Book One of the Travelers

by D. J. MacHale

  “I sincerely hope Junior and his family are faring well during this difficult time.” Ambrose gave Gunny what looked like a sincere smile. Well, his lips were smiling but his eyes had a hard look to them. Then he gave his men a signal, and they all strolled away.

  Gunny watched them as they turned the corner. He had a feeling if he was going to try to keep Junior safe, getting him away from Ambrose might be a good place to start.

  Gunny perched on the edge of the rickety cot in Jed Sweeney’s jail cell.

  “The whole neighborhood turned out for the funeral this morning,” he told Jed. “I think that made Mrs. Wright proud.”

  “How are Delia and Junior holding up?”

  “Hard to say. They were very dignified at the funeral. Even Junior kept himself in check.”

  “Good.”

  “How does Ambrose Jackson figure with the Wrights?” Gunny asked. “Were he and Jeffrey close?”

  “What does your gut tell you?” Jed asked.

  “My gut usually just tells me it’s time for lunch,” Gunny joked.

  “You should pay attention to your instincts,” Jed said. “You can trust them. Listen to that inner voice and tell me what you think of Ambrose.”

  Jed had always been a bit eccentric but had never steered him wrong, so Gunny decided to try it. He shut his eyes and pictured Ambrose. He opened his eyes again. “Ambrose is bad news.” He snorted a laugh. “But I don’t think that’s a particularly surprising conclusion to come to.”

  “Do you think he could be harmful to the Wrights?” Jed pressed.

  “I don’t think he has that boy’s best interests in mind. But I don’t know what kind of danger he could pose.”

  Jed nodded. “I’ve felt the same way about Ambrose since he started spending so much time in the neighborhood. Nothing I could put my finger on. There’s just something…”

  “Oily? Snakelike?”

  Jed smiled. “Exactly.”

  “Is there a link between Marvin Halliday, Jeffrey Wright, and Ambrose Jackson?” Gunny asked.

  “I did see the three of them together at times,” Jed said. “And I know Jeffrey didn’t want Junior doing errands for Ambrose.”

  Gunny shrugged. “That could be because the errands took Junior to bad neighborhoods or encouraged him to break laws.”

  “Don’t let on to Mrs. Wright,” Jed said, “but I often loaned Jeffrey money, and so did other members of the band. Money we never saw again. He always promised he’d have it any day now but…”

  Gunny’s eyebrows raised. “Do you know what Jeffrey needed the money for?”

  Jed shook his head. “I always assumed it was for the kids. I never had any of my own, but I do know raising a family is expensive.”

  “Could he have been gambling?” Gunny asked.

  Jed shrugged. “Could be. Do you think that’s why Marvin’s club was smashed up, and Jeffrey killed? Over gambling debts?”

  “I’m beginning to think that’s exactly why—and I think Ambrose had something to do with it.”

  Jed’s dark eyes widened. “Then it’s even more important you keep an eye on Junior. If he’s spending time with Ambrose…”

  “I know,” Gunny said. “Junior could be heading for deep trouble.”

  The next evening the party to raise bail money for Jed was in full swing at the Wrights’ apartment when Gunny arrived. He was surprised when Mrs. Wright suggested she host it, until she explained that she just wanted to keep busy. “Besides,” she added, “I want everyone to know I don’t hold Jed responsible. Even Junior sees that now.”

  Gunny paid his dollar at the door and scanned the room. Jed would be proud to see how many people not only believed he was innocent but were willing to share their hard-earned dollars to try to help him. A buffet table was filled with potluck dishes and music blared from the radio. Several couples were dancing to the new hot swing.

  Delia gave Gunny a shy wave. “Where’s your brother?” he asked when he joined her.

  Delia frowned. “He won’t come out of his room,” she said.

  “I’ll go have a chat with him,” Gunny said.

  He lightly rapped on the door, but didn’t wait for a response; he just turned the knob. He had a feeling Junior wouldn’t have let him in if given an option.

  The room was dark, but Gunny could make out Junior lying on his bed. The boy was on his stomach, gazing through the window.

  “Leave me alone,” Junior said.

  “Just came in to see how you are.”

  “Fine.”

  “Now, son, don’t go telling lies. I wouldn’t be fine if I had just lost my father.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Junior demanded, not turning his head. “Bust out crying?”

  Gunny grimaced. He was saying all the wrong things. Why did Jed keep insisting that he do this?

  He heard a commotion of some sort on the other side of the door, but concentrated on Junior. “Well, if you feel like crying—”

  “I don’t!” Junior flipped over onto his back. “I feel like being left alone.”

  “Your Mama says—”

  Three quick raps on the door interrupted Gunny. Three raps in slower succession, then three fast ones again got Junior to swing his feet to the floor. He stared at the door.

  “Junior?” Gunny asked.

  “Something’s wrong,” Junior said. “That’s our code. Delia and me.”

  The raps came again, with more urgency this time.

  “SOS,” Gunny said, recognizing the sequence from his army training.

  Junior crossed the room in three long steps and opened the door.

  Delia grabbed his hand. “Mama’s upset. Come quick.”

  Gunny followed the children into the main room. Now he understood the commotion. Chubby Malloy had arrived.

  “You have a lot of nerve showing up here!” a voice in the crowd shouted.

  “We’re trying to raise money for a man who is in jail instead of you!” someone else shouted.

  Chubby looked grim, but the thugs with him looked a lot grimmer.

  Mrs. Wright glared at the men. “I’ve already asked you to leave. And I don’t want to ask you again.”

  Junior pushed his way quickly through the group. “You heard my mother. You get out of here. Now!”

  To Gunny’s complete shock, Junior spit in the huge man’s face.

  Instantly the thugs had guns trained on Junior.

  Without thinking for even a split second, Gunny stepped in between Junior and the weapons. Just in time to hear the click of the triggers being cocked.

  SEVEN

  The boy just lost his father,” Gunny said softly, forcing himself to sound calm, even though he could feel his heart thudding against his ribs.

  How did he keep winding up with guns pointing straight at him?

  The room was silent as Gunny and Chubby stared at each other.

  “Grief does crazy things to people,” Gunny said.

  Now Chubby’s eyes narrowed and Gunny could tell the club owner was weighing his options. Then he held up one hand to signal his men not to move and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket with the other. Slowly he wiped his face.

  “He gets a pass,” Chubby said, his voice low and serious. “Once.”

  “Understood,” Gunny said.

  The gangsters put away their guns, and Gunny’s shoulders dropped back down to where they belonged, instead of hunched up by his ears.

  Chubby threw up his thick arms in exasperation. “What I don’t understand,” he demanded loudly, “is why everyone seems to think I had anything to do with this mess.” He looked around the room. Gunny noted that no one would meet Chubby’s gaze.

  “I don’t have to worry about Marvin Halliday and his sorry club. No one can compete with my Paradise,” Chubby huffed. “Why should I care if some drum player wants to set out on his own?” He seemed genuinely perplexed. Hurt, even.

  There were shuffling feet, averted eyes, and a few murmurs around the room
, but no one spoke.

  Chubby’s hurt look was replaced by flashing anger. “I don’t have to take this.” He yanked a fistful of dollar bills out of the “bail bowl.” “And I’m not giving a dime to Jed’s defense. In fact,” Chubby continued, lumbering back and forth in front of the door, “because of this insult, I’m going to fire Jumpin’ Jed’s JiveMasters!”

  Someone in the room gasped, but no one dared to say anything. Gunny knew everyone was afraid of making the situation worse.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Chubby nodded, as if he were warming to the notion. “I think I’ll go ahead with that championship boxing idea I had.” He rubbed his palms together and tipped his head toward his goons. “Don’t need a band for that, do you?”

  “No, boss,” a thug said. “No band. Just a loud bell!”

  Chubby let out a hooting laugh and clapped a beefy hand on the goon’s broad shoulder. “You got that right!”

  Chubby snapped his fingers, and he and his two bodyguards spun on their heels in unison, and the three men walked out. The room instantly felt bigger.

  The moment they left, the room burst into loud chatter. Gunny stared at the door that had just shut behind Chubby. Chubby’s genuine bewilderment and hurt had made a real impact. Gunny felt in his gut that Chubby wasn’t behind the hit. But if everyone, including the police, thought the culprit was either Chubby or Jumpin’ Jed, how would Gunny convince anyone to investigate somebody else?

  By getting the evidence himself.

  One day after the bail party, Gunny walked down the basement corridor of the Manhattan Tower Hotel toward his room. After seeing Jed in jail, Gunny had so much on his mind he felt as if his head would explode. He passed the hotel laundry, the vault, and the baggage room, and arrived at the door to his apartment. He was looking forward to stretching out on his bed, if only for a catnap.

  He stopped.

  The door was slightly ajar. He rarely locked his door, but he certainly hadn’t left it open, that much he knew.

  He held his breath and listened at the door.

  He heard a tiny scraping sound, as if someone had pushed a chair away from a table.

  No doubt about it. Someone was inside.

  EIGHT

  Treading as softly as he could, and keeping his eyes on the door, Gunny backed away. He kept his eyes on the door just in case the intruder stepped out.

  He ran his hand along the wall so that he’d know when he’d arrived at the laundry room. He needed a weapon, and the closest he’d find to one would be in here.

  The steamy air was filled with the scent of bleach and crisp smell of linen in the presses. He moved quickly—he didn’t want the intruder to slip away before he could discover who was there, and why.

  His eyes landed on the long dowels used to open the windows to allow steam to escape. At the basement level the windows were small and hard to reach; they could only be opened from the very top. He grabbed a dowel and tiptoed quickly back to his apartment. The door was still ajar.

  Holding the dowel in front of him as if it were a javelin, he charged his apartment. The door flew open and slammed hard against the wall. There was a high-pitched, terrified shriek and then a crash. A chair toppled over as a small figure ducked under the table.

  Gunny quickly switched his grip so he could swing the pole at the intruder’s head. His heart thudded as adrenaline pumped through him.

  “It’s me! Don’t hurt me!”

  Gunny blinked. Still gripping the dowel, he bent down and peered under the table.

  Two huge brown eyes in a round, dark face peered back.

  “Delia, what are you doing here?” Gunny demanded. He couldn’t believe he’d been frightened by an eleven-year-old girl. He crossed to the window and balanced the dowel in the corner. “Does your mother know where you are?” he asked.

  Delia looked away, which answered Gunny’s question.

  “Delia,” Gunny said with a scolding tone. Before he could say anything further, the phone jangled. He picked it up. “Yes?”

  “Gunny!”

  Mrs. Wright’s distraught voice came though loud and clear over the phone.

  “Don’t worry, Martha,” Gunny said, knowing exactly why she sounded so upset. “Delia is here with me.”

  “I was so worried,” Mrs. Wright said. “She simply disappeared. With Junior I wouldn’t have been so surprised, but Delia has never given me any cause for worry.”

  Gunny kept his eye on the girl. She was walking around his room, gazing at the picture on his wall.

  “Well, with all that’s been happening,” Gunny said softly, not wanting Delia to overhear them discussing her, “the girl probably just needed to get away for a bit.”

  “I suppose. She’s going to get quite the talking-to though. Going all the way to your place on her own. And scaring me half to death.”

  Delia had also scared Gunny half to death, but he wasn’t going to admit that!

  “I’ll bring her home myself,” Gunny promised Mrs. Wright, then hung up.

  Delia was studying him, an impatient look on her face.

  “Something bothering you, little missy?” Gunny asked.

  “I’m here because I think I know where Marvin Halliday might be,” she said. “Don’t you need him as a witness—to help Jumpin’ Jed?”

  Gunny gaped at Delia. This little girl could accomplish what the police and the adults in her neighborhood couldn’t? Discover the whereabouts of the prime witness?

  “You’re going to catch flies with your mouth hanging open like that,” Delia snapped. “Don’t act so surprised. I know things.”

  “I guess you do at that,” Gunny said. “Why do you think you can help us find Mr. Halliday?”

  Delia shrugged. “Everyone thinks I’m just a little kid. And a Goody Two-shoes. They hardly notice me. So they talk in front of me. Daddy often took me with him to the club or on errands when Mama was working. I heard things.”

  Now Gunny was curious. What did the child think she knew? “Go on. Where do you think Marvin Halliday is?”

  Delia smiled. She obviously enjoyed having someone take her seriously.

  “Daddy and Mr. Halliday both liked the ponies,” Delia said. “I thought if Mr. Halliday was upset about his club being ruined, maybe he’d go to where the ponies are. I went to the stables near Central Park, but no one I asked knew him. I thought maybe you would know some other place where you can be with ponies.”

  Interesting. Ambrose talked about having a “sure thing” coming in, and now it seemed that both Marvin and Jeffrey “liked the ponies.” This was adding up to a shared taste for gambling. And if both Marvin and Jeffrey owed money because of gambling—quite possibly to Ambrose—that could explain the motive right there. Ambrose was very quick to point the finger at Chubby.

  “You are an enterprising young lady,” Gunny said.

  Delia’s face lit up at the compliment.

  “Let me ask you something,” Gunny continued, amazed that he was using an eleven-year-old girl as a sounding board. “The police believe Jed might be guilty because your father was quitting the band. What do you think?”

  “Daddy wasn’t going to do that,” Delia said firmly. “I asked him and he said he liked it over at Chubby Malloy’s. I guess he didn’t get a chance to tell Mama—” Her voice broke off and Gunny was afraid she might cry. “So I told her. And Junior. Now even Junior knows it wasn’t Jed or Chubby.”

  “Junior believed you?” Gunny asked.

  Delia shrugged. “Junior is still real mad. He just doesn’t know who to be mad at. So I think that makes him even madder.”

  She gazed down at the floor. She swallowed hard and then her eyes widened. “Do you think Mr. Halliday was so mad about Daddy staying with Jed at Chubby’s that he killed Daddy?”

  Smart kid, Gunny thought. She’s found an angle that hadn’t occurred to any of us. “I don’t think so. That wouldn’t explain why Mr. Halliday’s club got all smashed up.”

  Delia looked relieved. “That’s
good. Daddy liked Mr. Halliday. It would be terrible if his friend was the one who shot him.”

  “What about Ambrose Jackson?” Gunny asked. “Were he and your father friends?”

  Delia pursed her lips in thought. She shook her head. “They acted like it, but I could tell Daddy really didn’t like Mr. Jackson. He was nervous around him.” She scowled. “I don’t like him either. He talks sweet, but it’s all fake.”

  “Thank you, Delia. You have been very helpful.” Kids see things adults don’t, Gunny realized. Most of the neighborhood seemed to consider Ambrose a great guy. The more he thought about it, the more he believed Ambrose was the guilty party.

  Now he just had to prove it.

  “Running all over town when I should be trying to raise money for Jed,” Gunny muttered. “Or finding evidence to nail Ambrose.” He pulled the collar of his coat higher. The rain was not improving his mood.

  He had just come back from seeing Jed in jail. Both agreed that the police wouldn’t simply accept Delia’s information—that her father had no intention of leaving Jed’s band—to clear Jed, even though it proved he had no motive. So Gunny was even more determined to find the proof linking Ambrose to the murder. He had a feeling the link would involve gambling.

  What surprised Gunny was that Jed still seemed more concerned about Gunny watching over Junior than he was in his own case. So here he was, keeping tabs on the boy.

  The soaking rain didn’t wash away the broken bottles or garbage littering the uneven streets. No wonder Jeffrey and Junior argued—if Gunny were Junior’s father, he wouldn’t want Junior spending his time down here either.

  Odd. In the dark neighborhood two windows glowed just below ground level. Faint sounds of shouting and laughter emanated from them. Something was going on in that warehouse basement.

  Gunny carefully made his way down the slick metal steps and peered in the grimy windows. “My, my, my,” he breathed.