24

Corey helped Quinn down into the trench. The tough Wyoming cowboy was in tears as he landed on the dirt floor. Above them, the fallen ooga-ooga boy’s boots jutted out over the rim of the wall. “I—I didn’t mean to do that,” Quinn said.

“You saved our lives,” Corey replied.

All along the Gash, people were scrabbling up various ladders to the top, trying to peek over to see the body. “He got Ratboy . . . ,” someone called out breathlessly.

“Get outta here,” another voice answered.

A long, low whistle. “There’s gonna be blood for that.”

Corey felt a poke in his back and spun around to see the man who had handed him the empty bottle. “Take this,” he said, thrusting a lit kerosene lamp toward him. “Name’s Okun. Wally Okun. Head downtown, kid. You and your friend get out of the neighborhood. You heard the siren, right? Well, notice the cops ain’t here yet? Surprise, surprise, they’re always slow when it comes to protecting the Gash. Lots of noise but no action. They’d rather see us kill each other off. So this gives you some time, but not enough for tea and crumpets, if you catch my drift. If they see you, you’re outta luck. And that’s the least of your problems.”

Quinn was gazing upward, shaking his head in shock. “I killed a man.”

“That’s right, kid,” Okun said, “but I saw it. It was self-defense. He woulda killed you without blinking an eye.”

“They’ll catch me,” Quinn went on, “and they’ll send me home. That can’t happen. I can’t go home. . . .”

“We have to go, Quinn.” Corey put a hand on his shoulder, then turned to the kind stranger. “Thanks, Mr. Okun. How will I get the lamp back to you?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Okun’s face was taut with urgency. His features were sunken and dirty, but his back was straight and he stood close to seven feet tall. “Do exactly as I say. Walk fast. Anyone tries to bother you along the way, tell them the Commander sent you. Everybody respects me down here. Climb out of here at Varick Street and walk east. Lay low for the night in some rooming house in the Bowery, where you don’t have to give a name. By tomorrow everything will be hunky-dory.”

Behind him a group of about a dozen had formed. They were muttering amens and you bets.

One of the Gash people who had climbed up to the surface was now coming back down. “Hey, cowboy, the guy you slit—he’s still breathing. I’d get outta here pronto if I was you.”

Quinn looked relieved, but the small crowd did something Corey hadn’t expected. They burst into catcalls and nasty sound effects.

“Shoulda been offed . . .”

“Woulda served him right . . .”

“Animals . . .”

“We don’t like the gangs,” Okun explained, talking fast. “Things is bad enough down here with the rummies and rats, but we try to keep peaceful. We watch out for our own and know each other’s business. Like family. We ain’t angels, but we don’t stab and shoot. To them gangs, human life don’t mean nothing.”

Corey glanced around, hoping to see the faces of the two drunken guys he’d first met in the Gash, but it was hard to make out features in the darkness. “Help me, Mr. Okun, before we go. I fell in here myself this afternoon. When I woke up, my money and some personal stuff were gone from my pocket. We went to Haak’s Pawnshop—”

“Filcher take you there?” Okun broke in.

“How did you know?” Corey said.

“The snake,” Okun spat, shaking his head. “Those two got a racket, Filcher and Haak. Filcher pays guys to fleece the unconscious souls down here—of which there are many—and then they fork over the goods to him for payment. Sometimes they double-cross him and pawn the goods to Haak instead—but Filcher has his ways of getting his cut.”

“We know,” Corey said. “Hey, do you guys know anybody named Hans and Benny-boy?”

Okun looked over his shoulder. A mob of curious Gash people had gathered behind him. “You ain’t got time for chitchat—”

“We heard they were the ones who took my stuff,” Corey barreled on.

“Yeah? Well, them two both died months ago. Whoever told you that was their names—they was lying.” Okun turned and called into the crowd: “Any of youse seen who fleeced this nice kid?”

A murmur went through the crowd. After a moment voices began piping up:

“Coulda been Knuckles . . .”

“Knuckles is dead, ya numbskull . . .”

“No he ain’t!”

“Or Sammy the Clam . . .”

“Big Doogie . . .”

“Li’l Schmutzie . . .”

“How do we know this kid is tellin’ the truth?”

“He can go back to his mommy and daddy for money. . . .”

“Leave some of that money wit’ us!”

This was useless. In the distance, Corey could hear voices yodeling “Ooga-oooooga!” At the sound, the crowd fell into an instant silence.

Okun exhaled hard. He began pushing Corey and Quinn south. “That shout—it means the gang is calling for reinforcements. They’ll gather in the shadows and wait for the cops to come here. After the cops leave, they’ll move in. That’s how they work. Now go! And watch your backs.”

“What about you guys?” Quinn asked.

“They know enough not to bother us anymore,” Okun said with a cocky grin. “They’ll be looking for youse.”

Corey could hear a distant clopping of horse hooves. Without another word, he pointed the kerosene lamp downtown. The Gash people, little more than silhouettes, parted to the sides of the trench.

Quinn mouthed a quick thanks to Okun, and the two boys began to run.

Corey knew that warm air rose, but nothing proved it better than the top floor of a Bowery flophouse. After the six-floor climb, his entire body was covered with sweat that felt like hot glue.

The Bowery was a neighborhood that made the Gash seem upscale. The filth on the sidewalks crept up your ankles as you walked. Here, the down-and-outers slept on hot cement sidewalks, on cardboard boxes and piles of rags. They slept through the clatter of the elevated train. Soot-stained tenement buildings lined both sides of the street, most of them with hand-drawn Vacancy signs, usually followed by words like LOWEST RATES! or CHEAP!

That last part seemed about perfect for Corey’s and Quinn’s purposes.

The Better Ridgefield Hotel sounded promising. But half the steps were missing, the walls had fist-size holes, and the stink of body odor and rotten food seemed to be at war. As a distraction, Corey went over in his mind the list of names he’d heard in the Gash: Knuckles, Sammy the Clam, Big Doogie, Li’l Schmutzie. He would have to start gathering info on these guys as soon as he could. In the meantime he and Quinn needed to lie low from the ooga-ooga boys. This place was cheap enough, and it would just have to do.

As he pushed open the door to their room, Corey saw the advantages to sleeping on the sidewalk. The room smelled awful. The walls were grayish-black but looked suspiciously like they’d been painted white during the Jurassic era. It was just large enough for one ratty-looking bed and a rickety table with a metal chair. The only window faced an airshaft. Across the shaft was another window into another room, where a sunken-faced, bare-chested old man was asleep and snoring on a sofa.

“If this is the Better Ridgefield Hotel,” Corey said, “what’s the less-good Ridgefield Hotel like?”

“They told us it was the presidential suite!” As Quinn’s eyes scanned the squalid room, he looked agitated and jumpy. “I thought there might be two rooms. You know, one for each.”

“Some tough cowboy,” Corey said. “We’ll make the best of it. Tomorrow morning we head to the Hudson River, where I humiliate myself and you get a great job. Then we can live in style. After you get paid.” He flopped down onto the bed, which sent up a cloud of dust. A small squadron of insects scurried out from under the mattress and ran for the corner.

Quinn let out a noise between a shout and a squeak. “What in blazes are those?”

“Cockroaches,” Corey said, trying to sound braver than he felt.

“Do they bite?”

“Nah. They’re the official mascot of New York City.”

Quinn swallowed hard. “We could try sleeping in Central Park.”

“It’s like four miles away. And it has rats. Those do bite.” Corey felt his eyes closing. “Aren’t you tired?”

“No.” Quinn pulled the chair to the other side of the room and swung it around so it faced the door. “You go ahead. I—I don’t think it’s . . . safe for us both to be asleep at the same time.”

Corey yawned. The sheets seemed surprisingly clean, so he took off his sweaty shirt and fell back on the bed. “Dude, you don’t sound like yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were like a superhero with those thugs. You stood up to Satch. And the plank guy. Now you’re all jumpy.”

“Yeah. Well . . .”

Quinn’s face was turning red, and Corey felt a pang of guilt. What was the point of making fun of a guy who had just saved his life? “I guess you got kind of spooked, when you thought you killed that guy,” he said gently.

Quinn nodded. “I guess.”

“Sorry, Quinn, you’re my hero. Maybe you can lasso some cockroaches while I snooze. I’ll get up soon, and we can take”—Corey let out a big yawn—“tunes. . . .”

“Huh?”

“Turns,” Corey corrected himself.

As he drifted off to sleep, Quinn was sitting bolt upright in his chair, facing the other way. He was scribbling something in a small leather-bound book. Corey had no idea where he’d kept that hidden, or what he was writing.

Maybe cowboy poetry.

Corey smiled. To each his own.