“How many floors in that apartment block again, Crapps?”
“Six,” said Henry, “and that key’s getting a bit rusty, too, old boy. Fix us up for a new one and I might even let you bet free.”
Crapper, curly-haired, curly-faced, licked his curly lips. “What? Really?”
“Okay, maybe half.”
“Hey,” said a guy named Spook, “how come Crapps gets a free bet?”
Henry interrupted before there was anything to interrupt. “Unforchantly, Spook, you pale, poor bastard, Crapps has got something we can use; he’s useful.” He walked with him, he mentored. “You, on the other hand, are useless. Get it?”
“Okay, Henry, how about this?” Crapper tried for more. “You can have my key if you give me three bets gratis.”
“Gratis? What are you, bloody French?”
“I don’t think the French say gratis, Henry. I think it might be German.”
That voice had come from out of the pack; Henry sought it out. “Was that you, Chewie, you hairy bastard? Last I heard you couldn’t speak fucking English!” To the rest of them: “Can you believe that awful prick?”
They laughed. “Good one, Henry.”
“And don’t think a ‘Good one, Henry’ll do you any extra favors.”
“Hey, Henry.” Crapper. One last try. “How about—”
“Oh, Jesus!” His voice erupted in fury, but Henry did mock-anger, not anger itself. At seventeen, he’d endured much of what life as a Dunbar could throw at him, and he always came up smiling. He also had a soft spot for Wednesdays here at Bernborough, and the boys who watched from the fence. He loved that all of this was their midweek main event, and to Clay it was one more warm-up. “All right, you bastards, who’s up first? It’s ten up front or piss off!”
He jumped to a splintery bench.
* * *
—
From there the bets went this way and that, from 2:17 to 3:46 to a resounding 2:32. With his stump of green chalk, Henry wrote the names and times on the concrete at their feet; next to bets from previous weeks.
“All right, come on, Showbag, enough’s enough.”
Showbag, also known as Vong, or Kurt Vongdara, had agonized a long time. He took few things very seriously, but this, it seemed, was one of them. “Okay,” he said. “With Starkey out there, make it, shit—5:11.”
“Jesus.” Henry smiled from his crouching stance. “And remember, boys, no mind-changing, either, or messing with the chalk—”
He saw something.
Someone.
They’d missed each other by minutes, back home in the kitchen, but now he saw him—hard and unmistakable, of dark-rust hair, and scrap-metal eyes, and chewing a piece of gum. Henry was utterly delighted.
“What’s up?” A collective question, a chorus. “What is it? What’s—” and Henry nodded upwards, to coincide with the voice, which landed amongst the chalk.
“Gentlemen—”
And for just a moment, each boy wore an oh-shit look that was utterly priceless, then all burst into action.
Everyone changed their bets.
All right, that’s it.
He’d had enough.