Junior yelped and flung his hands up to cover his head. The car swerved toward the oncoming traffic.
“Junior!” Gunny reached over the boy to grab the wheel. “Keep shifting!” he shouted, since Junior had access to the clutch and manual gear shift.
A siren wailed. Gunny desperately hoped it was the police.
Ping! A bullet hit the rearview mirror, shearing it off.
“They’re going to kill us!” Junior wailed.
Gunny’s heart leaped into his throat, plummeted to his stomach and came back up again. The sirens weren’t from police cars—they announced the fire engine heading straight toward them.
He yanked the wheel hard, his elbow connecting with some part of Junior. The car swerved sharply and squeaked out of the fire engine’s way just in time.
All around them cars honked and drivers shouted and cursed at them. Gunny ignored it all, concentrating on keeping the car in one lane and ahead of the bullets. Sweat drenched his shirt and dripped into his eyes, but he stayed focused. The world narrowed to the path he was making through traffic.
Shards of glass rained down on them, and Junior let out another yelp. The back window had been shattered by a bullet. The tires screeched as Junior skidded the car to a stop at the mouth of an alleyway.
“Come on,” Gunny said, flinging open his door. He practically fell onto the pavement.
He glanced back and saw the boy was too terrified to move. Gunny reached back into the car and dragged Junior out by his jacket.
“On your feet now!” Gunny ordered.
The steel in Gunny’s voice must have jump-started Junior’s brain. The boy’s feet hit the sidewalk, and together they tore into the alley.
Dead end.
“This way,” Junior said. Gunny watched the boy jump up to grab the steel rungs of the ladder on the fire escape, pulling the ladder down toward the ground. He clambered up, then turned and reached out his hand to Gunny.
“I can do it,” Gunny snarled. He jumped up and gripped the cold metal. With a little huff, he hoisted himself the rest of the way up onto the fire escape. Then he followed Junior up to the roof.
In the street below, Gunny heard the unmistakable sound of bullets. “Down!” Gunny hissed. He pressed hard on Junior’s shoulders, buckling the boy’s knees. Gunny lay flat and peered over the edge of the roof; Junior did the same.
A nondescript black car sped by, and a volley of shots hit the car Junior had just been driving. Whoosh! The engine caught fire.
Gunny watched the flames, catching his breath. There were no more shots.
Junior rolled over and lay on his back, his body shuddering as he tried to calm his breathing. “Why would anyone want to kill me?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
Gunny looked at the frightened boy. “You tell me.”
Junior raised his eyes to Gunny’s face. “I—I don’t know.”
Gunny frowned. Was Junior a target for some reason? Gunny shook off the thought as soon as he had it. It just didn’t make enough sense. “Who knew you were driving Ambrose’s car?” he asked.
Slowly Junior sat up. “Just Ambrose. And maybe some of the construction crew. We were at his site, and there was some problem. Ambrose couldn’t get away, so he asked me to pick up the envelopes.”
“The envelopes,” Gunny said, putting it together. “Do you know what’s inside them?”
Junior shrugged. “I never looked.”
“Well, I think those people shooting at us resent giving Ambrose those little envelopes. You should stay away from him.”
Junior quickly switched from bewildered and frightened to belligerent and defiant. “You sound just like my father.”
Gunny flinched as he remembered the news he still had to deliver.
“Let’s get out of here,” Gunny said, offering Junior a hand up. “We need to go see your mother.”
Junior crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet. “That’s right. You said something happened. And I’m not moving from this spot until you tell me what.”
Gunny studied the boy. This was big. This wasn’t a scolding about joyriding or staying out too late.
“Come on,” Gunny said. “We have to go.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you, old man, until you tell me why.”
Junior’s dark brown eyes never left Gunny’s face. It was a stare-down, and Gunny realized he was going to blink first.
“It—it’s your father.”
Junior scowled. “He told you to come and get me, is that it? Well you tell him—”
“No,” Gunny interrupted. “Someone shot him. He’s dead.”
Gunny watched Junior’s face transform as the boy slowly comprehended the significance of what Gunny had just told him. His eyes widened and suddenly flicked to the ground. Junior swallowed a number of times, as if there were something trapped in his throat. His head shook, as if his brain were fighting off the knowledge that his father had been killed.
Gunny was at a loss for words. He had known Junior and his family all of the boy’s life, but he had never been part of it. How do you comfort someone who is practically a stranger? And what did boys need to hear in moments like this anyway?
Jed was wrong, Gunny thought. I am not up to this task.
“I—I’m sorry, Junior,” Gunny said. “Truly.”
Junior took a deep breath and looked up at Gunny again.
“My mom. Delia. Are they okay?” he asked.
“They weren’t harmed,” Gunny assured him.
“I need to see them,” Junior said, jogging toward the fire escape.
As upset by the news as Junior obviously was, Gunny noticed the boy’s first thoughts were of the rest of his family. Gunny hadn’t expected that.
Gunny and Junior walked through the door of the Wright apartment, just two floors below Jed’s. Cousin Mary sat beside Delia, and three women Gunny recognized from the neighborhood were pouring coffee and setting out sandwiches.
A short, stout police officer stood by Mrs. Wright, scribbling notes in a notepad. “Tell me,” the officer was saying, “can you think of anyone who might want to harm your husband?”
“No, no one.” Mrs. Wright looked composed, but her dark skin was ashen, and she spoke faintly, as if she were far away. “Everyone loved Jeffrey.”
Her eyes wandered the room, looking for confirmation. “Junior!”
Junior rushed over to his mother and they embraced. “Your father—he—”
“I know, Mama, I know,” Junior told her.
“Thank you for bringing him home,” Mrs. Wright said to Gunny over Jed’s shoulder.
Junior released his mother and turned to the officer. “Do you have any suspects?” he asked, sounding very adult.
“Jed Sweeney was found with the gun,” the policeman said. “He’s in custody.”
Junior’s face went nearly purple with rage. “I’ll kill him!”
“Now, son, calm down,” the officer said mildly.
“I knew Jumpin’ Jed would never let Daddy leave the band!” Junior shouted.
Uh-oh, Gunny thought. Junior was providing just the kind of motive the police were looking for. It confirmed the theory they already had, and they could simply call the case closed.
“Your father hadn’t decided yet,” Mrs. Wright argued. “And even if he had, Jed Sweeney certainly wouldn’t have shot him over it. Now hush.”
Junior’s jaw set, but he stopped talking. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, glaring.
“Mama—,” Delia began.
“Officer, clubs have been broken up before by rival gangster owners,” Gunny said, interrupting Delia, trying to get things back on track. “Shouldn’t you be looking at them?”
The policeman narrowed his eyes at Gunny. “And you are?…”
“Vincent Van Dyke, but everyone calls me ‘Gunny.’”
“So, Mr. Van Dyke, what’s your interest here?”
“My interest is the truth. And I know Jed Sweeney is innocent.”
“Oh, you know that, do you?” The policeman sneered. “Well, without Halliday or any other eyewitness, there’s only so much we can do.”
“Marvin still hasn’t turned up?” Gunny asked.
“Nope. But the gun we found on your pal had its entire round shot. Not all the bullets were in Mr. Wright. They could be in Mr. Halliday.”
“Or Marvin could be in hiding,” Gunny suggested. The last thing Jed needed was to be suspected of killing Marvin, too. “He could be afraid to come forward.”
Delia put down her sandwich. “Mama—”
“Not now, honey,” Mrs. Wright said. “The grownups need to talk.”
Delia rolled her eyes and left the room.
“We’ll let you know if we find out anything,” the officer said. He flipped his notepad shut. “Sorry for your loss, ma’am.” He gave a little nod, then left the room.
Junior exploded. “How can you defend Jed Sweeney?” he shouted at Gunny. “He did this, and if you’re on his side, then you’re not on ours.”
He turned and stormed into the other room, pulling the door behind him so hard the pictures on the living-room wall rattled.
Mrs. Wright turned a worried face to Gunny. “I don’t believe Jed had anything to do with this. He’s a victim too. Sitting in that jail.”
“I’m glad to hear you believe in his innocence,” Gunny said. “He’s going to need all the supporters he can get. I think we’re going to have quite a time convincing the police.”
Gunny rubbed his face wearily. Junior wasn’t going to make it any easier.