Robbie Forester and the Outlaws of Sherwood Street

by Peter Abrahams

  I glanced at Tut-Tut: he looked amused. Meanwhile Henkel was on the move again. He took a right at the next corner, hurried along for two more blocks, the sidewalk coated with enough snow now to capture his footprints; Henkel had huge feet, the turned-out kind. Then came a left, a few more blocks, and there we were, approaching Rewind.

  Tut-Tut and I crossed the street, not making a sound, and crept on, shielded by parked cars. There were parked cars on the other side, too, including a small, boxy four-door right in front of Rewind. Henkel stopped behind it and glanced quickly around, Tut-Tut and I ducking out of sight. When we dared look again, peering through a small gap between two bumpers, we saw that Henkel had opened the trunk of the boxy car. He glanced around once more and lifted out something square and heavy. A container of some sort, kind of like… like the gasoline can my uncle Joe kept in his garage in the burbs, for fueling all his lawn-care machines.

  Henkel closed the trunk real softly and turned toward Rewind; no lights showed inside. He set down the gas can, fumbled in his pocket for something, and huddled over the keyhole in the door. Faint scrape, scrape of metal on metal, and then the door was open. Henkel picked up the gas can and went inside, closing the door behind him.

  And now? Tut-Tut and I rose and looked at each other. This would be a good moment for the power to put in an appearance, and… do something, I couldn’t think exactly what. The silver heart dangled motionless from the bracelet.

  “Feel anything?” I said.

  Tut-Tut shook his head.

  Rewind’s windows were dark, and no sound came from within. “What are we going to do?” I said.

  “S-s-s-s-suh-suh-suh—”

  “Something?”

  “Y-y-y-ye-,” he said.

  Tut-Tut and I crossed the street and went up to the door of Rewind. I grasped the knob and turned it, at the same time having a shameful wish: maybe the door wouldn’t open and that would be that. But it did, nice and easy.

  I pushed the door open, real slow. What if it was one of those doors that made a bell tinkle inside the shop? Had that happened when we’d entered before? I couldn’t remember.

  No bell tinkled. Tut-Tut and I stepped inside. He closed the door, very softly. A little light penetrated from the street, but petered out at about the halfway mark in the long, narrow space. We peered into the gloom. There were lots of shadows, none in motion. I heard a furnace start up somewhere below; other than that, silence. We moved toward the back of the store.

  My eyes began to adjust to the darkness. I could make out the rows of record bins, and the square silhouettes of the hanging album covers. We reached the end of the bins and came to Bowlman’s tiny office—just a desk and a single file cabinet, slightly illuminated by the pulsing sleeper light of a computer. Behind the desk stood the rear wall of the store. No sign of Henkel. I turned to Tut-Tut. He stood by the right-hand wall, seemed to be examining some concert posters pinned to it. I went closer, saw that the posters concealed a low, narrow, knobless door. Tut-Tut gave it a push, and it swung open.

  We gazed at a rough wooden staircase leading to the basement. Light shone down there, weak and yellow. Power, where are you? I was considering a pause, just to give the power a chance, supposing it was unavoidably detained somewhere else, but Tut-Tut started down the stairs, and I went with him. I didn’t know what was going through Tut-Tut’s mind, but mine was busy trying to convince me that the power would come if needed.

  There were lots of smells in the basement under Rewind, damp, musty, moldy; water dripped somewhere nearby. We came to the bottom of the stairs and found ourselves in a narrow sort of corridor, flanked on both sides by record albums stacked higher than our heads. Beyond the record albums, I could see lots of clutter: a rusty tricycle, bundled-up newspapers, a stained mattress. A bare bulb, source of the weak yellow light, hung from the ceiling. And one more thing: I smelled gasoline.

  We reached the last stack of records and peered around the corner. More clutter, more junk, cobwebs all over the place, and by the far wall, in the space between the furnace and the hot water tank: Henkel. He was bent over and shuffling backward, pouring a thin stream of gasoline from the can as he went. The sound of gasoline splashing on the cement floor seemed very loud, like waves crashing on a beach, but of course that was impossible.

  Henkel started circling around the furnace, pouring gasoline. He could have looked up at any moment and seen us, but he was concentrating too hard for that, an intense expression on his face like he was an artist on a big project. He shook the last drops from the can, then backed toward us, stopping just a few feet away, almost within touching distance. Henkel was breathing hard, although the actual effort of pouring gasoline couldn’t have been that great. He reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette lighter.

  The power! It had to be now. One more second would be too late. But the power refused to come.

  Henkel opened the lighter with a flick of his wrist. Then he pressed the igniting button with his thumb and a tall flame shot up. He drew back his arm to toss the lighter into the gasoline puddle by the furnace. And at that moment, Tut-Tut stepped forward and grabbed the lighter right out of Henkel’s hand.

  If I’d been Henkel, I’d have cried out in complete terror, but Henkel wasn’t like me. He didn’t make a sound, just whipped around real fast. Yes, there was fear in his eyes, but it faded as he saw what he was facing, meaning me and Tut-Tut.

  There was a long pause. Then Henkel said, “You’re a little young for playing with lighters, kid.” He extended his hand toward Tut-Tut. “Better give it to me for safe keeping.”

  Tut-Tut snapped the lighter shut and put it in his pocket. We backed away.

  Henkel’s lips turned up in the fakest smile I’d ever seen. “Don’t be afraid, kids,” he said. “Nothing bad’s going to happen. You’re free to go, soon’s I get my property back.”

  “Nothing bad’s going to happen?” I said. “Like what you did to the Schlecks?” Which maybe wasn’t smart, but even though I was scared, I was also angry, and that anger came bursting out.

  Henkel’s long nose was his most noticeable feature. His eyes, small and muddy-colored, came way down the list. But now an expression entered them that caught my attention big-time, an expression that was sick and nasty.

  “Ah,” he said. “Happen to know anything about a certain missing briefcase?” We said nothing. Henkel smiled. “What’s that word? Improvise? Yeah, that’s it. Looks like we’re going to have to improvise, starting with the happy fact of whose fingerprints are now on the lighter.”

  At that moment—why so late?—I saw that Henkel wore surgical gloves. The prints on the lighter? Those would be Tut-Tut’s. And who was interested in fingerprints? Crime scene investigators. Was Henkel about to frame us for burning down Rewind? Wouldn’t that mean—

  Henkel reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun. I’d never seen a gun before, not a real one, except in the holsters of NYPD cops. This gun was short and stubby, with a black grip and a dull silver barrel. Henkel didn’t point it anywhere in particular.

  “What you two can do for me now,” he said, “is move over thataway.” He flicked the gun barrel in the direction of the gasoline circle he’d poured, the liquid now puddling here and there on the uneven floor.

  Once my dad gave me a talk on avoiding abductions. Don’t get in the car. Resist from the start. Scream your head off.

  “I said move.”

  I thought about screaming my head off, but had a feeling that a scream right now might make the gun go off. On the other hand, I wasn’t going anywhere near the gasoline. Tut-Tut and I didn’t budge. We stood side by side, shoulders touching.

  The sick, nasty look in Henkel’s eyes grew sicker and nastier, all shiny and bright. “Want me to improvise some more?” he said. “Have it your way.”

  The barrel of the gun swung in a little arc and then went still, aimed right at Tut-Tut’s heart.

  “D-d-d-d-d-,” said Tut-Tut.

  “Ca
t got your tongue?” Henkel said.

  “Stop!” I said. “Stop right now! You can’t do this!”

  “Yeah,” said Henkel, not looking at me, but at Tut-Tut’s chest, “I can. That’s the deal. Don’t be upset. They say where you two are going is a better place.”

  The knuckle of Henkel’s trigger-finger whitened, like he was starting to apply pressure. I thought of trying to knock the gun from his hand, but he was too far away, and—

  And then I thought, No buts. What was the point of buts? Henkel was about to shoot Tut-Tut in the heart. The next thing I knew I was in midair.

  From the corner of his eye Henkel saw me coming, started turning, started swinging the gun in my direction. But not quite fast enough. I crashed into him at knee level. The gun went off, making an enormous roar in the confined space. Henkel lost his balance and staggered backward; but might not have fallen, except that he stepped into a pool of gasoline and his feet slipped out from under him. They shot straight up into the air—the gun flying free—and for a crazy instant Henkel seemed to hang upside down. Then he fell headfirst, landing on the hard floor with a sharp crack.

  Henkel lay still, his eyes half open, the nasty, sick look no longer in them. Tut-Tut stepped forward and picked up the gun.

  We knelt over Henkel. Tut-Tut put his ear real close to the end of Henkel’s long nose.

  “Is he dead?” I said. There was a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’d never seen a dead person before.

  “N-n-n-n-,” said Tut-Tut. And of course Tut-Tut had seen dead people, including his own parents. He took my hand, held it to the side of Henkel’s neck. Henkel’s pulse seemed strong and steady. A corner of the manila envelope protruded from under his jacket. Tut-Tut pulled it out and handed it to me. I opened it: a wad of cash, still inside.

  We gazed down at Henkel: a terrible man, pyromaniac and professional arsonist, who’d been about to murder us and enjoy doing it—I’d never forget that sick, excited look in his eyes. Tut-Tut rose and walked away. I wasn’t paying much attention, on account of feeling a little sick myself. When Tut-Tut returned, he had a roll of duct tape in his hands. I took a quick glance at his swollen lip and that cut over his eye: Tut-Tut’s life, so much harder than mine, had left him better prepared for some things.

  We wrapped up Henkel’s arms and legs with duct tape, nice and tight like they do it on TV crime shows. Right as we finished, Henkel’s cell phone rang from inside one of his pockets. Tut-Tut and I both jumped a mile. It rang and rang and went silent.

  We climbed the stairs and laid Henkel’s arson money on Bowlman’s desk. I wrote Rent on the manila envelope in case Bowlman got confused. Then I picked up the phone and called 9-1-1. “There’s an arsonist at Rewind in Brooklyn,” I said. “Better come quick.” The woman on the other end started in with a question. I hung up. We went outside, closing the door carefully behind us.

  The world had turned white in our absence. Once in history class, Mr. Stinecki, way off topic and going on about some poem he’d read in The New Yorker, said that white was the color of death. All of a sudden I wanted to puke. I tried the burping method and felt better.

  Tut-Tut was gazing at the snow, looking very happy about it. “Sn-sn-sn—”

  Sirens started up, not too far away. We began walking, in no particular direction at first.

  “Borg wanted Henkel to go back to the boat,” I said after a block or two. “He’s up to something.”

  Tut-Tut nodded.

  “I wonder what.”

  He nodded again.

  The wind was rising; the snow no longer fell straight, but at an angle that got sharper and sharper as we walked. I should have felt cold, instead felt too warm, if anything.

  “Are you cold?” I said.

  Tut-Tut shook his head.

  The bridge appeared in the distance, lit by a streetlamp at the far end. A man was on it, coming our way, his elongated shadow gliding ahead of him. I knew that stride by now, quick and athletic: Borg. I grabbed Tut-Tut’s arm. We ducked down a short flight of stairs that led to someone’s basement apartment and crouched in the little protected place, out of the weather. A minute or two later, Borg hurried by, his boots just about at our eye level, crunching in the snow. He was looking straight ahead, his expression hard, angry, and maybe a little anxious as well.

  We stayed where we were until he was out of sight.

  “He’s gone to check on Henkel?” I said.

  “Y-y-ye-ye-,” said Tut-Tut.

  There’d be confusion at Rewind, with cops and firemen and Henkel in duct tape and probably Bowlman appearing on the scene. That gave us time. Without another word, we both started running, up to street level and toward the canal, slip-sliding in the snow. Tut-Tut laughed a little laugh; no snow in Haiti, I thought. We crossed the bridge, turned down the dark street—no lights showing now in the Red Goat—and paused before the gate that led down to Borg’s boat. Borg had vaulted it easily. We climbed it, not so easily, and followed the stone stairs to the canal.

  Borg’s boat bobbed on the water, choppy water now, ruffled up by the weather. No lights showed aboard. We stood listening for a few moments; I heard nothing but the wind. I moved toward the stern, just to see the name of the boat. There was enough nighttime city light to read it: Short Sail. Whoa. Short Sail? Hadn’t that come up recently? My mind went searching back: Borg’s office, Borg needing more money, Gunn saying something about what I had taken to be short sales, meaning a stock market play for getting the cash. But Gunn had been talking about Short Sail, the name of the boat being some kind of rich-guy pun.

  Fenders protected Short Sail’s hull, kept it about two feet from the concrete side of the canal. Without another thought, I stepped across that ribbon of water to the deck.

  “Wh-wh-wh-wha-,” Tut-Tut said.

  “What are we doing?” I said. “What we do—robbing from the rich, giving to the poor. I think there’s money on board.”

  Tut-Tut hesitated. At first I thought he doubted me. Then I remembered that last sketch he’d drawn in our warehouse HQ, empty ocean and a small figure clinging to a wrecked mast.

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  Tut-Tut stepped across, and as he did, I realized it wasn’t okay. We’d made a huge mistake: our footprints in the snow.

  “Oh, my God,” I said. “When he comes back, he’ll know someone’s been on board.”

  Tut-Tut understood at once. He whipped around to check our footprints on the stone stairs and beside the boat. And at that very moment, a huge gust of wind blew by. It swept over the footprints, leaving a surface as smooth and unbroken as cake icing.

  “That was lucky,” I said.

  The silver heart seemed to flutter on my wrist, but that too might have been the wind.

  We searched the boat, starting in the stern. Nothing there but lockers full of coiled rope, fishing rods and reels, lifejackets, an anchor. In the storage space under the center console, we found charts, sunblock, a tool kit. That left the forward cabin. We opened the narrow door and went inside.

  It was bigger than the cabin on Uncle Joe’s boat. First came a galley with a sink, small fridge, and stove on one side and a table on the other. After that, through another door, lay the sleeping berths, two on each side. No sign of money out in the open. I was kneeling to check under the nearest berth when I thought I heard something. I froze, and heard it again. A footstep on the deck, beyond doubt. Tut-Tut and I looked at each other. His eyes were wide. We glanced around, saw portholes, closed and way too small in any case. There was only one way out, back through the forward cabin and onto the deck.

  Sounds came from the deck: someone moving around, the thud of ropes, and then an inboard engine starting up; it throbbed through the deck. Seconds later we were under way. Another negative: There was no money on board, not that we could find. And a third: Ashanti and Silas hadn’t made it. Not a surprise—we were all kids, and it was very late.

  S hort Sail glided slowly along the canal, the engine
purring softly but with a kind of contained power. Through the little portholes, I caught glimpses of storage tanks, loading docks, rusted-out equipment I didn’t know the names for, all the sharp angles getting rounded by the snow. A seagull stood on a piling right at eye level and just feet away, back to the wind and wings folded over its chest. Tut-Tut was doing the same thing with his arms, like he was holding on to himself. I tried to look reassuring; didn’t dare utter a word, of course: I could hear a voice crackling over a radio, and then, right outside the cabin, Borg said, “Roger.”

  Roger? People said Roger in real life? It meant they were in agreement, right? So what was Borg agreeing to? And where were we going? I didn’t think the canal was very long, nothing like the Erie Canal, for example, but its actual route was unclear in my mind. Did it go as far as—

  All of a sudden, the engine roared and we surged forward, the bow rising up out of the water. Tut-Tut and I went flying. I hit the cabin door hard; whatever Tut-Tut hit made a lot of noise. We landed together on the floor.

  The engine got throttled back abruptly and Borg said, “What was that?”

  I motioned to Tut-Tut real quick. He rolled under one of the berths, and I scrambled under the next one, squeezed in next to a big duffel bag. The door burst open in a second. Borg, visible to me from the knees down, meaning mostly his thick black boots, came inside. He walked to the far end, returned. I heard him open some kind of compartment and slam it shut. He opened another one, moved some things around inside it. Then came a click as he closed it up. He paused. Was he thinking about rearranging more stuff, like maybe under the berths?