Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Praise
prologue
chapter One
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter Six
chapter Seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter Sixteen
chapter Seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-One
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
chapter twenty-five
chapter twenty-Six
chapter twenty-Seven
chapter twenty-eight
chapter twenty-nine
chapter thirty
chapter thirty-One
chapter thirty-two
chapter thirty-three
chapter thirty-four
chapter thirty-five
chapter thirty-Six
chapter thirty-Seven
chapter thirty-eight
chapter thirty-nine
chapter forty
chapter forty-one
chapter forty-two
chapter forty-three
chapter forty-four
chapter forty-five
chapter forty-six
chapter forty-seven
chapter forty-eight
chapter forty-nine
chapter fifty
chapter fifty-One
chapter fifty-two
chapter fifty-three
chapter fifty-four
chapter fifty-five
chapter fifty-Six
Picture this:
Having a problem? King Of cool Sebastian Montero can make it go away. . . .
PART ONE - THURSDAY
1. Only If It’s an Emergency
Copyright Page
Praise for Burning City
★“Taut writing matches the fast, sweaty pace of Heller’s extreme cycling through a sizzling New York summer. . . . Heller is . . . a long way from myopic Holden Caulfield and his privileged New York. Though authentically adolescent in his personal experience . . . Heller is also attuned to a greater humanity.” —The Horn Book Magazine, Starred
“[A] compelling and intensely charged urban drama.”
—KLIATT
“The Dorfmans are deft writers, smoothly intertwining characters and events in a highly imaginative, intriguing, and almost dreamlike story.” — Booklist
“Admirably evokes the streets of the big city and the angst of every teen with big dreams.”—BookPage
“Heller has typical insecurities, fears and dreams that are perfectly captured in this hip, urban fairy tale of unlikely friendships.” — Kirkus Reviews
“An oblique, understated book, deserving of high praise.”
—The Literary Review
“An often joyful novel, rich in playful humour, fast-paced, slick and contemporary. And as you’d expect from two playwrights, the dialogue is fizzy, fast and furious, darting between the characters like a pinball.”
—Scotland on Sunday
This book is for Isabella
prologue
Heller and his bike burst onto Sixth Avenue, and none of the cars saw him coming.
The screams from the people within those air-conditioned interiors harmonized with the wail of brake pads, tires screeching. To them, Heller was all blur, a silver streak hardly discernible as a teenager on wheels. But to Heller, every car was in clear focus: speed, position, angle. In the second it took him to run the gauntlet across Sixth, not a single driver took him down, not a single bumper made contact with another. It was pure choreography, instant ballet, and before even one motorist or pedestrian had the chance to admire it all, Heller was already eastbound on Twelfth Street.
He didn’t stop there. In the blink of a passerby’s eye he’d crossed Fifth, once again unscathed, making tracks for University Place.
1:35 in the afternoon and he was already ahead of schedule. 1:36, just about to cross University Place, when Heller saw Bruno on the corner, standing less than twenty yards away, unmistakable despite the uniform. Bruno the Bruiser.
Their eyes locked.
Heller needed only a moment to see the badge, the nightstick, the gun hanging from Bruno’s belt. Needed one more moment to wonder if the safety was off. Needed one last moment to change direction.
Detour.
Heller popped his wheels off the curb, altered his course, pedaled with traffic up to Union Square. Past the bars and garbage bags on the sidewalk waiting for collection. Past the lunchtime patrons of Burger King. Past the Knights of Jerusalem on Fourteenth Street, preaching to the world about the white devil and a return to the truth. Past the skateboarders and bums lying about in the summer sun, past all that . . .
People yelled and jumped out of his way, squirrels joining them in the mad dash for safety. Heller let speed fuel his bike, legs beating against the pedals. He might have noticed a man sitting at a makeshift table, books strewn about its surface. He might have noticed this man’s look, calm in the midst of the frenzy of movement in Heller’s wake. He might have noticed the curious expression dancing in this man’s dark brown eyes, set in the features of a face filled with experience, a very slight dent in his left cheek, as though the bone had started to cave in. He might have noticed the man’s unassuming stance as he blazed past. Might have noticed . . .
But he didn’t.
Although this man, without question, noticed Heller.
Boom. The man watched as Heller tore himself out of the park, through a double-edged stream of uptown/downtown traffic, cut across a corner, narrowly skirting a cluster of tourists who felt lucky to have avoided an accident. Heller knew there was no accident and there was no luck. All the tourists saw was his back to them, a boy on his bike, black T-shirt with the words SOFT TIDINGS printed in friendly, light blue letters.
The detour now behind him, Heller turned south, down toward St. Mark’s Place, made a left.
The sun was at a slant, and its light created shadows out of everything. Heller biked through it all, his silhouette casting itself on the tattoo parlors, used-CD stores, past the late Coney Island High club, past the homeless and Hampton punks pretending to bum around for the weekend, past Yaffa Café . . . into Alphabet City, where the neighborhood turned sketchy and prices dropped along with expectations.
Heller had arrived.
His right arm tightened, hit the brakes.
Dead stop.
Right there on Avenue B.
He jumped off his bike, hit the button on his digital watch.
Checked the time.
“Thirteen fifty-two,” Heller whispered. “Damn Bruno.”
He was going to have to do better in the future.
The streets had somehow become empty. A few cars, a random bodega owner standing outside his store, waiting for business to pick up. Other than that, stillness. It was as though the birds had left to find some other city to call home.
Heller chained his bike to a NO PARKING sign. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an ambiguously light green card. . . .
4 x 8.
Heller read over the details.
His expression melted. He walked toward the apartment building in front of him, suddenly alert to something other than movement or speed. Resolute and controlled because reality had suddenly seeped back into the world.
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The card had left out the apartment number. It happened on occasion, due to the fault of the client or some sort of clerical error. Heller searched the buzzers on the outside door, looking for a specific name, specific destiny.
Half the buzzers were unmarked.
Heller searched for a brief while longer, the silence of an otherwise noisy city growing all around him.
The door to the building opened without warning. A middle-aged man stood in place of the door, mustached, with a rehearsed look on his face. Superintendent, to be sure.
“Can I help you, son?”
It seemed like a rhetorical question.
“I’m looking for Mr. Benjamin Ibo, please.”
The superintendent regarded Heller closely, sensed that something was wrong. “He expecting you?”
“No.”
The super nodded sadly. “Three flights up, turn left, apartment thirty-five.”
“Thank you.”
Heller made his way up the stairs, preparing for his first encounter of the day. With each floor, he felt as though a layer of himself were peeling away and shedding onto the dusty steps.
APT. NO. 35.
Heller knocked on the door three times.
He waited.
From behind the door at the end of the hall a dog barked, scratched its nails against the wood. The door opened, and a fifty-year-old man with oily gray hair and wide eyes stuck his head out, holding a large greyhound by his side.
“What do you want?” he snapped. “What are you doing here in my HOUSE?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Benjamin Ibo,” Heller said calmly.
“I thought so!” declared the man triumphantly before slamming his door closed.
Peace was restored to the hallway. Heller was sweating, a staleness in the air sticking to him. Finally, Benjamin Ibo answered the knock.
Heller knew from the card that Benjamin Ibo was Nigerian. Twenty-some years old. Heller didn’t need any sort of statistic to know that Benjamin was a man well traveled. He could see it in his eyes, saw it in most of the people he visited.
Benjamin Ibo stood before him, leaning against the threshold with one hand on the doorknob. Majestic face and dark brown eyes matching his skin, green soccer jersey hanging over his body.
Gray boxer shorts.
Neither of them spoke. Finally:
“What’s up, then?” Benjamin asked.
Heller took a breath. “Soft Tidings . . .”
Benjamin already knew, must have felt it when he woke up that day. He nodded, let Heller into the apartment, and closed the door. . . .
The lock engaged itself.
chapter One
Heller thought the entire world was going to melt that summer.
It was the Fourth of July and all of Manhattan was sweating. It was coming out of the streets, buildings, faucets; even the Hudson River could be heard for miles, begging for a drink, something to keep it cool. Radios reported the weather out of habit. Sleeping couples woke up to damp sheets. Construction workers went without their shirts and stockbrokers loosened their ties with quiet envy. Tourists complained, ice-cream vendors smiled, and mercury climbed steadily up tired thermometers.
Heller Highland saw all of this, and that which he couldn’t see he simply knew. School had been out for just over a month. He sat on the roof of his building and kept his eyes on the sky, due southeast. Glass of water in his left hand, ice already dissolved, even in the cool of the evening. Airplane lights traveled past, left and right, fireflies of the twentieth century—
Twenty-first century, Heller corrected himself silently. It’s two thousand and one; twenty-first century. . . .
He took a sip of water. Waited for the fireworks to start.
Independence Day.
There was no American flag in his right hand. Just a telegram. No red, white, or blue. Just an elegantly embossed message on an ambiguously light green card; 4 x 8. Heller was barely aware he was holding it. Just watched the sky. An unchanging Manhattan skyline. The sounds of the city kept him company. The distant blast of traffic, pedestrians, and the hum of a thousand air conditioners and fans, all in the same key.
A breeze managed to find its way into the city, and Heller’s blond hair lifted itself, thankful. Heller smiled. He stopped. Smiled again, stopped, smiled, bit his lip and stopped. A few seconds later the wind died down, and Heller was left in his chair, on his roof, in his city of millions.
“Fireworks are late,” came a voice behind him.
Heller didn’t turn around. “Any minute now, I’m sure.”
His grandfather, Eric, walked up next to him, stood for a while, glanced down.
“Telegram?”
“Yes.”
“Soft Tidings?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you had the day off.”
“It’s from Mom and Dad.”
“Really? What’s it say?”
“Haven’t read it.”
Eric kept quiet, thought about it. Then:
“They should be coming back soon.”
“I’d like to think so. . . .”
Grandfather forced a chuckle. “You make it sound like they’re dead.”
“I do not,” Heller said. “I just know how it can be with them.”
The two of them watched the sky. An ambulance cried in the distance. Heller wondered at the emergency. Thought about a phone call at three in the morning. Thought about a family waiting for news thousands of miles away. Thought too much.
“Did you see Silvia today?” Eric asked.
“. . . I stopped by the coffee shop,” Heller said cautiously. “She was there.”
“When do I get to meet her?”
“Soon.”
“I know your grandmother’s been wanting to meet her for a long time. . . . Heller?”
“I know how she feels. . . .”
“Heller?” Eric repeated, voice softer this time.
“Yeah?”
“We should have had some sort of celebration, you know.”
“I like celebrating like this.”
“Are you happy living with your grandmother and me?”
“You know I am.”
“Are you sure?”
“You know I am,” Heller said.
“Mom and Dad are fine, I promise.”
“Now you make it sound like they’re dead.”
“I don’t think you’re hearing me right.”
An explosion tore the night apart and a hot blast of red lit the air. Heller jumped inadvertently. Within three seconds the entire night was filled with a thousand lights, imitation stars, fireworks mirroring the glow of apartments and office buildings.
“Hey, there they are,” Eric said.
“Boom, boom.”
“Happy Fourth of July, Heller.”
Heller nodded.
“I’ll go get your grandmother.”
Heller listened to his grandfather’s footsteps head for the stairs. The sky erupted over and over, and Heller felt the smile return, bit his lip. “Eric?”
The footsteps halted. Twelve deafening fireworks were released at once.
“Mom and Dad say they’re doing fine.”
“What?”
Heller cleared his throat. “Happy Fourth of July.”
He couldn’t see his grandfather but could sense him nodding as he said, “Happy birthday, Heller. . . . Sweet sixteen . . .”
The ribbons of light cascaded over the city. Blast after blast, the sky rained down on Heller and the rest of the country. The world seemed to be getting smaller, the summers hotter, and despite the air-conditioning, the city continued to sweat.
Heller brought the glass of water to his lips and realized it was empty.
The entire world was going to melt that summer.
There was no doubt about this in Heller’s mind.
chapter two
Heller made it down Lafayette Street and onto Kenmare in one piece. He chained his bike to the usual NO PARKING sign
. It was approaching 9:00 a.m., and he was already sweating; the sun wasn’t planning on saying uncle. Heller took a long tug at his water bottle, then gave his bike seat an affectionate pat.
The streets were thick with people, workers and tourists, weaving in and out between construction detours and hot-dog stands. Heller walked eastward, passed a group of students from his high school moving toward him. Three girls, one guy. They walked by, not recognizing him, and Heller overheard one of them say—
“. . . You get more channels with a satellite package. . . .”
—before their smiles were swept into the crowd. Heller stopped, glanced back for a moment, then walked through the metal door to 1251.
It was almost time to get to work.
What Heller Highland knew about the rest of the employees at Soft Tidings didn’t amount to much. They were all out of high school. Some were in college, others weren’t; a diploma was almost a must for employment. A few of them were from New York, most were first-generation Americans; knowing a second language was another near-necessity at Soft Tidings. A select amount worked part time, the rest worked full time; all of them were required to wear Rollerblades.
Heller didn’t meet any of the above conditions.
Everyone else did, and they made it their business to make sure Heller didn’t forget it:
“Well, if it isn’t the bicycle thief!”
Heller stepped into the main offices of Soft Tidings and instantly recognized the voice of Rich Phillips. Didn’t need to turn and see the wide grin, malicious eyes half covered by soft brown hair. Rich Phillips was senior staff, twenty-two, the oldest of the messengers. He set the example for the rest, and Rich Phillips never missed a chance to make an example of Heller.
Heller tried to get through the room as quickly as possible, but Rich was already in front of him, Rollerblades slung over his shoulder. He stood at six two, a full half foot taller than Heller. The rest of the staff gathered around to watch.
“Happy birthday, Heller,” Rich said. “You get a new pacifier?”
A room full of laughter.
“. . . No.”
“Didn’t spend it with your girl, Heller?” came a voice from out of the crowd.
“I think Heller’s a bit old for make-believe,” Rich announced, receiving a hero’s applause from the other workers. Then, to Heller: “No pacifier, no girl, what did you do to celebrate your Fourth of July?”
Burning City Page 1