Robbie Forester and the Outlaws of Sherwood Street

by Peter Abrahams

  “That’s a head-scratcher, actually,” said the I.T. guy. “Kind of unprecedented, in my experience. I could take it down to the shop, maybe run a couple of—”

  “You’re dismissed,” Borg said.

  The I.T. guy packed up, stepped off my hand, and left the room. The pattern of his boot heel lingered on my skin. I was gazing at it and flexing my hand a bit, when I realized I was still seeing very clearly without my glasses; the power was in no hurry to leave me.

  “What a moron,” Borg said; I’m leaving out an adjective he put before moron. He smacked the desk, then rose and started pacing around, out of my line of sight. “Memo to self,” he said. “Have I.T. moron fired.” He paused. I could feel him thinking. Then he was on the move again. I heard the door open, heard him walking onto the hard floor of the hall; the door slammed shut.

  I made myself count to sixty. But why? I thought, when I got to fifty-nine. What if Borg had just been in need of more pacing territory and was on his way back? I squeezed out from under the desk, rose, straightened out my cramped leg with both hands, and limped across Borg’s office.

  Very slow, very careful, I turned the knob, opened the door an inch or two, and peered out. No one in the hall. I hurried to the elevator bank. One elevator stood open. I jumped inside, hit seventy-eight. The doors closed. The elevator started moving. I took a deep breath, one of those sighs of relief, and at that moment saw myself in the shiny elevator walls. Hey! I looked kind of the way I did in Tut-Tut’s drawing. And one other thing: my side part was gone. I felt around on my head: no part. Had I taken the part out sometime after leaving my mom’s office and going up to seventy-nine? No. And therefore? The power didn’t like the part either? I searched for some other explanation.

  I went into my mom’s office.

  “All set?” she said. “I was just coming up to get you.”

  “All set,” I said.

  “Where are your glasses?”

  “In my pocket.”

  “Well, put them on—you don’t want to strain your eyes.”

  I put on my glasses, straining my eyes. The power wanted to stay a little longer.

  “Mom?” I said. We were in a taxi, on the way to meet my dad at the Indonesian place. “What’s financing?”

  She glanced at me. “Financing is about providing funds for business or investing.”

  “Funds means money?”

  “Basically.”

  “What do the Saudis have to do with it?”

  “The Saudis?”

  “I heard the Saudis do financing.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I just heard people talking about it.”

  “Well,” said my mom, “the Saudis—meaning the royal family and the ruling class—have lots and lots of money from all these years of selling their oil. You can’t just let money sit there—”

  “Why not?”

  “Because almost always it will be worth less the next day.”

  Not sure I got that—in fact, I knew I hadn’t—but Mom was already going on.

  “So you have to put the money to work—backing some tech start-up, for example, or buying up an already existing company, or lending to a developer.”

  “Like a real estate developer?”

  “Exactly.”

  “The poor kind of real estate developer,” I said.

  “The poor kind?” said Mom.

  “Because the rich kind—like Sheldon Gunn—wouldn’t need financing. He’d use his own money.”

  My mom smiled. “Sheldon Gunn seems to have made quite an impression on you.”

  I shrugged. “Just using him as an example,” I said. “Could be any big developer.”

  “Such as?” Mom said.

  I tried to think of a name, got nowhere.

  My mom laughed. “Even the Sheldon Gunns of the world need financing. Being a billionaire doesn’t mean you have quick access to the huge amounts of cash that the New Brooklyn Redevelopment Project will need. Just using that as an example.” Mom has this look my dad calls her checkmate face. She gave it to me now.

  I laughed. So did she. We sat a little closer together in the back of the taxi.

  “And using other people’s money often makes sense for a lot of reasons,” Mom said, “such as tax avoidance or estate pla— Driver! You missed the turn.”

  Back home after dinner at the Indonesian restaurant—my vision returning to its terrible normal self with the arrival of the menus—texts zoomed around between Ashanti, Silas, and me, but not Tut-Tut since he had no cell phone. I kept the whole Borg adventure out of it, stuck to the fact that something was going down at the Red Goat that night at twelve thirty and we just had to be there. But how? We were kids, and it was night. I couldn’t just say, “Hey, I’m going out for a stroll, be back whenever.”

  Downstairs, I could hear Mom and Dad talking about Shep and the agent. The drinks thing had gone well—the agent liked having a title with Magic in it, and he’d asked to see the first fifty pages, so Dad had his work cut out for him, since there weren’t any pages yet. Dad said something, and Mom laughed. It was nice to hear them having fun like that, but weren’t they tired? Wasn’t it sleepy time? I went to my window and gazed down at our garden—a small space with a brick patio and a dirt patch where Mitch tried to grow tomatoes. On the far side stood a building much like ours, and on each side grew cherry trees that never produced cherries. Past the cherry tree on the left was a narrow alley that led to the street on the block behind us. Right outside my window was the fire escape. I’ve climbed out there once or twice in summer to catch a few rays—my little secret.

  I raised the window. Cold air blew into my room. I stepped out onto the fire escape. It was like a narrow, railed-in balcony with a square hole in the middle of the floor. You stepped through that hole to the ladder that slanted down to a similar balcony on the next floor, which happened to be outside the downstairs bathroom window. That balcony didn’t have a hole; instead you walked to the end and lowered the ladder, left in the up position to keep the burglars at bay. My parents had explained the whole setup when we’d moved in. I’d never tried it, of course. It was all theory.

  I climbed back inside and closed the window. There was a knock at the door.

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “I feel a draft,” my mom said. Mom was a champion feeler of drafts. The door opened and she popped her head in. “No wonder,” she said. “It’s so cold in here.” She glanced at the window, saw it was closed, and felt the radiator. “Nice and warm,” she said, looking puzzled. She was moving toward the window when Dad looked in.

  “What’s going on?” he said.

  “Mom feels a draft.”

  Dad laughed, said, “What’s new?” and moved off down the hall to their bedroom. Mom smiled and shook her head in a what-can-I-do way. They were both in a pretty good mood; we’d have to hit that Indonesian place more often.

  “Night, Robbie. Don’t stay up too late.”

  “Night, Mom.”

  She closed the door and left. Soon there were running-water sounds and moving-around sounds and then things got quiet.

  I called Ashanti, spoke very low. “I can get out,” I said.

  “Me too,” said Ashanti, “but only after my mother takes her sleeping pill.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I don’t know. She’s pretty lively tonight.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Listening to music.”

  “Oh.”

  “Opera,” Ashanti says. “She loves opera, especially Maria Callas.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “This singer,” Ashanti said. “Unbearable.”

  “What about Silas?” I said.

  “He says he might be able to get out of his apartment, but he can’t figure how to handle the doorman.”

  “With a tip, right?”

  Ashanti laughed.

  “Tell you what,” I said, some part of my mind pretty much making the decision on
its own, without involvement from me. “I’m going to the Red Goat. Meet me there if you can make it.”

  “I’ll make it.”

  Not long after by the clock—but it sure seemed long—our apartment was silent, except for the odd moan from Pendleton, having a nightmare under my desk, his normal sleeping spot, even though he had a comfy dog bed in the front hall. Eleven thirty: time to go. I walked softly across my room, opened my closet, and picked out the kind of outfit that seemed right for whatever was about to happen: jeans, my last-year’s jacket (navy blue, instead of the new one, with its white shoulder patches), my black sneakers. I pocketed all the money I happened to have in my room—$5.50. Then I took a deep breath, opened my window, and stepped onto the fire escape. Decision one: Close the window completely, meaning there was no guarantee I could reopen it? Leave it wide open? Leave it open a crack? I left it open a crack. That risked a tiny draft, yes, but my bedroom door and my mom’s door were both closed, and besides she and Dad slept under a thick down comforter that had to be practically draftproof.

  Step one: down the fire escape. As I moved toward the square space where the ladder began, something cold and damp touched my face. I glanced up and saw a few snowflakes falling from the dark pink nighttime sky. I turned around, stepped on the second rung from the top and started down, my sneakers making tiny squeaks on the cold steel.

  At the next level, outside our downstairs bathroom window, I examined the ladder that would take me to the ground. Nothing held it down: all I had to do was slide it forward, hook the two end thingies over the last railing on the platform, and—

  Shatter! Uh-oh. The feet of the ladder struck something made of glass that must have been lying in the yard. It sounded like a plate glass window exploding. I went still, listening my hardest. Guitar music came from not far away, but there was only silence behind the wall of our building. No one had heard the noise, or it had been swallowed up in the sounds of the city.

  She who hesitates is lost: that was what Ms. Kleinberg always said when she was trying to get us to take the open shot. I climbed down the ladder, walked quickly into the alley, and headed for the street.

  Snowflakes drifted through the air in ones and twos. The cars and buses going by had their wipers on, but there wasn’t much traffic, and hardly any walkers at all. No one took any notice of me. I picked up the pace. After not too long I was passing Joe Louis, the school yard deserted at this hour, of course—except that it wasn’t. Over in the far corner sat a small figure, back against the chain-link fence.

  The gate to the yard was locked, but there was a hole in the fence big enough for someone my size to walk through without even stooping. I walked through, crossed the yard, reached the small figure sitting in the corner, snowflakes landing on his dreads.

  “Tut-Tut?” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  He looked up. Even in those low-light conditions, I could see that something was wrong. Tut-Tut’s upper lip was swollen on the left side, and there was a cut above his left eye. One of the characters in On/Off dreamed of being a boxer, although he was actually a dental office supply salesman, so my dad read tons about boxing for a month or so, and one thing I learned was that right-hand punches land on the left side of the other guy’s face.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Your uncle?”

  He nodded, just a little nod, hardly any movement at all.

  “Why didn’t you go to HQ?”

  He shrugged. That shrug was one of the saddest things I’d ever seen.

  “Come on,” I said, extending my hand. “It’s starting to snow.” His eyes shifted. He tracked a falling snowflake and the expression on his face began to change, leaving pure misery behind. Tut-Tut took my hand. I helped him up. A cold gust of wind rippled the thin fabric of his hoodie. That was all he wore—the hoodie, plus tattered jeans and my old sneakers, one of the laces now missing. “How about wearing my gloves for a bit?” I said.

  He thrust his hands quickly into the warmer on the hoodie and shook his head. No way I could abandon Tut-Tut out in the cold. Somehow he had to come home with me. Was there time? I checked on my phone: 11:57. No. So therefore?

  “There’s some news,” I said. “On the robbing-from-the-rich front.”

  Tut-Tut looked interested.

  “I’ll have to tell you on the way.”

  We walked fast, snow starting to fall a little more heavily now, but melting the moment it hit pavement. I told Tut-Tut about Borg’s conversations with Sheldon Gunn and the long-nosed guy, even mentioned the part about the Saudis, none too clear in my own mind. I watched Tut-Tut carefully as I told him. He didn’t even break stride, simply nodded, like if I was saying it, then it had to make sense.

  We came to the bridge over the canal. On the far side stood the Red Goat. Still lopsided, but lights shone inside, customers were at the bar, and Big Nanny was back in her place over the door. Hey! That was our doing!

  Tut-Tut and I crossed the bridge. Down below, the canal looked sluggish and green, like it was made of some oily gel; falling snowflakes turned black on the surface and vanished at once. I checked the time: 12:24. Something was about to happen, but what? I walked right up to the window of the Red Goat and peered inside. There were maybe seven or eight people inside, but the only one I recognized was Duke behind the bar, an overhead light gleaming on his shaved head.

  Tut-Tut spoke behind me. “B-b-b-b—”

  I turned. Tut-Tut had crossed the street and was gazing at the canal. I ran over. Something was moving out there. A boat? Yes, a boat, which was Tut-Tut had been trying to tell me. The boat had no lights showing, except for the display panel at the console, its dull greenish light reflecting on the face of the driver: Egil Borg. As the boat came closer, Tut-Tut and I shrank back against a huge and rotting bollard that rose up from the depths of the canal. My uncle Joe had a powerboat a lot like this one, maybe not quite as long, but with the same sort of big cabin in the bow. He’d taken me waterskiing behind it the summer before, if getting up for the odd second or two counted as waterskiing. But Uncle Joe’s engine was much noisier; Borg’s made a low purr. Borg glided his boat to a stop at the foot of the bridge, tied up to a post, climbed onto dry land, and started up the stone stairs that led to the street. A closed and locked gate stood at the top of the stairs—you weren’t supposed to go down there—but it wasn’t high, and Borg vaulted over in one easy motion.

  Tut-Tut and I slid around the bollard, staying in its shadow. Borg didn’t cross the street, but moved a few steps closer to us, where a second bollard stood, and stayed there; in the shadows, just like us. He waited. So did we.

  The snow started coming harder. I’m a big lover of snow, but at the moment, I was way too nervous to enjoy it. Tut-Tut, on the other hand, had his damaged face turned up to the sky, and wonder in his eyes. He stuck out his tongue and caught a snowflake.

  A taxi came down the street, stopping by the Red Goat. The back door opened, and out stepped the long-nosed guy, the guy with the briefcase who’d gone all ecstatic at the sight of the Schlecks’ fire. And now I had a name for him: Henkel. And his occupation, straight from Sheldon Gunn: pyromaniac.

  Henkel closed the door, and the taxi drove off. He glanced around. Borg made a little psst-psst sound. Henkel crossed the street and joined him. They moved behind the bollard. Tut-Tut and I moved, too, just enough to see them without being seen, we hoped.

  “You’re late,” Borg said.

  “Frickin’ weather,” said Henkel; he had a high, whiny voice. “You try getting a cab.”

  There was a pause. Borg’s voice, hard to begin with, hardened some more. “Are you in or out?”

  “Whoa,” said Henkel. “In, for sure. Thought you knew that.”

  “Then don’t be late and don’t make excuses,” Borg said.

  “Okay, sorry.”

  “You remember what out means, Henkel?”

  Henkel’s voice got squeaky. “I said I was sorry.”

  “Do you know the most important differ
ence between people?” Borg said.

  “Some have money and some don’t?”

  Borg shook his head. “Some—that is to say most—are replaceable. Others—the very few—are not.”

  “Huh,” said Henkel. “I never knew that.”

  At that moment, a customer came out of the Red Goat, throwing a shaft of light across the street. It illuminated Borg’s eyes, and Henkel got a good look at the expression in them.

  “But now I do,” he said quickly. “Much obliged.”

  The door of the Red Goat closed, cutting off the light. The customer walked off, talking to himself. “Snow,” he said. “That’s all I need.”

  Borg unzipped his jacket a few inches, reached in and took out a thick manila envelope. He handed it to Henkel.

  “Hey, thanks,” Henkel said.

  But Borg hadn’t let go. “No screwups,” he said.

  “Don’t worry,” said Henkel.

  Borg laughed, a strange laugh, sharp and brief, that didn’t sound amused in any way. “I’m a worrier, Henkel,” he said. “Remember that.” He let go of the envelope. Henkel tucked it away.

  “No complaints last time, right?” he said, sounding more assertive, as though whatever was in the envelope had made him stronger. “I know my job.”

  “Aren’t you going to count it?” Borg said.

  “I trust you,” said Henkel.

  “That’s wise of you,” Borg said. “As for jobs, you’re only as good as the next one. I’ll be waiting down below for your report.” He moved toward the gate, then paused. “And keep your eyes peeled.”

  “For what?” said Henkel.

  “Any sort of trouble.”

  “Like?”

  Borg glanced quickly around. Tut-Tut and I tried to vanish into the bollard. “I don’t know,” Borg said. “I just sense something.”

  “The weather, most likely,” said Henkel.

  Borg gave him a look, not friendly, then vaulted back over the gate and disappeared down the stone stairs. Henkel turned and started toward the bridge.

  We waited, Tut-Tut and I, until Henkel was halfway across the bridge. Then, without any signal between us, we both left the shadows of the bollard and started following. The wind had risen, and the snowflakes, so soft before, now carried a sting. A van went fishtailing by, and a man stood in front of a bodega scattering salt crystals from a bag, but hardly anyone else was around. Henkel walked quickly for a few blocks, never looking back, then stopped suddenly in a dark doorway. Dark, but not so dark that I missed the flash of the manila envelope. He was counting the money after all.