The Child Thief

THEY SAT ON the cold cement steps, eating stolen Kung Pao chicken and
watching the clouds roll across a sky full of stars. Nick never remembered
anything tasting so good. A sharp wind sent a host of orange leaves and
loose paper clattering down the thin alleyway. Late evening dew shimmered
off the sooty, graffiti-covered walls. The low hum of an electric transformer
sputtered and buzzed incessantly while somewhere in the distance the
Staten Island Ferry blew its horn.
Peter sighed. “They’re so beautiful.”
“What?” Nick asked.
“The stars,” Peter answered in a low, reverent tone, staring up at the
night sky. “I so miss the stars.”
Nick thought this an odd thing to say, but then there were a lot of odd
things about Peter.
Peter tore open one of the bags of candy bars, grabbed a couple for
himself and handed a few to Nick.
Nick noticed several scars on Peter’s arms. There was also a scar above
the boy’s brow, a smaller one along his cheek, and what looked like a

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healed puncture on the side of his neck. Nick wondered just what kind of
trouble Peter had been in.
“What are you going to do with all that candy?” Nick asked.
“For the gang,” Peter said, between chews. “Back at the fort.”
“Is there really a fort?”
“Certainly.”
“Peter, where are we going exactly?”
Peter started to say something, frowned, started to say something else,
and stopped. Then his eyes twinkled. “Hey, what’s that?”
“What?”
“By your foot.”
Nick didn’t see anything. It was too dark.
“Is that a turd?”
Nick instinctively jerked his foot away. “Where?”
Peter reached into the shadow and came up with a lumpy brown clump.
He held it up. “Yup, big greasy turd.”
It didn’t look like a turd to Nick. It looked suspiciously like a Baby
Ruth.
Peter chomped down on it. “Scrumptious.”
Nick snorted, then burst out laughing. Peter joined in between big, loud
smacks. Nick found it easier and easier to laugh. Since his father’s death,
between moving to the new school and dealing with that fucker Marko,
Nick felt he’d forgotten what it was like to be silly, to just be a kid.
“Hey,” came a raspy voice from the shadows, followed by a fit of
coughing. “Hey what…what’re you guys up to?”
Nick and Peter looked at one another, then at the pile of boxes beside
the Dumpster. One of the boxes fell away and a figure rolled out.
Peter was instantly on his feet.
The shape stumbled into the lamplight and Nick saw it was a teenager,
maybe a couple of years older than him. The kid’s long blond hair was
greasy and matted, and he was wearing just jeans and a ratty T-shirt.
“You…you guys spare…some change,” the kid said, his words slurry
and spaced out. “Need…to, to make a phone call. Anything will help out.
Huh…how about it?”
Nick picked up the bags of candy bars and stood up. “Peter,” Nick
whispered, “let’s get out of here.”

---

“Hey, where you going?” The kid tottered forward, put an arm out on
the stair rail, blocking their way. Up close, Nick could see cold sores on the
boy’s lips and how bloodshot his eyes were. The kid was so skinny he had
to keep tugging at his jeans. The kid spied the candy bars in Nick’s arms.
“Hey, how about you give me some of those.”
“These aren’t for you,” Peter said, his tone hard and cold.
The kid looked agitated, started scratching at his arms. Nick could see
he had the shakes. The kid looked at them again and actually focused.
“What’re you guys doing out here?” He took a quick glance around. “You
alone?”
Nick didn’t like the way his tone changed, and tried to get around him.
The kid made a grab for the chocolates, snagged a bag, yanking it from
Nick’s arms.
Peter let out a hiss and in a mere blink had a knife in his hand. The
damn thing was almost as long as Peter’s forearm.
Whoa, where’d that come from?
Peter rolled the blade, letting the street light dance along its razor-sharp
edge, making sure the kid saw its wicked promise. “Give ’em back,” Peter
said.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” the kid said. “Take ’em.” He tossed the bag to
Nick, raised his hands, and took several unsteady steps backward until he
hit the alley wall. “I ain’t got nothing else. Go ahead, shake me down. I
ain’t got nothing.” And then, low, to himself: “Nothing.” His shoulders
drooped and his hands fell. Nick thought he looked worn out, defeated,
alone, another strung-out junkie with no place to go and no one to care.
Nick wondered what had made this kid leave home, wondered how long
before he found himself in the same spot—alone, with nothing.
“Let’s go,” Peter said, stuffing the knife back in his jacket and heading
toward the street.
Nick grimaced. Growing up can really suck, he thought. And bad things
sure as shit do happen to good people and for the most part the world just
doesn’t give a crap. He reached into the bag of chocolates, pulled out a
handful, and left them on the steps. “Here. Those are yours.” Then he
sprinted off to catch up with Peter.