They drove down to New York in a light, wet snow that turned the pavement ahead black and glistening. Mr. Dillinger drove the old bus, sticking to the turnpikes and stopping only for bathroom breaks and lunch. He kept the music low, the heavy beat of the windshield wipers droning over everything, and soon most of the bus was asleep. Muck dozed in the seat closest to the door, a big book slipping off his lap several times as he fell into a deep slumber. Sam and Sarah slept with their heads tilted together. Fahd and Data played games on Data’s new laptop computer until the battery ran down, and then they too slept. All up and down the old bus there were legs sticking out in the aisle, pillows jammed against windows, jackets over heads.
Travis got up at one point to stretch his legs. He looked towards the back of the bus, where much of the Screech Owls’ equipment had been piled in the empty seats. There was a window on the safety door at the back, and he thought he might just stand there awhile and watch the traffic.
Unfortunately, someone was already there.
Nish. His back to the window. Bent over almost double. His belt undone and pants down around his ankles.
“What are you doing?” Travis hissed.
Nish looked up, blinked a couple of times as if the answer were obvious. “Practising.”
“Practising?” Travis asked, incredulous.
“You practise hockey, don’t you?” Nish said as he hiked up his pants. “Why wouldn’t you practise mooning?”
Buckling up his belt, Nish stepped away from the wet, snow-streaked window. Travis half expected to see a line of police cars following them, lights flashing and sirens wailing. But there was only a van several hundred feet behind, its wipers beating furiously back and forth to fight the spray of the bus, the grey-haired driver staring straight ahead as if hypnotized by the road. He hadn’t seen a thing.
But Travis had. He had seen his best friend, Mrs. Nishikawa’s darling son, regular churchgoer and Boy Scout, practising mooning the entire world.
Travis had never experienced anything like New York City. The noise as they pulled off the turnpike ramp into the first streets of Manhattan was incredible, a city that hummed and howled in your ears. It seemed as if total panic had struck, as if around the next corner there must be a building on fire, a volcano erupting, or an invasion from outer space. Yellow taxis everywhere, everyone honking, pedestrians racing across streets as if they were being shot at rather than driven at. Police everywhere, too, laughing one minute and yelling the next as they directed the charging traffic. Vendors on every corner – roasted nuts, bagels, fresh fruit, newspapers, hot dogs, videos, books. And people, people, people. More people than Travis had ever seen.
Nish was first to discover that New York itself was a constant, moving Stupid Stop. The team was just checking into a small hotel on the corner of Lexington and East 52nd Street, about ten blocks from Times Square, when Nish wandered back from a nearby variety store with the first of his New York discoveries: a brand-new pair of sunglasses.
“They’re Oakleys,” he announced, naming one of the most expensive brands of wraparound glasses. “Five bucks,” he added.
“Impossible,” declared Sam. “You can’t buy Oakleys for under a hundred.”
“I can,” Nish bragged. “And what about my watch?”
He held up his left arm and drew back the sleeve of his Screech Owls jacket with a dramatic flourish. A brand-new, heavy watch, hanging from Nish’s wrist on a chunky gold wristband, flashed in the lobby lights.
Simon Milliken yanked Nish’s wrist close and examined the watch like a jeweller. “It’s a Rolex!” he gasped.
“Of course,” agreed Nish. “Ten bucks.”
“A Rolex costs two or three thousand!” Wilson shouted.
“Where’d you get ’em?” demanded Andy.
“Guy around the corner,” Nish said. “He’s got a whole briefcase full of them.”
“Show me,” said Andy. “I want to get a pair of sunglasses, too.”
“I want a Rolex!” said Simon.
Off they ran, with Nish leading the way – Oakley sunglasses perched high on his head, Rolex held out like he expected people to kiss his hand.
“That’s stolen goods,” said Derek. “They’re going to get caught.”
“They’re not real,” said Sarah. “They’re knock-offs – phonies. They just look like the real thing. You wait: the logo on those sunglasses will rub off in a day and the watches won’t be working by the time we leave.”
“How do you know?” asked Fahd.
“My dad comes to New York all the time. He brought my mom back a fake Rolex and the hands fell off as she was putting it on. He thought it was a joke – she didn’t think it was so funny, though.”
“Aren’t they illegal anyway?” asked Fahd.
“Of course. Illegal to sell, but not to buy. My dad says everybody buys them, either as souvenirs or to play a joke when they get back home.”
Travis’s curiosity was getting the better of him. He had resisted the urge to go along with the others, but now he worried that his teammates might run into trouble or get lost.
Worrying was in Travis’s nature. He put it down to having been lifelong buddies with Nish, who usually gave him a good reason to worry. Ever since he’d become team captain, Travis worried even more. He wanted everyone to get along. He wanted no trouble. Sometimes he thought if he ever stopped worrying, he would start worrying about why he was no longer worrying.
Travis slipped out the revolving door of the hotel. Nish had said he’d gone to the little store up Lexington and bought the watch and glasses just around the corner. Travis turned quickly and headed in that direction.
He couldn’t see anyone, but then he clearly heard Nish’s loud voice somewhere up ahead. He was bragging, showing off in front of his friends. He was talking about how much he could get for Oakley sunglasses and Rolex watches back home.
“I could retire at thirteen!” he shouted.
Travis turned a corner. His teammates were huddled into a narrow alleyway that ran between a dry cleaner’s and the variety store. Andy was holding a shiny new watch, rolling it over and over in his palm. Simon was trying on a pair of sunglasses.
They had made their selections from a brown briefcase, the array of watches sparkling like buried treasure. The briefcase was being held open on the forearm of a very tall bearded man. He wore a long dark overcoat that reached almost to his feet. He had on brand-new Nike sneakers that looked as if they’d never before been tried on, let alone walked in. And he wore a strange, multicoloured hat pulled tight over his ears. Standing there in the shadows of the alley, he was hard to make out, apart from coat, shoes, hat, and beard – almost as if the clothes stood there empty, a clever dummy rigged to look like a very bad character.
The man peered out from below the brim of his odd hat, and Travis shivered as his icy gaze fell on him. The man then looked at Nish, who nodded as if to say Travis was all right.
Andy was fumbling in his wallet for money. The man held his hand out to take it.
Then, suddenly, without warning, he shoved the money back at Andy, grabbed the watch from him, and slammed the briefcase shut.
The boys jumped back, startled.
The man snarled once, turned, and began running farther down the alley.
“I’ll find you later!” he called back over his shoulder.
“Okay, Big!” Nish shouted after him.
‘Big’? Where did that come from, Travis wondered. Nish was already on a first-name basis?
Big?
“What happened?” Andy asked. He was staring into his empty palm, where moments ago the fake Rolex had glittered.
Nish said nothing, just nodded towards the opening of the alley onto Lexington Avenue.
A blue New York police car was idling on the street, a stocky policeman with dark glasses staring past them after the retreating Big.
Nish started cleaning his sunglasses on his shirt. He seemed so worldly all of a sudden. He was acting as if he’d lived and done business in New York all his life.
“Big don’t like cops,” Nish said, putting his sunglasses on again and heading out onto Lexington. He sounded like someone in a gangster movie.
More like “Cops don’t like Big,” Travis thought.
He didn’t like Big either. He didn’t like anything about this, not at all.