, voice shaking. He hit Kevin again.
Kevin dropped to the ground. Gravel bit into his palms. Pain shot through his knees. Even if he was able to call 911, he might not be alive by the time the cops finally showed up.
Footsteps and catcalls announced new arrivals on the scene. Hope flared inside Kevin. A man said, “What you got here?”
The kid said, “Some fancy car. Guy’s wallet and watch.”
Kevin rolled to his back and surveyed the new arrivals. Hope left, leaving nothing but panic.
“You gotta finish it to get in. You know that.”
A gang initiation. The kid was supposed to kill him. Kevin moaned and shifted to one side as if in pain, trying to hide his efforts to reach the cell phone still in his pocket.
“I know.” The kid wiped his brow, gun hand shaking but still keeping the weapon aimed at Kevin. “I was getting to that part.”
Kevin’s fingertips slipped over the slick surface of his phone. He was leaning so far over that his hand barely had room in his pocket to work the phone. Sweat poured from his hairline down his face. He blinked rapidly to get the stinging moisture out of his eyes, fingers struggling with the phone. Almost got it.
He was about to hit send when a booted foot slammed into his ribs. The air rushed out of his lungs and nausea twisted his stomach into knots. Hands jerked him up by the shoulders, his phone falling from his grasp and clattering to the ground.
“Why you bother with that, huh? Cops ain’t coming out here.” The leader laughed.
Kevin knew his chances of getting out of this were dwindling. If he could break through the half-circle of boys and young men forming around him, make it to the shelter – that was the only plan he could think of. He had no weapons. One of the gangbangers smashed his phone to bits while the others laughed, so calling for help was out. It was either run and hope he could make it, or scream and hope someone heard him.
“Fire!” he bellowed and yanked free of his captors’ grip. He made it three feet before the semicircle of gangbangers closed in on him. A single punch from a massive fist sent his head snapping back and put him on the ground again. Bursts of pain popped through his body like exploding fireworks as kicks landed on his torso, his legs, everywhere they could reach. He curled into a ball and tried to protect his head.
I don’t want to die like this.
Somebody screamed in pain. At first Kevin thought it was him. Another scream, followed by vicious swearing, and he realized it was the gangbangers. He looked out through the shield of his arms in time to see one drop to the concrete, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.
“It’s that fucking ghost!”
“Ain’t no ghost, it’s a person. Beat his ass down!”
One last glancing blow to his hip and then they were too busy fighting off the Cabrini Ghost to bother with Kevin anymore. He pushed himself up to see better, coughing from the effort. A contact must have been knocked out, though, because he couldn’t see worth a damn. He squinted his right eye shut and tried to make sense of the images.
The Ghost was all in black, a hood hiding his face. He was small, and moved like…like nothing Kevin had ever seen.
Kevin crawled to his car. He pulled himself up using the trunk for support, found his keys in his pocket and unlocked the doors. Thick moisture dripped into his eyes and he wiped it away. He brought his fingertips close to his eyes to examine the substance, finding blood.
Shouts drew his attention back to the fight. Between his poor vision, the blood running down his face, and the rapidly increasing nausea, he couldn’t make out much. Four – or maybe just two – of the gangbangers ran from the scene.
Kevin coughed and spat blood. What little strength he had left was deserting him rapidly. He opened the car door, leaned inside and pulled a spare phone from the glove box.
His thumb was over the nine button when he paused. The Cabrini Ghost was right in front of him, fighting off a bunch of street thugs. Calling the cops could wait. He took video.
The last of the attackers limped away, dragging a couple of semi-conscious guys with them. Kevin might not have been able to see well, but he knew it when the Ghost turned to stare at him.
In seconds the Ghost was inches away, ripping the phone from his hand. He didn’t think, just reacted instinctively, and reached out for the hood. The Ghost was maybe six inches shorter than he, so it was easy to pull the hood down and reveal his face.
Her face.
The beautiful, fragile-looking girl from the shelter with the unforgettable brown eyes. She gaped at him in horror and backed away, his spare phone still clutched in her hand.
A shout came from the direction of the shelter. The Ghost pulled her hood back up and ran.
Kevin slumped against the car as a wave of sickening pain left him shaking. He wanted to throw up, lay down, find a scrap of paper and draw her face.
He’d seen the Ghost. Sweet Jesus, the Cabrini Ghost was real, and he’d seen her.
Chapter 4
Kevin stared at the screen of his laptop, reading through the Cabrini Ghost hashtag. He’d first heard the rumor in the tiny, cramped lobby outside his probation officer’s broom closet of an office. Stories of a vigilante in the South Side intrigued him mostly because he was bored while waiting for his appointment. The idea that Point Sable had its very own urban legend amused him, especially such a melodramatic one. His first night at the shelter, he’d overheard a group of kids talking about the Ghost in hushed, awed tones. They believed the Ghost was real. Kevin had believed they wanted the Ghost to be real. A bedtime story about a boogie man who went after the bad guys, something to offer comfort to people who spent much of their time trying to stay safe from those same bad guys.
But the Ghost wasn’t just some urban legend. She was real, and she’d saved his life.
The person running toward him from the shelter had been Thorpe. Kevin had spent the rest
of the night in the emergency room, hoping no one called his family. But of course someone put his name and face together and ratted him out. Olivia tried to get him admitted but he refused, threatening to walk out before he could be stitched up. She’d relented and called a plastic surgeon friend to stitch the cut on his forehead.
In addition to that and other cuts and scrapes, he had more bruises than he could count, plus two broken ribs and a mild concussion. With slow, ginger movements he got up from the desk and made his way to the kitchen. A bottle of prescription pain pills and a bottle of ibuprofen sat on the bar next to a stack of hand towels and an empty glass. He filled the glass with water from the fridge door and swallowed one of the prescription pills, then pulled an ice pack from the freezer and wrapped the towel around it. He held the pack against the middle of his chest, cringing at the cold seeping through the towel to his bare flesh. Studiously avoiding mirrors, he walked to the living room and lay down on the sofa.
He’d lied to the police. As many times as he’d gotten in trouble over the years, he was an old pro at it. The trick to lying, especially to authority figures, was to be brazen about it. Maintain eye contact, have your story together beforehand if at all possible, keep it close to the truth, and never hesitate. That’s what he’d done last night, first with Thorpe, then the cops, and finally his family. None of them had shown any signs of not believing him. He’d left out all mention of the Ghost and his spare phone that she’d run away with, and stressed that he’d been able to see very little once he lost a contact.
How had a lone woman been able to fight off so many attackers? Kevin cursed his lousy vision and wished to hell he still had that phone. He’d give anything to see the video he’d taken of the fight. Dark shapes backlit by yellow haze from sporadic streetlights – that’s all he’d been able to make out when it was happening.
