The Watcher in the Shadows

by Chris Moriarty

  Moishe scurried through one dark, damp chamber and into another, and Sacha followed him. At first he ran his hands along the walls to keep his bearings, but then the bricks became so damp and slimy that he decided he’d rather get lost than touch them. And anyway, it was clear where Moishe was headed: to the whispering room.

  Then Moishe opened the door, and a stray shaft of moonlight shot through the barred window in the room beyond. Sacha saw a billowing, rustling, gray ocean of feathers stretching out under the low ceiling—and he almost laughed out loud.

  It was Mrs. Mogulesko’s goose flock. He’d known she kept them in basements, moving around all the time to stay one step ahead of the health authorities. But he’d never understood just how many geese Mrs. Mogulesko had—or just how much a flock of brooding geese could sound like whispers in the shadows when your nerves were stretched taut and you had dark thoughts in mind.

  The geese must have thought that the boys were Mrs. Mogulesko arriving to feed them. As the door opened, they surged forward, clucking and pecking and looking for dinner. Moishe pushed Sacha into the room, shooed the geese away from the door, and slammed it shut just in time to stop a few bold adventurers from making a break for freedom. Then he looked around, searching for something.

  It was brighter in here than in the rest of the basement. A few barred windows looked out on a grimy airshaft on one side and an empty alley on the other. Sacha followed Moishe’s gaze, peering out over the heaving sea of geese, and saw a framework of wooden planks set up against the back wall to form a rough sort of shelf. Perched on the shelf, hunched over pathetically like a scrawny baby bird who’d fallen out of his nest and couldn’t figure out how to get back, was Sam Schlosky.

  “Well,” Moishe said, wading through the geese to Sam’s hiding place, “here he is. Alone, just like you asked me to bring him. So you might as well tell him what you told me.”

  But Sam still wasn’t ready to tell Sacha whatever Moishe had brought him to hear. Instead he peered down at them nervously, picking at the sleeve of his coat and rocking back and forth on the shelf as if he were thinking about hopping to the ground and running away.

  “How do I know I can trust you?” he asked Sacha. “How do I know you won’t just go and tell that Inquisitor of yours everything?”

  “Maybe I should tell him,” Sacha said. “Maybe he can protect you from whoever you’re hiding from.”

  “He can’t,” Sam said in a hollow voice.

  “Who are you afraid of?”

  “The same thing you’re afraid of,” Sam whispered. “The watcher in the shadows.”

  “Whoever it is, Wolf can protect you from it.”

  “No, he can’t,” Sam whispered.

  “Tell him what you told me,” Moishe urged. “Tell him about the deal Naftali Asher struck with Morgaunt.”

  “Naftali got his songs,” Sam said. “And Morgaunt got shirtwaists.”

  At first Sacha didn’t understand.

  “Don’t you see?” Moishe exclaimed. “Asher was the scabbalist! Sam’s the anonymous source that told the papers about it!”

  “But I haven’t told anyone the whole story,” Sam said.

  “What do you mean?” Sacha asked, his heart thumping in his chest. “And why are you telling me? What do I have to do with it?”

  “Don’t you know?” Sam peered down at Sacha from his rickety shelf. He seemed to be leaning toward him and shrinking from him at the same time. “I thought the new scabbalist was your—”

  But before Sam could say the name, the door to the basement flew open with a crack like lightning striking.

  “Hands up!” shouted a loud voice. “And don’t even think about using magic! It’s the Inquisitors!”

  Suddenly the air was thick with feathers and magic. Spell-flinging Inquisitors burst into the room in a sea of blue uniforms. Sam jumped down from his shelf and ran crouching toward the rear of the basement, where the meager light from the window grates turned to blackest shadow. Moishe grabbed Sacha’s arm and began dragging him along after Sam, frantically casting hexes behind him as he ran. Moishe wasn’t a particularly powerful magician—Sacha could tell at a glance that he was only using little everyday spells. But what power he had, he used cleverly. He was doing something to the geese, throwing them into an angry panic so that they rose up in a wave, beating their wings and slashing at the pursuing Inquisitors.

  Still, it was no good. The Inquisitors were stronger than Moishe. The geese scattered before them. A pair of burly detectives slipped through the flock first, and were instantly on the boys’ heels. Sam stumbled and then sank to the ground under the power of some hex that Sacha didn’t even recognize. Then Sacha felt something grabbing at his own ankles. He tripped. Moishe’s hand slipped out of his grasp. A nightstick slammed down on Sacha’s head—and he sank into warm, velvety darkness with the outraged shrieks of Mrs. Mogulesko’s geese whistling in his ears.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Minsky’s Bargain

  WHEN WOLF SHOWED up to bail Sacha out of the Tombs the next morning, he was white with fury. He barely spoke as they went through the long process of filling out the paperwork and retrieving the goose-soiled tatters of Sacha’s clothing.

  Something told Sacha that Wolf must have had to call in huge favors and pull strings all over town to get him out. But on the other hand, he had discovered something important, hadn’t he?

  “Listen,” he began. “I’m really sorry about this, but Sam told me something importa—”

  “Shhh!” Wolf hissed. “The walls have ears here!”

  Sacha kept his mouth shut until they were out on the street. And only then did it occur to him to wonder where Sam was.

  He looked back at the horrible building they had just escaped from. Its real name, carved right across the façade for anyone to read, was the Hall of Justice. But now he understood why they called it the Tombs. And he prayed he’d never have to set foot in the place again for as long as he lived.

  Sam was in there right now, Sacha realized, and probably being given the third degree this very minute. From the look on Wolf’s face, he must be sure Sam had already confessed to Naftali Asher’s murder—or that he would have confessed long before they could pull enough strings to get him out.

  “Aren’t we going to get Sam out?” he asked Wolf.

  “No.”

  “Aren’t you even going to try?”

  “And what do you think I’ve been doing for the last two weeks?” Wolf asked in a voice as hard and cold as river ice. “If Sam dies in the Tombs, it won’t be my fault, it’ll be yours!”

  Sacha froze, horrified by Wolf’s words. But Wolf wasn’t even looking at him anymore. He had turned on his heel already and stalked off down Mulberry Street.

  “Wait!” Sacha cried.

  But either Wolf didn’t hear him, or he didn’t want to hear him. He stepped off the curb to cross the busy street without even looking back, and the last Sacha saw of him was his black coattails vanishing behind a passing omnibus.

  Maybe it was because he was still stinging from Wolf’s angry words. Or maybe it was because he felt guilty. But as Sacha watched Wolf stride away, an idea began to take shape in his mind that was either brave or crazy or both.

  Before he could have time for second thoughts—or time to lose his nerve—he marched off down Mulberry Street, made his way back across the Bowery, elbowed his way through the midday shopping crowds on Hester Street, turned up Essex, and marched straight into Meyer Minsky’s candy store.

  Dopey Benny and two of Meyer’s most fearsome starkers were lounging around the candy counter flicking wads of used chewing gum at the stamped tin ceiling and laying bets about whether they would stick or not.

  “Hey, kid,” Benny asked in his adenoidal drawl, “how’s your sistuh?”

  “Oh—uh—fine. Is Meyer here?”

  “Nope.” Benny flicked a wad of gum at the ceiling and squinted critically at it while it stuck for a moment, then peeled off and fell to t
he floor with a soft smacking sound. “Is your sistuh about to get buried?”

  “What?” Sacha yelped.

  “You know. Buried. Ban and wife, for bettuh or worse.”

  “Do you mean married? No! And anyway, it’s none of your business!”

  “Okay, okay,” Benny said in a wounded tone. “I don’t see why you gotta be sharp wid a guy for askin’ a perfectly dormal question!”

  “Okay. Sorry, Benny. Just . . . don’t talk about my sister. Okay?”

  “See what I mean?” Benny asked mournfully. “Why would you wanna go and say a thing like that to a fella?”

  The other starker’s piece of gum thwacked against the ceiling and stuck. But when Benny tried to repeat the performance, he failed again.

  “It’s your spit, Benny,” one of the other two gangsters pointed out helpfully. “That’s the problem. It ain’t like normal spit.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Benny asked ominously.

  “I dunno. It’s . . . not sticky or something. Maybe it’s a sinus thing.”

  “You got something to say about my sinuses,” Benny sniffled, “you can say it to my face.”

  “Hey, guys! Take it outside!” said the third gangster.

  “Maybe we will,” growled Benny, the pent-up magic suddenly flaring and spitting around him. “Fists or hexes?”

  “Either way’s fine by me,” said the smaller gangster. But Sacha noticed that he was already edging nervously away from Benny.

  Sacha sighed, defeated, and began to trudge back out of the candy store. But Benny’s voice called him back: “Hey, wait a minute. Come back in half an hour. No promises, but I’ll tell Meyer you wanna talk to him.”

  When Sacha returned, the three starkers were still there. But instead of flicking gum at the ceiling, they were staring covetously at the long sleek motorcar that idled at the curb like a luxury ocean liner floating at harbor. Sacha eyed the car as he walked by and couldn’t help noticing that it glimmered with more than just wax polish. There was a curious, flimmery sort of sheen to it. Not exactly an aura, but a rainbow-hued glimmer, like the colors that flow over an oil slick just as the rain starts to wash it off the pavement.

  Meyer Minsky was a man who didn’t leave much to chance. His car was armored with both bulletproof glass and bulletproof magic.

  Minsky was sitting at the same desk, flipping the same buffalo head nickel. “You want me to find the Klezmer Killer?” he asked incredulously when Sacha made his carefully rehearsed speech.

  “Sam Schlosky’s innocent,” Sacha pleaded.

  “And why should I care about Sam Schlosky? No offense, kid, I’m just askin’.”

  “Well, er . . .”

  Minsky flipped the coin again and slapped his hand down on top of it before Sacha could see whether he’d thrown heads again. Sacha noticed the gangster wore several large rings on his well-manicured fingers. One of them was twisted into the shape of a snake’s head with eyes of onyx that winked and glittered at him.

  “I’m waiting,” Minsky said quietly.

  Sacha took a desperate gamble, praying it wouldn’t come back to bite him like the sly, winking serpent wrapped around Minsky’s little finger. “Whoever killed Naftali Asher, that’s who framed Sam Schlosky. And whoever framed him, that’s who sent the watcher in the shadows to kill your people.”

  Minsky stared hard at Sacha for long enough to make the breath freeze in his lungs. His feet felt rooted to the spot, but he couldn’t tell if it was magic that was holding him there or sheer physical terror of the man.

  “And who do you think that might be?” Minsky asked.

  Sacha swallowed nervously. “J. P. Morgaunt.”

  Minsky’s eyebrows rose. “Aha. Now we’re getting to it. Are you sure you came here on your own? Or is Wolf still trying to drag me into his fight with Morgaunt?”

  “No! I swear he doesn’t even know I’m here! I just want to help Sam!”

  “Is that so?” Meyer said dangerously.

  “Yes!”

  “Heads or tails? And you better think damn carefully about your answer if you want to walk out of here instead of getting carried out.”

  Minsky’s hand was still clapped over the coin on the desk. Sacha tried to swallow, but all the spit seemed to have dried up in his mouth, and his tongue felt like cardboard.

  “Tails,” he whispered.

  Oh, God. What on earth had made him say tails? Minsky had just flipped heads forty times in a row. And now, on a life-or-death throw, he called tails?

  Minsky didn’t look down at the coin when he raised his hand. He just kept watching Sacha, reading the throw by the look on his face.

  Tails.

  “Son of a gun,” Minsky murmured.

  “See?” Sacha said. “I’m not lying.”

  “Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t,” Minsky snapped. “And maybe the nickel’s trying to double-cross me. I took it out of Jimmy the Gimp’s pocket the day he died, and I’m never quite sure if it remembers that I’m the one who shivved him—not that I’m admitting anything officially!”

  Sacha eyed the nickel in alarm, then looked up to find Minsky still watching him.

  “Okay. I’ll help you,” Minsky said at last.

  Sacha went limp with relief.

  “I’ll help you. But this is a big favor you’re asking for. And that means I’m going to expect a big favor back from you someday.”

  “What kind of favor?” Sacha asked suspiciously.

  “Can’t really say. Who knows what I’ll need and when I’ll need it? I might not call this favor in for years and years. Not until you’re a big grownup Inquisitor yourself, just like my old friend Max.”

  Sacha shuddered. “I won’t do anything illegal.”

  “Oh, really?” Minsky sounded almost amused now. “And why would that be?”

  “Because I don’t want to be that kind of cop.”

  But Minsky just laughed. “No one wants to be that kind of cop, kid. But somehow that’s the kind of a cop they all turn into.”

  “Not Wolf,” Sacha said—though he wasn’t sure whether he believed it or just wanted to believe it.

  “That,” Minsky said, “has yet to be determined.”

  “Not Wolf,” Sacha insisted. “And not me.”

  Meyer slashed his hand down on the table in a sharp, cutting gesture. Sacha jumped at the impact but forced himself to remain still. He and Meyer stared across the desk at each other, and all he could think was that talking to Meyer Minsky was like being a lion tamer in the circus: you blink, you die.

  Then Meyer laughed. “I’ll give you one thing,” he said. “You got nerve. I’ll tell you what. I’ll do this favor for you. And when the day comes that I ask you for a favor in return, I promise you this: it won’t be a crooked favor. When I show up on your doorstep, you’ll know that I’m in the right, and the cops are in the wrong. So that way, when you risk a train ride up the river for me—because it will be that kind of favor, or what would be the point of asking you?—at least you’ll have the moral satisfaction of knowing that you’re putting yourself on the line for an innocent man.”

  Sacha stared at Minsky, speechless. He couldn’t think of a word to say in reply to this decree. And he was pretty sure that it wouldn’t make a difference what he said. Minsky wasn’t bargaining with him; he was just telling him how it was going to be.

  “So where does that leave us now?” he finally managed to choke out.

  “It leaves us friends.” Minsky stood up, brushed an invisible speck of lint off of his beautifully tailored trousers, thrust his lucky coin back into his trouser pocket, and strode out of the room without even glancing at Sacha. But his voice drifted back as he swept toward his magic-plated limousine. “You’re all right, kid. You’re all right until I say you’re not.”

  A few days later, Dopey Benny knocked on the door of the Kesslers’ apartment after dinner.

  “Meyer wants to see you,” he told Sacha.

  Sacha and his family
exchanged shocked and nervous glances—but luckily Benny was too busy staring at Bekah to notice.

  “Now?” Sacha asked.

  “Dat’s what he says, kid.”

  “Isn’t it a little late for that, Benny?” Sacha’s father asked.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Kessler,” Benny said, politely removing his hat and looking a little sheepish about having forgotten it. There was something about Sacha’s father, quiet as he was, that kept even the roughest boys in the neighborhood on their best behavior—and Benny Fein was no exception. “I’m sorry it’s so late, but Meyer really needs to talk to him.” Benny waggled his eyebrows and dropped his voice to a portentous whisper. “Inquisitor business.”

  Sacha’s father glanced questioningly at him, and Sacha shrugged slightly.

  “Okay, Benny. Walk him home yourself when he’s done, though. Will you?”

  “I solemnly promise, Mr. Kessler!”

  And they were off.

  When they reached the Essex Street Candy Store, its storefront was already dark and shuttered. But Sacha could see a sliver of light shining from the back room, and sure enough, Minsky was waiting for him there—this time with Kid Klezmer in tow.

  “I asked the Kid to come along ’cause I thought he ought to hear this too,” Meyer explained.

  Sacha waited, but Meyer didn’t speak. And after a moment, he realized that both Minsky and Kid Klezmer were waiting for a fourth man to speak—a man so silent and unobtrusive that Sacha hadn’t even realized he was in the room with them.

  “Tell him what you saw, Nebbs,” Minsky prompted.

  “What I saw on the tracks?” the little gray man asked.

  “No, at the opera,” Minsky cracked. “Don’t be a putz, Nebbs!”

  The little gray man turned to Sacha with a solemn wink. “Meyer thinks he’s a funny guy.”