sidewayz glory

by Todd Strasser

  “Not sure.”

  “We’ll have a look at it down at the station.”

  The police officer slid his hand around Kennin’s arm just above the elbow and led him to a cruiser. Kennin glanced over his shoulder at Angelita. “Sorry about the car.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it now,” she said. “What should I do?”

  “Wait for me,” Kennin said as the cop put him in the back of the cruiser.

  26

  in the back door at the Las Vegas Metro police station. There was no perp walk through the front doors with photographers taking pictures and reporters shoving microphones in his face. The only photos were the mug shots taken by the police photographer. But first they cleaned the blood off and put a bandage on his nose. The cop who did it said he was pretty sure it was broken.

  Afterward, Kennin was fingerprinted and led by the officer into a small room with two chairs, a metal table, a video camera on a tripod, and a large mirror. Welded into the top of the table was a steel ring roughly the diameter of a baseball.

  “I can make it a little more comfortable for you,” the cop said.

  “Thanks,” said Kennin.

  The cop unlocked the cuffs. “Sit down.”

  Kennin sat. The cop slid the empty cuff through the steel ring, then recuffed it to Kennin’s wrist. He was still handcuffed, but at least now his arms were resting on the table in front of him, instead of behind his back.

  The door opened and Detective Neilson came in. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The detective turned to the cop. “Video camera loaded?”

  “Yes, sir,” the cop replied.

  “Get it going,” Neilson said.

  “Yes, sir.” The cop aimed the camera at Kennin and pressed a button. A small red light on the recorder went on.

  “I assume you’ve seen enough cop shows to know how this works, Kennin,” Neilson said, sitting down at the table across from Kennin. “This is where I interview you about the case.”

  Kennin glanced at the mirror. Thanks to the crash, his eyes had blackened, and under the white bandage his nose had swollen to double its normal size.

  “Yeah, there are a couple of people back there,” Neilson said. “But that’s more for me than you. They’re gonna grade me on my interviewing technique.”

  “You sure there isn’t an assistant DA in there trying to get a handle on the case and decide whether or not there’s enough evidence to go ahead?” Kennin asked.

  Neilson smiled slightly. “Guess you do watch those TV shows.”

  “Guess so,” Kennin said, not amused.

  The detective leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “First of all, please tell the camera how your nose got broken. We don’t want any police brutality crap.”

  Kennin explained what had happened on the track.

  “Thanks,” Neilson said. “Now, I don’t want to say I told you so, Kennin, but you and I both know I did. I told you someday we’d get someone who knew something about that GTO or the Camry and then I’d bring you in, didn’t I?”

  Kennin imagined poor Cousin Raoul, who was undoubtedly facing a parole violation and some serious jail time.

  “We went back and dusted the Camry again,” Neilson said. “This time we got a print off the rearview mirror. We brought the suspect in and he spilled about how you helped wipe the Camry and unload the GTO.”

  Kennin wasn’t surprised that Raoul gave him up but not Tito. Blood was thicker than water.

  “I didn’t boost the car,” Kennin said.

  “At the very least you’re an accomplice,” the detective said. “Plus, I can make a pretty good case with the GTO on reckless endangerment and resisting arrest. Now, you have a choice. You can refuse to cooperate and take your chances with some court-appointed, government-paid lawyer who probably bought his diploma at the University of Kmart. Or you can play ball. It’s up to you.”

  “And if I play ball, what happens?” Kennin asked.

  “Depends on how good your information is,” Neilson said.

  Kennin gazed down at the table. Everybody knew this was what the cops did. They worked their way up the food chain, “turning” each successive fish against the next until they got to the big guys. Kennin would never rat out a friend, but on the other hand he wasn’t about to take the fall for cars he didn’t steal. What did he have to give?

  He had Tito, a friend, but also a jerk who’d almost gotten him killed. But Tito was Angelita’s brother, and Kennin wouldn’t do that to her.

  He had a bunch of illegal street drifters, including a bigot named Ian. But if he gave up Ian, there was a good chance Ian would give up guys like Driftdog Dave and Micky Shift ‘n’ Slide.

  “Come on, Kennin, you gotta have something,” Detective Neilson urged him.

  Kennin shook his head. There was no one he could give up with a clear conscience.

  “They won’t let you off with youthful offender status here.” Neilson increased the pressure. “You’re looking at time in juvenile detention. And with you in juvie, who’s gonna keep an eye on your sister?”

  Kennin remained tight-lipped. Neilson frowned and looked disappointed. He waved to the cop, who was standing in the corner beside the video camera. “Turn it off.”

  Neilson left the room. Kennin had a feeling he’d gone to speak to whoever was behind the one-way mirror. But he had no way of knowing for certain. A few minutes later the detective returned.

  “Should I turn the camera back on, sir?” the cop asked.

  “No.” Neilson grabbed the chair and slid it around until it was close to Kennin. He sat down so close that their shoulders touched. “Listen carefully, Kennin,” he said in a rough whisper. “I don’t know if you took that car yourself, or just got stuck getting rid of it. That would be something a jury would decide—if it ever gets to a jury, which it won’t, because your lawyer is gonna twist your arm so hard to cop a plea you’ll wind up with two left hands. Frankly, you don’t seem like a bad kid to me. Mostly I think you’ve made some bad decisions and had a lot of lousy breaks. The problem is, there’s only so much I can do for you. The mayor wants results, and so does the chief of police. Now, I can either go back and say ‘I railed the creep who stole the mayor’s wife’s car,’ or I can go back and say, ‘Hey, I found the creep who took the car and leaned on him and he gave up this real badass.’ But it’s got to be one or the other.”

  The room became quiet.

  Real badass … , Kennin thought.

  Then he smiled. Why hadn’t he thought of Jack the jackass sooner?

  27

  one a.m. two days later, Detective Neilson drove Kennin, Angelita, and Tito to the Las Vegas bus station on South Main Street. Kennin and Angelita were scheduled to take the one forty-five a.m. bus to San Fernando, California, not far from where Shinchou was in rehab. They carried the luggage, mostly Angelita’s, inside.

  The bus station was nearly empty. A few travelers waited for late-night buses, and a couple of bums slept on the benches. Kennin and the others stopped near the gate for the bus, which had not yet arrived. Neilson reached into his pocket and handed them each an envelope.

  “Here are your tickets,” he said. “Sorry you can’t stay for graduation, Angelita, but the faster you leave town, the better. We’ll make sure they send you your diploma.”

  “Thanks,” said Kennin. His eyes were still blackened, and he still had the bandage on his nose, but the swelling had started to subside.

  “Hey, I should be thanking you,” said Neilson. “The testimony you and your sister gave is going to help put Jack and his friends away for a long time. We got it all on tape.”

  “No chance of him finding out where it came from?” Kennin asked.

  “No way,” said Neilson. “We’ve made sure of that. Plus, I’m the only one who’ll have your address and phone number in California. Even your families will have to go through me to contact you.”

  “What about seeing them?” Angelita asked.

>   “We’ll help you arrange that in an undisclosed location,” the detective said.

  Behind them a bus pulled up to the gate and a loudspeaker announced, “The bus to Barstow, San Bernardino, Pasadena, San Fernando, Glendale, and Los Angeles is now boarding.”

  “I’ll give you guys some privacy,” Neilson said, and stepped away.

  Tito shoved his hands into his pockets. “Well, I guess this is it.”

  Angelita gave him a hug. “Don’t look so sad. We’ll stay in touch.”

  “Maybe I’ll come out there and visit,” Tito said.

  “Definitely,” said Angelita.

  “I gotta say something in private to Kennin, okay?” Tito said.

  “Sure.” Angelita kissed him on the cheek and then climbed onto the bus.

  Tito waited until she was out of earshot, then looked up at Kennin. “Look, I know I really screwed up. There’s no excuse for what I did, and I just want to say I’m sorry.” He held out his hand.

  Kennin smiled and shook it.

  “Think you’ll do some drifting out there?” Tito asked.

  “Can’t seem to avoid it,” Kennin said.

  “Then maybe that’s the way it’s meant to be,” Tito said.

  “Maybe,” Kennin answered. The loudspeaker announced that the bus was ready to leave.

  “Take good care of my sister, okay?” Tito asked.

  “You bet.” Kennin climbed onto the bus. Angelita was sitting about halfway back, next to the window. He sat down beside her.

  “What’d he say?” she asked.

  “Just that I should take care of you,” Kennin answered.

  “He’s such a kid,” Angelita said.

  “Yeah.”

  The bus pulled out of the station and into the Las Vegas night. As it headed out of town, the lights of the strip grew dimmer.

  “I can’t say I’ll miss this place,” Angelita said.

  “Me neither,” said Kennin. And yet, even as the words left his lips, he had the strangest feeling that he’d be back.

  About the Author

  is the author of more than one hundred twenty books for teens and middle graders, including the bestselling Help! I’m Trapped In … series, and numerous award-winning YA novels, including The Wave, Give a Boy a Gun, and Can’t Get There from Here. As a boy, Todd was a fan of international Formula One grand prix and GT racers such as Graham Hill, Jim Clark, and Jackie Stewart. An avid go-cart driver in his youth, Todd went on to drive a variety of motorcycles and sports cars before marriage and children slowed him down.

  Learn more about Todd at www.toddstrasser.com.

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