20

Corey wished he’d had more experience with lawyers, because it didn’t feel like 10 percent was a fair share of the money from Haak. But that was all Filcher would give him.

Not that it made any difference. None of the coins was from the twenty-first century anyway. In Filcher’s office, Corey had at least been able to check the dates on them. Which meant he was stuck.

“Cheer up, it’s better than nothing!” Quinn said brightly, as the two walked down Greenwich Street. “Thirteen dollars and seventy-two cents? Heck, I wouldn’t sneeze at that.”

“You wouldn’t?” Corey said glumly. He felt the coins jingling in his pocket. How long before the money would run out? Then what—just live out life in 1917? Never see his parents or Zenobia or Leila or Papou again?

“No, sir, my dad makes less than that in a month!” Quinn declared. He was trying to make conversation, trying to be cheerful. But all Corey wanted to do was scream. Or jump in the river. “Anyways, me and the old man? We don’t get along too good no more. One day at the train depot I see this sign: ‘Cowboys needed, New York City, good pay.’ I figure it’s a mistake because it’s so strange, but I check the words and it ain’t. Well, heck, I say to myself, why not? Always wanted to visit the big city. So I sneak out. I got no money, but I make my way across the country hitching rides. To survive, I do everything—rodeos, magic tricks, ventriloquism, hypnotism, evangelism, all the isms you can think of. And here I am! Dirt poor but bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Yee-HAH, I love the energy of this city! How about you?”

“I—I can’t do this . . . ,” Corey muttered. “You have too much energy. And I have never in my life heard a real person say yee-hah and mean it.”

Quinn gave him a curious look. Then he pulled a penny out of his pocket and flipped it high into the air. “You need some food in your belly. Lunch is on the loser. Heads or tails?”

“Heads,” Corey said.

Quinn caught the penny as it came down. It was heads. “Aw, shoot, I lose.” He looked ahead to the end of the block, where an old guy was selling fruits and vegetables from a cart near the corner of Spring Street. Workers were emerging from a couple of nearby factory buildings, and a line had already formed in front of the cart. Quinn smiled. “Hee-hee. Watch this.”

In a few lightning-quick movements, he unhooked the satchel from his shoulder and pulled out a long rope and a floppy little dalmatian dog doll. “Say howdy to Rex.”

“Howdy to Rex,” Corey murmured.

Quinn hooked the satchel back over his shoulder, tied the rope around Rex’s neck, and dropped him to the sidewalk. Grabbing the other end of the rope, he walked toward Spring Street, whistling.

The rope was long. Quinn was almost to the fruit cart when the little doll started bouncing along after him. And barking.

Corey jumped back. The sound was high-pitched, sharp, and loud.

Quinn spun around. “Shush, Rex!”

For the first time all day, Corey laughed. This kid had been serious about being a ventriloquist. He really did know how to throw his voice.

The moment Quinn passed by the cart, the barking started again. Behind his back, Quinn was jerking the rope so that it looked like Rex was jumping up and down. Doing somersaults. Howling.

One by one, the people in line stared at the dog and began laughing—until even the dour old fruit peddler was doubled over. Corey couldn’t believe it. The trick was really kind of corny. Yet everyone seemed to think it was the funniest thing on earth.

Finally, to a smattering of applause, Quinn scooped up Rex and scooted away from the cart. “Hurry!” he whispered to Corey, breaking into a run.

That was when an apple fell out of Quinn’s satchel and rolled down the sidewalk.

“Hey! You!” the vendor shouted. “Thief! Thief! Stop him!”

Corey took off after Quinn. Now he saw that the satchel was bulging. Quinn’s act had been a distraction. He could do ventriloquism and sleight of hand!

As the two boys sprinted toward Vandam Street, Corey couldn’t help laughing. “Dude, you didn’t need to do that!” he called out.

“Yee-HAH! It was fun!” Quinn replied, racing around the corner and out of sight.

Corey followed close behind, but he had to stop in his tracks. Quinn had face-planted in the dark-blue uniform of a very sturdy policeman.

The man was at least six feet four. He smiled through a brush-handle mustache, tapping a wooden club in his hand. Two other cops sat on horses in the street nearby. All of them were just outside a stable with a sign that read NEW YORK CITY POLICE.

“Bad choice . . .” Quinn murmured.

“Glad you had yer fun, laddies,” the cop replied. “I’m Officer Blunt, and this is where fun goes to die.”

The old fruit vendor muttered bitterly as he pulled apples, pears, bananas, and carrots out of Quinn’s pack. Corey sat with his back to the wall, near the cart. He and Quinn hadn’t moved an inch from where the police had told them to stay.

“Sorry,” Quinn said. “My fault. I get a little crazy sometimes. They’re not going to put us in jail, are they?”

“They don’t put kids in jail for stealing fruit,” Corey said. “At least they don’t in the twenty-first—” He managed to close his mouth before the word century escaped. “Precinct!”

Officer Blunt was chatting with the vendor. He was also examining the fruit, eating some and occasionally tossing some to the two other officers for their horses. “They ain’t paying,” Quinn said. “How come they can do it and we can’t?”

“There will be laws against that someday,” Corey said.

“Oh, will there be?” Officer Blunt called out, sauntering over with his mouth full of apple. “You’re a fortune-teller, eh? And from what Luigi the fruit guy tells me, your buddy is a comedian and a thief. Maybe he can tell a nice joke while you predict the color of your jail cell walls. I’ll give you a hint. We don’t use paint. Hahhh!”

The other officers all burst out laughing.

Blunt squatted next to Corey and Quinn. Flecks of half-eaten apple flew from his mouth as he spoke. “I’m just joshin’ you boys,” he said. “How old are youse?”

Quinn straightened his back against the wall. “Eighteen. Both of us.”

“Heh, ya can’t fool me, sonny,” Blunt said. “Yer voice ain’t changed yet. Still high, like a boy’s. Tell me, you two have homes? Jobs? Any kind of identification? ’Cause I’m inclined to go lenient on youse if I know youse ain’t street kids. These days, with the gangs running out of the Seventh Avenue subway Gash . . .”

“I live uptown with my family,” Corey said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. He pulled the passport from his pocket. “This is my . . . father.”

Blunt smiled and shook his head. “Greek fellas. They all look alike, don’t they? And you, cowboy?”

“I just got here,” Quinn said, pulling a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “Tomorrow I’m going to try to get one of these jobs.”

Blunt unfolded the sheet. As he held it at arm’s length, Corey read it, too:

WANTED

WEST SIDE COWBOYS

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

Young Men, ages EIGHTEEN TO TWENTY-FIVE, are Encouraged to apply for dangerous but VERY WELL-PAYING JOB. Expert Horse-Handling Skills required, as well as Familiarity with Lasso and Whip. Must be comfortable riding in front of moving Train, and clearing Track of Any Impediment! Room, Board, and ample Compensation!

CONTACT

R. LYME, PIER 66, NEW YORK 16, NEW YORK

“Mmm,” Blunt said with a slight nod. “Well, I hope you’re serious. The city needs all the hands we can get. Trains is running up the West Side, hauling cargo, day and night—but nobody’s making deliveries on time, on account of all the drunks here and also up in the Tenderloin. They spill out of the bars, singing and happy, and they pass out on the tracks. Sometimes the drivers sees ’em but other times it’s toot-tooooot . . . splat! If you catch my drift.”

“I think I’m going to hurl,” Corey said.

“My horse skills are second to none,” Quinn said. “I know horses better ’n I know people. I ride ’em and raise ’em. Only thing I don’t do is teach ’em how to speak.”

“Impressive.” Blunt smiled. “So I’m assuming you . . . eighteen-year-olds are not in school and need a job. Is this correct?”

Corey looked uncertainly at Quinn. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, until you find employment on the tracks,” Blunt said, “we could use you at the precinct house—mucking out stalls, grooming, exercising the horses, riding them from precinct to precinct as needed.”

Quinn sprang to his feet. “We accept!”

“We?” Corey murmured.

“Excellent!” Officer Blunt said, then gestured toward the fruit guy. “Luigi, some lunch for the two young gentlemen, courtesy of New York’s Finest!”

“Yee-HAH!” Quinn cried out, leaping to his feet.

“Uh, just FYI,” Corey murmured as he stood up, “I don’t know how to ride.”

Quinn looked at him as if he’d just admitted to being a potted plant. The two boys eyed the cops, who were now gathered at the cart, just out of earshot. “Say, it’s all right if you don’t ride like a cowboy,” Quinn whispered. “They just need basic skills.”

“I meant, I don’t ride at all,” Corey replied. “Like . . . never been on a horse. I grew up in New York City.”

“Everyone in New York rides a horse!” Quinn shot back.

Which, Corey realized, was probably true. In 1917.

“Your family rich?” Quinn asked. “You only ride in automobiles?”

“Well, no to the first question,” Corey said.

“And the second . . . ?”

Quinn was staring at him. His eyes were big, blue, and penetrating. Corey had the feeling he could smell a lie a mile away.

“Okay, I have a confession to make,” Corey said quietly. “I’m not from around here. Well, I am, but I’m not. It’s hard to explain. But it is super important that I get back to where I need to go. The thing is, Quinn, I need something in order to do it. And what I need is either in the subway trench—the Gash—or in Haak’s Pawnshop.”

“Like, a ticket?”

“Like some coins. And a little rectangular metal thing that fits in your hand.”

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

“I know! Trust me, I’m leaving out the stuff that makes even less sense. But even if I could ride a horse, I couldn’t be a West Side cowboy. Because I have to go.”

“The cops didn’t give us a choice, Corey. Look, it doesn’t have to be so bad. I’ll do the riding part of the job, and you do the other stuff. Meanwhile, maybe we can sneak some horse time. I can train you!”

Corey didn’t know how to answer that. Living in 1917 with no income . . . searching for his stolen stuff . . . all of it would be super hard to do himself. So Quinn could really be a great help. But making friends would be dangerous. Corey would have to admit the truth at some point—and who would possibly believe some wack story about traveling from the twenty-first century? “Thanks. I’ll do whatever the cops want. But afterward I have to be on my own.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “You’re a real pip.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“You’re not telling me something important about yourself, are you?”

Corey looked away.

“That’s okay,” Quinn quickly added. “Maybe I’m not telling you something about myself either. I think you and me, we’re birds of a feather. Both running away from something. But New York’s a dangerous place, and there’s strength in numbers. Look, you know the city, I know horses. We can help each other. The job with the cops will only last a day, because I’m going to be a West Side cowboy. And I want you to come with me. Let me tell you—riding a horse in front of a slow train? It’s the world’s easiest way to make money. All you gotta do is keep your balance. I can teach you. I can also help you get whatever was stolen from you. All you gotta do is be my friend and my guide to the city. If the plan fails, we go our own ways. Deal?”

Corey took a deep breath. This guy was the biggest noodge he’d ever met. And sometimes noodges made sense. “Deal.”

Officer Blunt was trundling toward them with arms full of produce. “Nourishment for our new recruits!” he called out.

The two boys grabbed fruits from the cops and began gobbling them down. “Hungry fellas, well, well!” Blunt said. “Eat up. You’ll need the energy because you’re starting work right now. Follow me!”

Corey nearly choked on his pear. “Wuurrfmm?” he blurted out, as Blunt grabbed his shoulder and pushed him toward the police station.