by Adam Sidwell
Mariah stopped at a large map on the wall with a confusing tangle of red, green, yellow, and blue lines spanning across the city. There were place and street names at regular intervals, all ones that Guster didn’t recognize.
“If we take the blue line all the way to the end,” said Mariah, tracing her finger along the map, “we’ll have plenty of time to rest. It looks like it takes us all the way out to the airport.”
Guster was hardly listening. There was dirt and grime pasted up against the corners where the floors met the walls, and the air felt thick and stale, which made it hard to breathe. The subway rattled and a wall of air pushed over them as the next train came to a stop.
Mariah bought three tickets from an automated teller. It took a few minutes to find the right buttons, and when she finally did the train had already gone.
They passed through the turnstiles and waited on the platform. There were a few dozen commuters on the opposite side of the track waiting to enter the other side of the car as well. It made the whole station feel too crowded for Guster. They were going to have to be fast if they wanted to get seats.
It made Guster wonder where Gaucho was. New York City was a big place. He hoped they hadn’t lost him for good. At least Gaucho knew how to take care of himself, big shiny steel helmet and all. He’d probably collected enough loose change in the thing to buy himself airfare back to wherever it was he came from.
Two minutes later another subway car ground to a halt at the platform with a whine and a rattle.
“Not this one,” said Mariah, peering up at the LED signs. “The next one.”
The doors closed and the train pulled away, revealing a nearly empty platform on the opposite side. All of the passengers had cleared the platform except one: a man in a brown trench coat, aviator sunglasses, and a green felt hat.
As soon as he saw them, he bolted toward them.
Chapter 7—Vanilla Midnight
“Run!” cried Guster. He didn’t know who this man was, or why he was following them. He just knew they needed to get away fast.
They darted for the stairway that led back up to the street. The man in the green hat sprinted for the stairway across the tracks, matching their speed. He would come up on the opposite side of the street, which gave them only a few seconds head start.
All three of them were out of breath when they reached the top of the stairs. Night had fallen, and the yellow glow of street lamps cast a tangle of shadows in all directions.
Guster clutched his cooler to his chest and followed Zeke as he pivoted left and ran down the street.
Without warning, the man in the green hat burst out of the alley an arm’s length in front of them. Guster didn’t have time to change course and smashed right into him.
The man grabbed Guster’s cooler, yanking Guster forward. Guster pulled hard on the handle, but the man was too strong, so Guster shoved the cooler into the man’s chest and pushed off, boosting himself backwards.
He glanced over his shoulder as he dashed down a side street. The man ran after them, his trench coat trailing behind him. Zeke and Mariah had followed Guster’s lead, and were right behind Guster, barreling down the sidewalk as fast as they could.
Zeke was older and faster. In seconds he passed Guster, pumping his arms and legs like he was being chased by lions.
Zeke turned a corner up ahead under a dim street lamp. Guster was right behind him. He had no idea where they were. There were dark, red brick buildings, a dry cleaner’s with a blue awning, and illegible letters scrawled in spray paint across the walls. There were few cars on the street, and almost no people.
They took a few more turns, trying their best to lose the sinister man in the green hat.
It was times like this that Guster wished Mom were here. Anyone would think twice about giving them trouble with Mom around. She was always so good about standing up to people, no matter how burly they seemed. She had a way of putting them in their place.
But Mom wasn’t there. They were on their own.
“Hurry,” said Mariah, leading them down another side street. There were no lights there, only shadows.
A single man walked down the side street on the opposite sidewalk. He paused when he saw them.
“Mariah,” said Guster nervously, pointing ahead. The big man turned toward them, his massive round shadow crossing the street with him.
We should never have come here, thought Guster. He tugged on Zeke’s sleeve.
Just then, the big man’s cell phone lit up, showing his round cheeks, curling dark black mustache, and a tomato-shaped nose. He smiled, showing a grin full of tiny teeth. “Hey, it’s you kids!” he said.
Guster recognized him right away. “Bubalatti!”
“I’m so glad I found you! This is-a no place for kids, these streets at night,” said Bubalatti. He seemed eager to see them. So he wasn’t mad?
“We’re being followed,” said Guster quickly. They’d only met Bubalatti a few hours before, but at least he was someone they knew.
“We don’t want you to run into any unsavory characters.” He smiled, the blue light from his cell phone shining upward. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on you back at the shop. I’ve been looking for you ever since to apologize. Come back with me to my shop, and I’ll give you a slice of pie,” he said.
Mariah looked uncertain. Zeke’s eyes widened at the mention of pie. Guster did not need convincing. The man with the green felt hat was probably just around the corner; they needed to hurry.
Besides, Guster had never gotten his ice cream cone.
“Yes, that sounds very good,” he said, glancing back and forth behind him. “Let’s go. Now.”
“Follow me then!” said Bubalatti, waving his arm in the direction he’d come. They walked after him briskly, checking over their shoulders to see if they were still being followed.
Bubalatti led them across three streets, took two lefts, circled the block, and passed right by the glowing front window of the shop with the word Bubalatti written across it in golden letters. He turned the corner into a dark, narrow alleyway with dumpsters and trashcans lined up against the walls.
The place was a dead end, which made Guster nervous, but they had little choice. Bubalatti fished into his pocket for some keys and took them out, jingling them as he fumbled until he found the right one. He jammed the key into the lock.
He could not open the door soon enough, as far as Guster was concerned, and when the warm yellow light of Bubalatti’s shop spilled out into the alleyway, Guster, Mariah and Zeke shoved their way inside without waiting for an invitation.
The back of the shop was a narrow entryway no bigger than a closet. It was crammed full of boxes and white buckets labeled with black permanent marker: sugar, flour, shortening. There was a large, silver metal fridge too, with a door that looked like it belonged on an army tank. Guster squeezed between boxes. Bubalatti had to slide in sideways behind Mariah and Zeke to fit.
He locked the door shut with a click. Guster heaved a sigh of relief.
“Welcome,” said Bubalatti.
“Thanks, Mr. Bubalatti,” said Mariah.
“No, no. You can call me Fatty, like my friends do,” he said.
On the other side of the door was a small room with a single round table shoved into one corner and two chairs.
Bubalatti motioned for them to sit down. Guster slumped down into the chair with his back against the wall. He could see through an open door into the front of the shop where the glass case with the pies and ice cream was. It felt good to be indoors again, in a place closed off from so many strangers. It felt safe.
“I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier,” said Bubalatti, folding his hands over each other again and again. He looked nervous. “I didn’t mean to be so rude. It’s just that this ice cream— my ice cream—has been a great change for this shop, and I tak
e-a my creations personally, like they were my own-a children, you know?”
Guster felt bad for him. He wasn’t the first chef Guster had insulted, but he hadn’t meant to hurt anyone’s feelings. He liked the ice cream. That’s why he was so interested.
“I tell you what!” said Bubalatti. “I’m-a gonna give you a special treat! A fourth flavor we don’t have out on the counter. It’s not served to everybody.”
Zeke nodded eagerly. Guster liked the sound of that.
“Why not?” said Mariah.
Bubalatti wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Because it’s-a so special! That’s why. Heh heh.” He chuckled nervously.
“No, I mean. Why not try it?” said Mariah. Her eyes narrowed. She was thinking something, but Guster didn’t know what.
“Oh, yes,” said Bubalatti. He tied a white apron around his bulging middle and waddled into the front, talking over his shoulder back toward the three of them as he did so. “It’s called-a Vanilla Midnight, and I think you’re a-gonna find it beautiful!
“When I was a boy, my momma taught me to make-a pies,” said Bubalatti. “‘Franco!’ She says, ‘you gotta make-a this pie just like I tell you, and it will turn out just fabulous.’ They’ve been making the recipe in my family ever since, generations before we left Sicily to come to New York. It was my job to make it just a little bit better. That’s-a what every generation does before they pass it on.” Bubalatti took three plates, each with a slice of peach pie, and set them in front of Guster and his siblings.
The pie smelled even more delicious up close. Guster’s slice was shining, the filling glistening like drops of morning dew over golden peach smiles.
Bubalatti set three forks onto the table. “And I think I did my part. Look at this shop,” said Bubalatti, spreading his arms out as wide as he could in the cramped space. “It would make my Grandmamma proud, I think. Best pies in all of New York City, those Bubalatti’s, they say. And I made the family name-a famous.”
He sighed, like a balloon deflating, his shoulders and head sagging. “But sometimes you want to try something new, you know. Like maybe you don’t want all those generations of grandmammas and grandpappas and Uncle Guido looking over your shoulder. You want something that they never would’ve thought of!” He turned and waddled into the front, reached down behind the counter where Guster couldn’t see, and came back with a small wooden barrel under one arm and an empty ice cream scoop in his free hand.
“So one day these fellows come to me and says, ‘Franco Bubalatti, we got an offer for you that you can’t-a refuse.’ So I says to them, ‘call me Fatty.’ They show me what they’ve got. And just like that, we start-a doing business together. I have to say the money’s never been-a so green.” He scooped out a gleaming white scoop of ice cream onto Guster’s slice of peach pie.
Guster had never seen anything in all the world so white. It was like fresh snow; it was so pure and spotless it glowed and seemed to chase away the shadows in the tiny room. It smelled of deep vanilla, like a mist rising in the room.
Bubalatti finished scooping orbs of white ice cream onto Zeke and Mariah’s pie then set three spoons on the table next to their forks.
Zeke did not wait for permission. He drove his spoon like a shovel down into his vanilla ice cream, shoving nearly half the scoop into his mouth.
Mariah was just as eager. She took a dainty bite, sliding the empty spoon out of her mouth as clean as if it had just been washed.
Guster lingered a moment longer, absorbing the fog of vanilla smells that was growing thicker in his lungs. Then he too spooned a large mouthful onto his tongue.
It was sweet and rich, and peaceful. The flavors sent a calm across his body that he could feel down into his toes. Suddenly he wasn’t worried anymore about the man in the green hat, or Yummy following him, or even that he’d run away from home. His cares were melting and draining out of him, until there was nothing left but sweet serenity.
“It’s called Vanilla Midnight,” said Bubalatti. “It’s a special flavor we reserve for only certain occasions.” The smile left his face. He looked tired, the jagged wrinkles under his eyes deepening, like he’d finally finished with something he did not want to do.
Zeke was nearly finished now, shoveling the Vanilla Midnight into his mouth faster than he could breathe.
Mariah was sitting back in her chair, smiling. She’d eaten more than half her scoop. Suddenly she seemed to be her old self again, her face smooth and relaxed, like she’d grown a year younger.
Guster could feel the ice cream slide into his tummy. He was happy. He lifted each spoonful to his lips more slowly than the last, the moments lingering on as the world seemed to slow to a lull around him.
“Why’s it called Vanilla Midnight?” Zeke asked when he’d finished. He hadn’t even touched his pie.
“Because when you eat it,” said Bubalatti, nodding his head to someone unseen in the front room, “it’s like a lullaby. It makes you vanish into sleep.”
Two short men with black spike beards and red aprons filled the doorframe. They held three large white canvas sacks in their fists.
That wasn’t good. They looked like they wanted something. That wasn’t good at all.
Guster tried to push himself up from the table, but it felt like his arms had disappeared. His legs and feet did not respond to his urgings to run. Panic rose inside him. He tried to call out. He had to warn Bubalatti.
Mariah was still, her eyes wide with fear. Zeke’s head slumped to one side. Guster could feel his eyelids growing heavy . . . it was hard . . . to keep them . . . open . . .
There was a loud thump on the window in the front of the shop. The man in the green felt hat stood outside, pounding on the glass. Guster’s vision began to narrow, but he managed to keep his eyes open long enough to see the man pull off his green hat and tear open his collar. He was thick necked, with hair cropped short like a soldier. Now that Guster could see his whole face those aviator sunglasses were unmistakable.
Felicity’s Lieutenant.
He slammed himself against the glass, trying desperately to get inside. To save them.
As the canvas sack dropped over Guster’s head, Guster’s final thought before he fell into a deep sleep was that he’d made a very, very big mistake.
Chapter 8—The Last Horizon
There was darkness.
A vibration grew across Guster’s back to his head. It was faint at first, so faint that he almost hadn’t noticed. His arms and legs were soft and limp until they too began to vibrate with the same mechanical rhythm as his head.
The vibration turned to pounding, and Guster’s eyes flew open. He shook his head and rubbed his lids.
He was lying on his back in the cargo hold of what looked like a bus with tiny round windows. There were boxes and large tan canvas sacks piled everywhere. He was propped against one of them.
Zeke was draped across another sack, his mouth open wide. He was snoring.
Mariah was sitting next to Zeke, her back straight, knees drawn up to her chest. She was making notes on the back of one of her maps.
“Where am I?” Guster muttered. There was a low hum as the floor vibrated beneath him. He was so sore.
“In an airplane,” Mariah said, pointing to the circle window. “I would’ve guessed we’re flying over Canada, since those mountains are so high, but the sun is rising to our left, so we’re headed south. Maybe the Andes? Whichever mountains those are, we’ve been kidnapped little brother.”
Kidnapped? But why? By who?
Memories of the pie shop started coming back to him.
“Fatty Bubalatti,” said Guster. It made him angry just to say it.
“Or his goons,” said Mariah. “I saw one of them open the cockpit door an hour ago.” She motioned toward a narrow door near the front center of the plane. It was lined with a steel frame. “I d
on’t think Bubalatti’s on this flight. He probably wouldn’t even fit up there.”
Guster licked his lips. A slight taste of Vanilla Midnight lingered on his tongue. “How long have we been out?” he asked.
“Not sure. A day? Maybe two,” Mariah said. “I think Mr. Cortez Pissarro here can answer some of our questions when he wakes up.” Mariah shifted to the side and reached over the sack behind her. She rapped her knuckles on something hollow and metal. Bong.
Guster pushed himself up onto his feet so he could see. Sure enough, Gaucho del Pantaloon was lying on his back, his metal chest plate rising up out of the ground like a mound, and his red and yellow striped pants ballooning out from underneath the armor. His eyes were shut. He was smiling.
“Gaucho?” said Guster. “How did he get here?”
Mariah shrugged. “I’m guessing that his cousins there had something to do with it.”
“Cousins?” asked Guster.
“Sure,” said Mariah. “Those pointy dark beards and mustaches aren’t fooling anyone. I know a conquistador’s cousin when I see one.”
It kind of made sense. They did look like they could be related to Gaucho. Maybe that’s why he got so nervous when they first spotted them in the pie shop. He knew them. That’s when he’d gone outside to hide, and they hadn’t seen Gaucho since. Until now.
“He sold us out,” said Guster.”
“No. I don’t think they’re on the same team. Considering this,” Mariah said. She held up Gaucho’s wrists. They were tied together with a length of rope. “He’s as much of a prisoner as we are.”
They’d been so stupid. They’d walked right into that trap, trusting Bubalatti based on what? The fact that his pies were so good? And his ice cream? Guster had to be more careful. He trusted his tongue too much, and this time it had gotten them into trouble. Just because something tasted good didn’t mean that it was good. Trouble lurked in many forms, and sometimes it was mixed into Rocky Road.
“The Lieutenant—did you see him?” asked Guster. His memory was fuzzy.