Robbie Forester and the Outlaws of Sherwood Street

by Peter Abrahams

“Sure,” said Ashanti. “We’re both out of our minds.”

  Ashanti lived across the street from me and three or four stoops down. Her apartment was on the ground floor, but it looked a lot like ours: we even had the same kind of fridge. One big difference was all these professional-type photos on the living-room walls, the same beautiful young woman in each of them. Ashanti noticed me staring at them and said, “My mom—back in her modeling days.”

  “Wow,” I said. “She was a professional model?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Hey! This one’s a Vogue cover.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow,” I said again. I’d never seen anyone so beautiful. Ashanti—lighter-skinned than her mother—was beautiful, too, but not like this, so perfect, so dramatic. “She’s not a model anymore?”

  Ashanti shook her head. “They’re like athletes,” she said. “All washed-up at thirty-five, sooner in her case.”

  “What does she do now?” I said.

  Ashanti glanced down the hall. “At this very moment?” she said. “Probably resting.”

  “Oh,” I said. I got the impression—maybe later than most people would—that Ashanti didn’t feel like discussing her mother. Then—maybe sooner than most people—I found myself asking about her father. “What does your dad do?”

  Ashanti’s eyes narrowed. “Are you always this nosy?”

  “Sorry.”

  “He’s a film editor.”

  “Yeah? Cool.”

  “It’s not. Mostly he does car commercials.” She sat on the couch, flipped open a laptop.

  “What cars?” I said.

  Ashanti glared at me. “Look. Are you in on this or not?”

  “In on what?”

  “Helping Mr. Nok.”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “How? Like you helped that soup kitchen place, that’s how.”

  “But that just happened,” I said. “I can’t make it happen—didn’t we just go through all this?”

  “So we give up?” Ashanti said. “Just roll over without a fight?”

  “No,” I said. Rolling over without a fight sounded bad. “But what are we going to do?”

  “That’s what we’ve got to figure out, right?” Ashanti said. She patted the cushion beside her. I sat down. “What’s the guy’s name, again?” she said.

  “Sheldon Gunn.”

  We looked up Sheldon Gunn. He turned out to be a billionaire, and not just a billionaire but the third richest billionaire in the whole world.

  “A billion is what, exactly?” I said.

  “A thousand million,” Ashanti said. “A one and nine zeroes.” She glanced at me. “Hard to get your head around a number like that, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Suppose,” she said, tapping at the keyboard, “you took that billion dollars and invested it for a measly three percent return, like in the bank.” More tapping. “You’d get thirty million dollars per year. About eighty-two thousand a day. That’s if you have one billion. Sheldon Gunn has forty-three, so you’d have to multiply that by eighty-two thousand to find out what he’d be making a day.” Tap-tap. “Three million five hundred twenty-six thousand.”

  “A day?”

  “Yeah,” said Ashanti. “But that’s not good enough for Sheldon Gunn.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If he was just letting his money pile up in the bank, then he wouldn’t be doing what he’s doing.”

  “The Brooklyn redevelopment thing?”

  “And God knows what else. That’s why we have to do some research. But here’s our one hard fact—three million five hundred twenty-six thousand a day’s not getting it done for him.”

  We researched Sheldon Gunn. He owned things, lots and lots, including Boffo, the second biggest yacht in the world; all kinds of art; many houses, including castles in Ireland and France; the biggest ranch in Wyoming, and another even bigger one in Argentina. But the center of it all seemed to be the Sheldon Gunn Organization, which was about real estate holdings—tower after tower in New York, Chicago, London, Dubai, and other cities. The New Brooklyn Redevelopment Project was one little arm of the Sheldon Gunn Organization, hardly mentioned at all, except by residents who’d pretty much given up on trying to stop it. Sheldon Gunn also had a wife—his fourth, way younger than him—named Genevieve. There were lots of pictures of Genevieve online, making it easy, as Ashanti said, to trace the course of her plastic surgeries. Maybe it was a bit cruel of us—after all, we didn’t know the woman, although she was quoted as saying some funny things, like “Shelley’s biggest problem is he never thinks about himself” and “We’d be just as happy in a tiny cottage”—but soon Ashanti and I were laughing and laughing, tears rolling down our faces.

  “What’s so funny?”

  We turned, and there was Ashanti’s mother at the opening to the dark hallway, dressed in a white nightgown, buttoned to the top. She looked so different from in the photos. It wasn’t that she’d put on weight, which was what you might expect for an ex-model; in fact, she maybe had lost some, even though she’d been skinny to begin with. But the dramatic part had grown much, much stronger, so strong that the beauty part had gotten overwhelmed. Her hair was wild; her cheekbones cast shadows; her eyes were blurry.

  “Sorry if we woke you,” Ashanti said, her voice flat in a way I hadn’t heard from her before. “This is Robbie.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping,” said Ashanti’s mom. “I was only resting.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  Ashanti’s mom seemed to focus on me for the first time. “You’re the one who’s moving to Paris?”

  “No,” I said. “Not me.”

  She nodded. “You wouldn’t have liked it anyway—it’s changed so much,” she said. “Is anyone going to tell me what the joke is?”

  “There’s really no joke, Mom,” Ashanti said. “Just stuff on the net.”

  “Such as, par example?” said Ashanti’s mom.

  “Things this woman said,” Ashanti replied.

  “What woman?”

  “Genevieve Gunn.”

  “Née Skallinsky?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “She never made me laugh,” Ashanti’s mom said. “But I haven’t seen her in years.”

  “You know her?” Ashanti said.

  “I knew her,” said Ashanti’s mom. “Back when dinosaurs roamed Seventh Avenue.” She looked at me. “Nice to meet you, too, Robbie. That’s a nice name.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And nice to—”

  She’d already turned and vanished down the hall.

  Ashanti and I looked at each other. Her nostrils were flared; her face wasn’t happy. Maybe her apartment looked a lot like mine, but the air felt different, if that made sense: much heavier.

  “Seventh Avenue,” I said. “Is that the Fashion District?”

  Her expression changed; anger had a lot more energy in it than sadness. “You never stop, do you?” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “With your personality.”

  “Huh?” I said again. But then this quick turn of events hit me for what it was—I mean, my personality was me—and the next clear thing I knew—this was after some raised voices on both our parts—I was on the street. My street: home territory, but I felt disoriented anyway and close to tears. I made a conscious effort not to let them flow. I had a pretty good life, with or without friends. Didn’t I? Okay, so maybe a tear or two, but there wasn’t time for any more of that because when I crossed the street and approached my house, Tut-Tut stepped out of the shadows.

  “Tut-Tut?” I said.

  He wore his hoodie, torn jeans, plus mismatched sneakers, one white, one black, and both too big for him; also his nose was running.

  “R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-,” he said. “R-r-r-r-r…”

  “Robbie?” I said, guessing what he was trying to say.

  He nodded, a very vigorous up-and-down that made me have an unpleasant thought: it was kind
of a silent stuttering, as though Tut-Tut were all about stuttering. I brushed that thought away. I knew very well that Tut-Tut didn’t stutter inside, in fact had a commanding voice that just couldn’t get out.

  “I-,” he said. “I-I-I-I…”

  “What is it?” I said. “What’s wrong?” Something was wrong—I could see it on his face.

  Tut-Tut didn’t even try to answer. He just reached out and grabbed my arm with both of his. What was going on? Tut-Tut was squeezing so hard it hurt, and I was just about to pull away when I figured it out: he was trying to make the shock happen, trying to get hold of that electric thing that had the power to make him talk.

  But there was no shock. No electrical ball, no power. Tut-Tut let go. “N-n-n-n-n-n-n-,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t make it happen.” There had to be injustice in the mix, as Ashanti and I had figured out. But wasn’t Tut-Tut’s stutter an injustice? How could it possibly be just for him to be afflicted like this? So maybe the whole injustice idea was wrong. What was I missing? I stood on the street, the wind picking up, icy rain starting to fall, and tried to think. No thoughts came. Then I noticed that Tut-Tut was shivering.

  “Hey,” I said. “Want to come inside?”

  “W-w-w-w-,” he said.

  “I live here,” I said, gesturing at the building. “Let’s get out of the rain. I can make hot chocolate.”

  Tut-Tut didn’t move, just gazed at me from inside his hoodie, the seams all frayed.

  “And we could have a snack,” I said, even though I wasn’t the least bit hungry myself. “Some leftovers from Your Thai, maybe.”

  Tut-Tut’s look was blank. Was it possible he didn’t know about Thai food? More than possible, I thought a moment or two later, a moment or two too late, as usual. And was there something a little rude or insensitive in even raising the idea of Thai food with Tut-Tut, as if I’d asked him what country club he belonged to? Not that I belonged to a country club myself, although I’d been to one—my uncle Joe’s, in New Jersey—the day I had my only golfing experience, the only one I’ll ever have, guaranteed.

  We stood in the rain, getting wet. It was like I had to find the magic words or something. “Besides,” I said, “I’ve got your flip-flops and spray paint.”

  I caught a flicker of interest from inside Tut-Tut’s hoodie. I took out my keys and opened the door. Tut-Tut moved toward the entrance. At that moment, the other door opened and Mitch, the landlord, came out, unfurling an umbrella. He had a frown on his face and his forehead was knitted, as though he was working on some tough problem—his usual look. Mitch glanced at me.

  “Robbie.”

  “Hi, Mitch.”

  Then he noticed Tut-Tut, realized that Tut-Tut was with me, and gave him a long look. I went inside, motioning Tut-Tut after me. He followed. I closed the door; by that time Mitch had turned and was walking off.

  “The landlord,” I said on the way up the stairs. “Not that bad of a guy, really.”

  Tut-Tut grunted, a single unstuttering sound, actually quite pleasant for a grunt.

  I like our apartment, but it’s nothing fancy, not as apartments go in this neighborhood. Fancy is high ceilings and polished hardwood floors and Persian carpets and tall windows with amazing views, and we have none of that, except for the hardwood floors. And one Persian rug, not very big, and stained forever by Pendleton during his younger days. All in all, nothing fancy, but Tut-Tut stood in the doorway, amazed.

  “It’s nothing fancy,” I said, maybe not the right remark, but what was? At that moment, Pendleton ambled in. He saw Tut-Tut and shrank back. Tut-Tut shrank back, too.

  “Guys,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

  After not too long, I got Tut-Tut to sit at the kitchen table; Pendleton settled in underneath. I made hot chocolate—not in Monsieur Señor’s class, but not too bad—poured it into two mugs, and set one in front of Tut-Tut. These were mugs I’d never taken much notice of—I think my mom got them in Vermont—but Tut-Tut seemed mesmerized by his. He ran his fingertip over the shiny glaze and traced the outline of the happy-looking cow.

  “Drink up while it’s hot,” I said, sounding like a mom myself.

  Tut-Tut took a little sip. The expression in his eyes changed: he liked it. He took another sip, liked it even more. Were these his first tastes of hot chocolate?

  “I’ll just go up and get your stuff,” I said.

  I went upstairs, took Tut-Tut’s flip-flops and his spray paint from under the bed. The flip-flops were falling apart, and what good were they in winter? What Tut-Tut needed were sneakers that fit. I had extras in my closet, and our feet looked to be about the same size. The logical thing was to kick off my own shoes and try on the flip-flops, just to make sure, which I did.

  Then, as I stood in front of my mirror in Tut-Tut’s flip-flops—they fit fine, by the way—something illogical started to happen. I had three or four pairs of sneakers, maybe more, in different colors, and it occurred to me that Tut-Tut, being artistic, might have color preferences, so I called downstairs, “Tut-Tut, come up here for a sec.”

  Only that didn’t quite happen. What came out of my mouth was “T-t-t-t-t-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-” No matter how hard I tried to say “Tut-Tut, come up here for a sec,” I couldn’t. I could only sound just like Tut-Tut.

  I’d never been so scared in my life. This… power, or whatever it was—obviously I didn’t really understand it, but one thing I’d taken for granted was that it had to be a force for good. Now here I was standing in Tut-Tut’s flip-flops, and I couldn’t talk. My first reaction was to kick off those flip-flops like they were on fire. Totally crazy, because how could two crappy pieces of rubber or whatever flip-flops were made of have anything to do with stealing my ability to speak? I opened my mouth and tried to say the first thing that popped into my mind, which was, “Please don’t let this happen.” But all that came out was “P-p-p-p-p-p.…”

  I saw my face in the mirror, a terrified version of me I hardly recognized. It was like my whole life I’d been standing on a nice safe floor and all the time just underneath there’d been a pit of fire or a nest of snakes or some other horrible something.

  “P-p-p-p-p-p-,” said this cracking-up me in the mirror. And then, just when I was on the point of collapsing in a screaming heap, I thought of the bracelet. I grasped the silver heart between my index finger and thumb. It was hot, almost too hot to hold, but I held on to it anyway. In fact, I couldn’t let go; it seemed to be locking my hand in place. And as I held the silver heart—or it held me—I saw something amazing: wisps of smoke rose from Tut-Tut’s flip-flops and they began to melt. I can’t be sure about the time, but it seemed to pass very quickly, from the start of melting—a strange, heatless melting—to the complete disappearance of the flip-flops, nothing left at all, not even the smoke.

  “Oh, my God,” I said. Not “o-o-o-o-o,” but the complete sentence, no problem. Meanwhile the silver heart was cooling fast; my grip on it unlocked and let go. “Fourscore and seven years ago,” I said, just to make sure I was back to my old talking self. Fourscore and seven years ago—however many years that was, exactly—came through loud and clear.

  I sniffed the air, smelled a rubbery smell, not too strong. I opened the window, let in the cold wind, and in moments the rubbery smell went away.

  Back to normal. But just to be sure, I said, “Our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation.” I took a deep, deep breath and let it out slow. “Everything’s going to be all right,” I told myself out loud. I went into my closet, chose a pair of white sneakers with navy trim, grabbed the spray paint, and started downstairs. And on the way, I got hit by an idea, maybe obvious, but exciting anyway, all about Tut-Tut and those flip-flops of his, now gone forever. I took the last steps two or three at a time and raced into the kitchen.

  Tut-Tut was still sitting at the table, clearly finished with his hot chocolate, because he was holding the mug upside down and examining the bottom.

  �
��Hey, Tut-Tut!” I said.

  He looked up. “W-w-w-w-w-,” he said. “Wha-wha-

  wha—?”

  Which took the wind out of me; I’d been so sure that the disappearance of those stupid flip-flops would free up his speech. That was the first time I had the conscious realization that the power was a flaky kind of power.

  I put the spray paint on the table. Tut-Tut nodded and tucked it away. “And here are these,” I said, holding out the sneakers. “They’ll fit.”

  He shook his head.

  “Come on,” I said. “I don’t need them.”

  “N-n-n-,” he said.

  “I’ve got others,” I told him. Suddenly it was very important that Tut-Tut took those white sneakers with navy stripes. I couldn’t remember where or when I’d gotten them: I’d never even liked the stupid things. Which wasn’t the reason I wanted Tut-Tut to have them. Or could it possibly have been a small part of the reason, that I hadn’t even been aware of? My dad talked about the subconscious sometimes, this shadow self in each of us that’s not always lined up with the conscious self. I remembered hearing that the second three or four hundred pages of On/Off were about what the first three or four hundred pages were about, except from the subconscious point of view. But I really didn’t understand much about that, and I also didn’t want to think that my motive with the sneakers was mixed in any way.

  “Look, Tut-Tut,” I said, bending down and yanking off those way-too-big cast-offs he was wearing, “just take them. It makes total sense, and I don’t want to argue.” Tut-Tut’s feet were bare, very nicely shaped feet and pretty clean. I slipped on the white sneakers with the navy trim, laced them up, and rose.

  Tut-Tut gazed down at his feet. He turned them this way and that, viewing his new sneaks from different angles. Then he looked up at me. The perfect word for describing the expression on his face came to me: dignified. It was a dignified expression. And I realized at that moment that Tut-Tut was dignified in all sorts of ways.

  “Th-th-th-,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” I told him.

  I offered more hot chocolate or something to eat, but Tut-Tut refused. Soon after that, he left, knotting the laces of the cast-offs together and slinging them over his shoulder. I went up to my room, suddenly very sleepy. Just before I fell asleep, I said, “Conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition,” just to make sure I could. And I could, like a champ.