Sleepers Read Free

year?” Tommy asked. “I forget.”
    “The Sea Hawk,” I reminded him. “Like the movie.”
    “Sea weed woulda been more like it,” Michael said. That was his subtle way of reminding us that we hadn’t done so well in the previous race, finishing next to last.
    “Let’s name it after the Count of Monte Cristo,” John said.
    “Nah,” I said, shaking my head. “Let’s name it after one of the Musketeers.”
    “Which one?” Tommy asked.
    “D’Artagnan,” I said immediately.
    “To start with, he’s not a made Musketeer,” Michael said. “He just hangs with them.”
    “And he’s only cool ’cause he’s got three other guys with him all the time,” Tommy said to me. “Just like you. Alone, we’re talkin’ dead man. Just like you. Besides, we’ll be the only ones with a French guy’s name on the side of our cart.”
    “That oughta be good enough to get our ass kicked by somebody,” Michael observed.
    “Go with the Count,” John said. “He’s my hero.”
    “Wolf Larsen’s my hero,” Tommy said. “You don’t see me bustin’ balls about gettin’ his name on the cart.”
    “Wolf Larsen from The Sea Wolf?” I asked. “That’s your hero?”
    “Yeah,” Tommy said. “I think he’s a real stand-up guy.”
    “The guy’s a total scumbag.” Michael was incredulous. “He treats people like shit.”
    “Come onnn, he ain’t got a choice,” Tommy insisted. “Look at who he deals with.”
    “Scumbag or not,” Michael said. “Wolf’s name would look better on the cart.”
    “They’ll think we named the friggin’ cart after our dog,” John muttered.
    “We don’t got a dog,” Tommy said.
    “Okay, it’s settled,” I told everybody. “We name the cart Wolf. I think it’ll bring us luck.”
    “We’re gonna need more than luck to beat Russell’s crew,” John said.
    “We may lose this race,” Michael announced. “But we ain’t gonna lose it to Russell.”
    “He’s always there at the end, Mikey,” I said.
    “We always look to block him at the end,” Michael said. “That’s our mistake.”
    “He stays away till then,” Tommy said. “He’s no dope. He knows what to do.”
    “Maybe,” Michael said. “But this time we go and get him outta the race early. With him out, nobody comes near beatin’ us.”
    “How early?” I asked.
    “Right after Tony Lungs drops the flag,” Michael said. “Near the hill.”
    “How?”
    “Don’t worry,” Michael said. “I got a plan.”
    “I always worry when you say that,” I said.
    “Relax,” Tommy said, putting the final paint strokes on the wood. “What could happen?”

    A DOZEN GO-CARTS were ready to go, four to a row. I was behind the unsteady wheels of Wolf , on the front line, next to Russell Topaz’s cart, Devil’s Pain. The crowd of onlookers, drawn out by the heavy September heat, was larger than most years, standing two deep behind rows of illegally parked cars. Thick-armed men in white T-shirts held kids atop their shoulders, wives and girlfriends at their sides, red coolers filled with beer and soda by their feet. Tenement windows were open wide,old women leaning out, stubby arms resting on folded bath towels, small electric fans blowing warm air behind them.
    I looked over at Russell, nodded my head, and smiled in as friendly a way as I could manage.
    “Hey, Russell,” I said.
    “Eat shit, greaseball,” he said back.
    Little was known about Russell or the three other boys who were always with him, each as sullen as their leader. We knew he went to St. Agnes on West 46th Street, which meant he wore knickers. That alone was enough to permanently ruin his mood. He lived with foster parents on West 52nd Street, in a building guarded by a German shepherd. There were two other foster children in the family, a younger boy and an older girl, and he was as mean to them as he was to everybody else.
    He liked to read. Many times I would see him in the back room of the public library on West 50th Street, his