I passed by him now and he didn’t look up from the TV.
The train ride to Lincoln Square, where the Davis is located, was quick and blessedly uneventful.
Tyler was waiting in the lobby with popcorn, 3-D glasses, and a look of genuine relief. “Hey,” he said, kissing my cheek, smelling lemony fresh, “you are okay. The Russians just appeared out of nowhere, huh?”
“Something like that. I’m okay . . .”
“Better than okay. You look great, like you could star in one of these movies.”
“It would have to be a drama,” I said.
“Ed Debevic,” he said with a nod.
“I’ve got a big decision to make. Next Friday.”
“Yeah. I thought that’s what you wanted to discuss,” he said, holding up the glasses. “That’s why I picked the crappiest film.”
He wasn’t kidding.
It was one of those films where you knew from the first second how it ends—the interplanetary cop with a chip on his shoulder redeems himself by trying to prevent Earth from blowing up, yawn—and the theater was empty. We put on our glasses, stared for a second, and turned to each other. “So.” Tyler sighed. “You have to choose a new Boss.” His face was taut, less curious than concerned.
“That’s the rule. Either Knuckles or you.”
He nodded, saying, “Listen to this. I was meeting with Knuckles—more cash to fight the Russians—when news came in about you on the bridge. Guess what he said.”
“I’m sure it was tender and heartfelt.”
“The old bastard snorted and said, ‘That’s what you get when it’s a girl versus men. She took a dive, literally. Fighting is a man’s job.’”
“‘Man’s job,’” I repeated. “I’ve heard that one before.”
“Could you ever imagine that dinosaur as the boss, as the guy we’d have to answer to?” He chuckled, shaking his head.
“No, of course not. It’ll never happen, not in a million years,” I said. “But . . . it’s not going to happen for you, either.”
His eyebrows rose with the corners of his mouth, the grin amused and a little surprised. “What makes you think I’d accept being boss?” he asked.
“Nothing, but you knew I wouldn’t name Knuckles,” I said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “So that leaves you. You had to be thinking about it.”
“Sure, it was on my mind,” he said. “This sounds crazy, but I even wondered, if I became boss, could I change the Outfit? Legitimize it somehow. Turn it into a real corporation instead of a criminal one. The organizational structure is in place—”
“It’s impossible,” I said. “The members obey rules, mostly, but you know what really drives them.”
“Money,” said the VP of Money, as the film flickered around us. “It’s all about the cash.”
“Wads of it, dirty and tax-free,” I said. “Greed trumps everything—loyalty, friendship . . . I’ve seen it in sit-down after sit-down. The rank and file are a bunch of violent psychopaths for a reason. It allows them to do anything for money.”
“They’d never settle for normal jobs and salaries. You’re right. The Outfit will never change. It’s our life,” he said, pursing his lips, “the only one we’ve got.”
“Maybe not.”
“What do you mean?”
I hesitated, unsure how to say what needed to be said without revealing too much information. “I’ve still got to name someone boss,” I said, lifting the 3-D glasses.
Tyler lifted his glasses, too, his green eyes cutting the gloom. “But not Knuckles or me. You’re going outside the rules?”
I nodded once, slowly.
“Who?” he said.
I wondered then—what would happen if I told him about my family and Elzy? I’d asked myself if I could trust him, and I thought now that I could. As my Whispering Smith, he’d passed on information for no reason other than my safety, asking for nothing in return. I’d helped him with the smash-and-grab guy, but that was by choice. Tyler had gone further than me when it came to watching out for each other, alerting me to the threats dangerous men might act upon if my cold fury lost its hold on them. But something held me back—maybe a calcified instinct to keep my family’s secrets, or perhaps I’d become too Outfit, too wary of showing all my cards—and I said, “I can’t tell you. Not yet. You have money set aside, right? A stash of your own?”
“Yeah, of course, but whoever it is, you can trust me with it. You should know that by now.”
“I do, I trust you, Tyler. But I have reasons, personal ones, why I can’t tell you,” I said. “Look, if there was ever a time for you to escape this life, it’s right now, before I name the new boss. I don’t want to do it. I hate this person as much as I’ve ever hated anyone. But I don’t have a choice. Afterward, things in the Outfit are going to change. Muscle and Money are too important. The VPs . . . Knuckles and you . . . won’t be allowed to keep your jobs.”
He looked at me solemnly. “How about our lives?”
A tingle of terror went through me, knowing Elzy’s cold-blooded philosophy. “It’s questionable,” I said, and paused. “No, it’s not, it’s certain.” I leaned close and put my hand on his. “I’m telling you this because I care about you. You have to trust me in return.”
He pursed his lips, looking into the distance. “I wish my dad was here. He’d tell me what to do.”
“He’d tell you to run,” I said. “You don’t have a choice either.”
Tyler turned back and said, “What happens to you?”
“I have to see it through, name the boss, and then . . .” I shrugged, thinking of my family, and of escape. I’d told Tyler all I could. The rest belonged to me.
“One week until a new boss,” he said. “So are we saying good-bye for good?”
It struck me then that I was pushing him away for his own safety, losing him almost like I’d lost Max. A friend, someone I could trust, gone. “I think so,” I said, swallowing the words.
“I have so many questions—”
“I know you do,” I said. “But even if I answered them, it wouldn’t help you now.”
He slid an arm around me, pulled me close, and we kissed briefly. “Thank you, Sara Jane,” he said. “I just wish it wasn’t this way. We could’ve been—”
“I know. Me too. I wish . . .”
We sat back then, staring at the screen, waiting for the world to blow up.
• • •
We hugged outside the theater, holding on to each other until a sleek black car pulled up. Tyler got inside, lowered the window, and waved as it sped away. I watched until it was gone, then hurried down the sidewalk and onto a train. It took off with a lurch and then the tracks were clattering beneath me as I traveled toward the Bird Cage Club.
I stared out the window thinking of Tyler’s words, We could’ve been—
This day had proven it. There were no happy endings.
Why are you so surprised? I thought. This is real life, not a movie.
The trip was as uneventful as the one to the Davis. I walked down the stairs and hit the sidewalk looking for utility vehicles and delivery scooters. Taxis passed by without pausing and a cop car sped around a corner barely slowing its pace. It was almost eleven p.m. when I passed through the grease-clouded door of Phun-Ho to Go.
The guy was behind the counter as always, the TV blaring into his face.
Something was different—I saw it immediately.
His eyes were pinned on me instead of the screen, tracking me to the men’s room. He cleared his throat and I stopped. “Your carryout is ready,” he said.
“My . . . carryout?” I said suspiciously, surprised the guy could actually talk.
“Deliver itself, scratching on door,” he said, looking into the kitchen, whistling.
I heard the tick-tacking first, and then
a low whine.
Harry limped out from behind the counter.
I’d been wrong in my meeting with Lucky—my tears hadn’t dried up, not completely, not for the joy of seeing the little dog. “Oh my god,” I whispered, dropping to my knees, scooping him up, and burying my face in his fur. “Harry . . . you’re here . . . you’re alive!” If dogs can hug, Harry did, and when I nuzzled him, he nuzzled me back. It was like holding a dream.
“Dog smell like river,” the guy said, wrinkling his nose. He was right, Harry stunk, with crusty mud coating his body. I inspected his head and snout, seeing the deep cuts and scratches inflicted by Vlad, all of it matted with dried blood. “Also, hungry as bear. I wrap up sliced chicken to go.”
“Thank you . . . thank you so much,” I said, standing with Harry in my arms.
“It’s just chicken.”
“Not for that. For him, for taking him in,” I said.
“No thank me, counselor.” He shrugged. “You do your job, I do mine.”
I hurried through the men’s room and into the elevator, the ride seeming to take forever. When I looked at Harry, he was looking back. “You saved my life again,” I said. He breathed through his nose and seemed to smile as the elevator reached the penthouse.
The Bird Cage Club was dark.
I saw Doug bundled on the couch, heard him snoring. Gently, I placed Harry on the ground and whispered, “Go to him.” He did, his claws announcing his approach, making my friend sit upright. Doug rubbed sleep from his eyes, blinked at the little dog, and rubbed them again. First disbelief, and then slow joy spread over his face.
In the quietest of voices, he said, “Are you real?”
21
SUNDAY WAS A DAY OF CELEBRATION, OF unrestrained joy, and the scrubbing of a small, gray, Italian hero with four legs who, like Lazarus, had risen from the dead. The idea of it made Doug consider going to church, briefly, but instead we gave thanks to Harry for being such a little badass. He’d fought for us, almost died for us, and best of all, found his way back to us.
Monday, by contrast, was a day of suffering.
Vlad had predicted it, and it was true—waiting another twenty-four hours to call Czar Bar to find out when I could pick up my mom and Lou was torture, as was the idea of leaving my dad behind. Each minute seemed like an hour, on and on it went, from the Bird Cage Club to Fep Prep and back again. The sun went down, I stared at the ceiling, and when the sun rose Tuesday morning, I dialed Czar Bar. It rang for six thousand years until a heavily accented voice said, “Czar Bar . . .”
“This is Sara Jane Rispoli, may I talk to—”
“. . . leave message.”
I hung up, paced, dressed, and tried again, allowing several jangling millennia and “leave message” to pass through my ear again before breaking the connection. I’d just hit Redial when Doug called out that we were going to be late for school.
As I entered the room, he said, “Hooray. Field-trip day.”
“Crap,” I said. “I forgot about it.”
“It’s covered. I worked out the details with Thumbs-Up yesterday, even wrote our little speech,” he said. “The bus leaves Fep Prep at noon with him, us, and seventy-five pimply freshmen. Including Classic Movie Club during third period, it’s a complete blow-off day.”
“What are we watching?”
“A Fistful of Dollars. It’s about a violent loner out for justice. You can probably skip it,” he answered, “since you live it.”
I looked at my phone. “With everything that’s happening, the past few days just seem so . . . absurd. Field trips, movies . . . all I care about is the safe return of my family.”
“One family member made it,” he said, leaning down and kissing Harry.
“How many times have you kissed him this morning?”
“Too many to count,” he said. “Can’t get enough of that puppy love.”
• • •
I tried Czar Bar before homeroom and after, before Trigonometry and after, and was standing outside the Theater room, phone in hand, when Gina approached.
“Texting,” she said, arching an eyebrow, “or sexting?”
“Trying to call a friend,” I said, putting my phone away.
“You only have one, and I just saw him go into the Theater room.”
I stared at her for a moment. “Why are you so mean to me?”
“Excuse me?” she said, taken aback. “You were mean first. You stopped hanging out with me.”
“Yeah. In seventh grade. When your social life started and mine stopped.”
“Not my fault. Your parents were so protective, they barely let you out of the house,” she said. “Are they still like that?”
“Yes and no. I mean, I’m not home much.”
“God, remember Mandi Fishbaum’s birthday party in sixth grade? When Walter J. Thurber kissed you?”
“Mandi’s still pissed off at me.”
“Can you believe what a pothead Walter’s become?” she said. “I was sworn to secrecy, but his sister’s hairstylist told me—”
I held up a hand. “Please. I don’t care. It’s none of my business.”
She nodded, smiling a little. “I’m sorry about the thing the other day, the Max thing. It was asshole-ish of me.”
“It’s okay.”
“If I hear anything else about him from Mandi, should I tell you?”
I thought about it, feeling how useless it was. “No.”
“What if it’s juicy?”
“Especially if it’s juicy.”
“Suit yourself,” she said. “So what are we watching?”
“It’s old, you’ve probably never heard of it. A Fistful of Dollars.”
“Nineteen sixty-four, directed by Sergio Leone, starring Clint Eastwood,” she said. “I’m more than just gossip, Sara Jane. I love movies.”
Apparently.
She and Doug sat next to each other during the movie, whispering about cinematography, spaghetti Westerns, and other things that I stopped listening to. It was impossible for me to concentrate on the screen, and I left the room several times, dialing Czar Bar to no avail. After the movie was over—after Doug and Gina continued arguing in the hallway about the meaning of the ending and after she departed, insisting we watch Vertigo next time—Doug said, “Who would’ve guessed?”
“What? That Gina was a such movie nerd?”
“Yeah, but something else. That she’d inspire me,” he said with wonder. “I was talking about Clint Eastwood’s moral justification, and she says—this is a quote—‘Stuffins, you’re a complete idiot if you don’t become a film director someday.’”
“Wow,” I said, seeing the perfect logic of it, “she’s right.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s so weird. All the years I’ve spent watching movies. I mean, I considered it, of course, but never thought I could actually make them.”
“You know what I like most about it? You’re thinking about the future. What you’re going to do after, you know, this all ends.”
“This?” he asked with a little smile. “School today? The field trip?”
“You know what I mean,” I said. “Anyway, yeah, you’d be an awesome director, Doug. That’s my opinion.”
“Yours means the most,” he said. “Now come on, let’s go to the Willis Tower and look at the view from almost fifteen hundred feet in the sky.”
“School spirit. It’s killing me.”
“True fact. Rah-rah is the last sound many nerds and geeks hear before dying,” he said, leading me out the main entrance and down the steps to where a bus idled.
I stared at the long yellow vehicle and said, “That thing makes me nervous.”
“Relax,” he said, “it’s a goggle-free zone.”
A torrent of students rushed past and began piling on, jockeying for places to sit,
which reminded me of something. “Seats,” I murmured.
“There’s room for everyone,” Doug said, pulling a clipboard from his backpack.
“In the Ferrari, I mean. There are only two. We’re going to have to take out the passenger seat so we can fit in my mom and Lou.”
“So now we have an after-school project,” he said, as we climbed onto the bus. He moved away, checking off kids’ names as the driver revved the engine and Mr. Novak bounded aboard. Grinning like a chubby jack-o’-lantern, tufts of hair encircling his ears like fuzzy gray earmuffs, he clapped his hands vigorously, shushing students, and cried:
“It’s on to Willis Tower
aboard this fine bus!
Let’s make our school proud,
because . . . !”
He paused. No one said a word.
“Becau-u-u-se . . . !” he repeated, louder and more forcefully.
“Fep Prep is us!” the kids shouted.
“Exact-a-mundo!” he said with a thumbs-up as we chugged away. He sat on the seat across from me, gave my knee a friendly tap, and said, “Excited?”
“Absolutely,” I answered, pressing a smile onto my face.
“You should be.” He winked, straightening his tie, which was decorated with rubber duckies. “It’s not every day you get to have an adventure in the city!”
Embers & Ash Page 17
