Sleepers Read Free Page A

public library on West 50th Street, his head buried in a thick book about pirates loose on the high seas. He played basketball on the playgrounds for pocket money and was never without a lit cigarette. He had no girlfriend, always wore a brown leather vest, and hated baseball.
    I couldn’t help but stare at Russell’s cart. It was made of fresh wood and was unpainted except for the name stenciled on both sides. The rear wheels were thick and new and the brakes were molded from real rubber, not the blackboard erasers we used on ours. His crate seat was padded and the sides were smooth. He had on black gloves and a Chicago Bears helmet. His three teammates were in sweatpants and sneakers, had handkerchiefs tied around their heads, and also wore gloves.
    “You a Bears fan?” I asked him, waiting for the starting flag to drop.
    “No, asswipe,” Russell said. “I’m not.”
    Russell was chubby with a round face, soft, pudgyhands, and a practiced sneer. A small scar decorated his right brow, and he never smiled, even in victory.
    “They got a great coach,” I said. “My dad says he’s the best football coach ever.”
    “Who gives a shit?” was Russell’s always-pleasant response.
    “What’s goin’ on?” Michael asked, leaning next to me.
    “We were just wishing each other luck,” I explained.
    “Never mind that,” Michael told me, lowering his voice. “You all straight on what you have to do?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Just remember, at the hill, don’t swing away,” Michael said. “Go right at him. It’ll knock him off balance.”
    “What if it doesn’t?”
    “Then you’re on your own,” Michael said.

    T ONY L UNGS, OUR local loan shark and the benefactor of this yearly event, stepped forward, facing the carts, wiping his brow with the starter’s flag. Below his checkerboard shorts were black loafers, no socks, and he also wore no shirt. The folds of his belly hung over the beltless loops of the garish pants. He ran a hand over his bald head, scanning the crowd: “What say we get this thing started?”
    Tony lifted his right arm, holding the starter’s flag high enough for all to see. The crowd began to chant and applaud, eager for action. I moved the go-cart a couple of inches forward, leaving only elbow room between Russell and myself.
    “Remember,” Michael whispered. “At the hill, make your cut. The rest is pure race.”
    Tony Lungs moved his head from left to right, checking to make sure the carts were in proper position.
    “Get ready!” he shouted. “Get set! And remember,any fuck runs over my toes gets their ass kicked. Now, go!”
    I ran over the starter’s flag as Tommy, Michael, and John pushed our cart up the street.
    “How are the pedals workin’?” Tommy asked, his face red from the effort.
    “Good,” I said.
    “Watch yourself,” John said, looking at the other carts. “I seen three zip guns already, and you
know
Russell’s got something in his cart.”
    “Don’t worry,” Michael said. “Just get to the hill.”

    T HE CROWD NOISE grew louder as the carts made their way past Fat Mancho’s candy store, where all the betting action took place. The people of Hell’s Kitchen would lay bets on anything, and go-cart racing was no exception. To the working poor of the neighborhood, gambling was as time-honored a tradition as church on Sunday morning, boxing matches on Friday nights, and virgin weddings all year round.
    Devil’s Pain
was listed on the large blackboard outside Fat Mancho’s store as the 3-1 odds-on choice.
Wolf
, our cart, was down as second favorite at 5-1. Freddie Radman’s cart,
Eagle’s Anger
, was the long shot in the field, going off at 35-1. That was primarily because the three years Radman had bothered to enter the race, he always quit halfway through, abandoning his vehicle and walking away. “You gonna waste a whole lotta time bettin’ on Radman,” Fat Mancho said. “Might as well set fire to your money.”

    W E WERE COMING up to the