The Child Thief

“Is that a turd?”

Nick instinctively jerked his foot away. “Where?”

Peter reached into the shadow and came up with a lumpy brown clump. He held it up. “Yup, big greasy turd.”

It didn’t look like a turd to Nick. It looked suspiciously like a Baby Ruth.

Peter chomped down on it. “Scrumptious.”

Nick snorted, then burst out laughing. Peter joined in between big, loud smacks. Nick found it easier and easier to laugh. Since his father’s death, between moving to the new school and dealing with that fucker Marko, Nick felt he’d forgotten what it was like to be silly, to just be a kid.

“Hey,” came a raspy voice from the shadows, followed by a fit of coughing. “Hey what…what’re you guys up to?”

Nick and Peter looked at one another, then at the pile of boxes beside the Dumpster. One of the boxes fell away and a figure rolled out.

Peter was instantly on his feet.

The shape stumbled into the lamplight and Nick saw it was a teenager, maybe a couple of years older than him. The kid’s long blond hair was greasy and matted, and he was wearing just jeans and a ratty T-shirt.

“You…you guys spare…some change,” the kid said, his words slurry and spaced out. “Need…to, to make a phone call. Anything will help out. Huh…how about it?”

Nick picked up the bags of candy bars and stood up. “Peter,” Nick whispered, “let’s get out of here.”

“Hey, where you going?” The kid tottered forward, put an arm out on the stair rail, blocking their way. Up close, Nick could see cold sores on the boy’s lips and how bloodshot his eyes were. The kid was so skinny he had to keep tugging at his jeans. The kid spied the candy bars in Nick’s arms. “Hey, how about you give me some of those.”

“These aren’t for you,” Peter said, his tone hard and cold.

The kid looked agitated, started scratching at his arms. Nick could see he had the shakes. The kid looked at them again and actually focused. “What’re you guys doing out here?” He took a quick glance around. “You alone?”

Nick didn’t like the way his tone changed, and tried to get around him.

The kid made a grab for the chocolates, snagged a bag, yanking it from Nick’s arms.

Peter let out a hiss and in a mere blink had a knife in his hand. The damn thing was almost as long as Peter’s forearm.

Whoa, where’d that come from?

Peter rolled the blade, letting the street light dance along its razor-sharp edge, making sure the kid saw its wicked promise. “Give ’em back,” Peter said.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” the kid said. “Take ’em.” He tossed the bag to Nick, raised his hands, and took several unsteady steps backward until he hit the alley wall. “I ain’t got nothing else. Go ahead, shake me down. I ain’t got nothing.” And then, low, to himself: “Nothing.” His shoulders drooped and his hands fell. Nick thought he looked worn out, defeated, alone, another strung-out junkie with no place to go and no one to care. Nick wondered what had made this kid leave home, wondered how long before he found himself in the same spot—alone, with nothing.

“Let’s go,” Peter said, stuffing the knife back in his jacket and heading toward the street.

Nick grimaced. Growing up can really suck, he thought. And bad things sure as shit do happen to good people and for the most part the world just doesn’t give a crap. He reached into the bag of chocolates, pulled out a handful, and left them on the steps. “Here. Those are yours.” Then he sprinted off to catch up with Peter.

WITH THE EXCEPTION of a few pubs and late-night restaurants, the shops had all closed up. They passed a bar and Nick stole a quick peek inside, caught sight of sullen, tired faces, the smell of cigarettes and beer, the clinking of glasses and strained laughter as men and woman went about the business of putting the long, hard workweek behind them.

Next door, in front of Antonio’s Camping and Sporting Goods, Nick stopped suddenly and peered into the display window.

Peter came up next to him. “What is it?”

Nick stared at the green-and-black checkered Vans propped against a skateboard.

“The shoes?” Peter asked.

“Nothing,” Nick said, but his eyes didn’t leave the shoes.

“You want those?”

Nick nodded absently.

Peter disappeared around the side of the building. Nick took a last longing look at the shoes and followed. He turned the corner but Peter wasn’t there. Nick glanced across the weedy lot and caught sight of a bearded man leaning against a paunchy woman near the rear entrance of the bar. Her blouse was undone and one of her breasts had escaped her bra, hanging down nearly to her navel. The two of them giggled as the man pawed it like a cat toy. “Jesus,” Nick said and watched, mesmerized, until a sharp clank drew his attention. It came from behind the Dumpster next to the sporting goods shop. He peered around the Dumpster—Peter had managed to tug one steel bar from the crumbling masonry of a basement window-well and was using that bar to pry loose a second.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Peter grunted, and the last bar popped off with a loud clang. “Bingo!”

Nick ducked down, peeked back toward the pub. The bearded man still groped the woman, another man had stumbled outside puking, none of them were looking their way.

Peter gave the pane a nudge with his foot and it popped open. The basement was a well of darkness. Peter looked up at Nick. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Nick said.

“Are you going to get those shoes, or not?”

Nick took a quick step back as though from a viper. “Are you kidding me? That’s breaking and entering.”

A look of deep disappointment crossed Peter’s face. Nick was surprised to find this bothered him, that he cared at all what this wild kid thought. “I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Nick said, a bit too quickly. “I’m no thief, that’s all. I mean that’s—”

“Nick, don’t let them win. Don’t let them beat you.”

“What?”

“Don’t let them steal your magic.”

“Magic?” What did magic have to do with breaking into someone’s store and stealing their stuff?

“Don’t you get it?” Peter said. “You’re free now. You don’t have to live by their rules anymore.” Peter pointed into the inky blackness of the basement. “The darkness is calling. A little danger, a little risk. Feel your heart race. Listen to it. That’s the sound of being alive. It’s your time, Nick. Your one chance to have fun before it’s all stolen by them, the adults, with their cruelty and endless rules, their can’t-do-this, and can’t-do-that’s, their have-tos, and better-dos, their little boxes and cages all designed to break your spirit, to kill your magic.”

Nick stared down into the dark basement.

“What are you waiting for?” Peter said, giving him a devilish grin before disappearing through the window.

What am I waiting for? Nick wondered. What’s ahead for me? Even if I could go home, what then? Graduate? Get some crappy job so that I can spend every weekend trying to drink it all away, puking in a parking lot, or playing fiddle-boobs with some skank? He shook his head. Peter was right: if he didn’t live now—right this minute—then when? Too much of his youth had already been stolen. Why should he let them take any more? Maybe it was time to do a little taking of his own.

Nick took a deep breath and lowered himself through the window. He swung his leg about in the darkness until his foot hit a box, dropped onto the box, and promptly crashed over onto the floor. Something hit the floor and shattered. “Crap,” Nick said, and sat there a long moment, heart in his throat, waiting for the alarms and sirens, the