“Just more loot, that’s all.”
“And the police . . .”
“We can handle ’em.”
“The Army . . .”
Timmy Jim smiled. “Yeah. The Army. You wanna know somethin’? Half the spades in the Army are Muslims. We planted ’em. You just watch your Army when we go Outside. Just watch what they do.”
Ron sat there, open-mouthed. Timmy Jim laughed.
It took weeks for the idea to sink in. Ron thought about it every day. Conquer the Outside. He’s crazy! But still the idea scared him.
The weather grew warmer. A new batch of kids was given to Ron for training. The youngsters he had started with left the area, and he never saw them again. Where did Timmy Jim send them? he wondered. And why?
There were reports of battles, skirmishes along the borders of Muslim territory. One whole white gang was wiped out when Timmy Jim decided to attack it in real force. The border fighting stopped after that.
And then, on a warm day in late spring, Sylvia showed up.
Ron was working. He had a large classroom filled with kids aged ten to fifteen. Big windows let the daylight in. The glass had been smashed out of them long ago. There were about forty kids, all bent over little electric motors or transistor radios that the Muslims had dug up for Ron to use in class. The kids worked quietly, while Ron fidgeted up at the front of the room. It was warm, springtime, the time of year when school should be ending and you could go outdoors for baseball and picnics and . . .
A pair of armed guards appeared at the classroom door. Trouble, thought Ron.
He went out to the door and stepped into the hallway. Sylvia was there.
He felt his heart stop for a moment. She looked older, very tired. Her blouse and shorts were grimy and wrinkled, her face smudged with dirt. But she was still beautiful.
Ron wanted to reach out and take her in his arms and hold her forever. Instead he did nothing.
“Hello Ron.”
It took him two tries to find his voice. “Hello.”
“I . . . I wanted t’ see you,” she said slowly, softly. “They let me come here, but only for a coupla minutes. They’re gonna take me right back again.”
“Back to where?”
“Gramercy turf. Frankie’s puttin’ th’ gang back t’gether again. We got about twenny kids . . . there’ll be more . . .”
“What’s Dino doing?”
“He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
She nodded. “Chelsea guys did it. He got inna fight with their chief. I tried t’ do it myself a coupla times, but I couldn’t work up th’ nerve.” Her eyes looked haunted, tortured. “He got what he deserved.”
Ron put a hand on her shoulder, but there was nothing he could say.
“They treatin’ you okay here?” Sylvia asked.
“Yes. And you—are you all right? Is there anything I can—”
“I’m okay.” She tried to smile. “Don’ worry about me. I can take care o’ myself.”
“Yeah.”
“Well . . . I gotta go back now. I jes’ wanted t’ see ya and letcha know Dino’s dead. If they ever letcha get back t’ Gramercy . . . an’ . . . well, I’m sorry about everything. If it wasn’t fer me, you’d be Outside now, back home . . . I’m sorry, Ron.”
“It wasn’t your fault. It’s all right.”
“Oh . . . here.” She fumbled in the pocket of her shorts. “Here’s some stuff Dino took off ya, that first time.”
Ron took the things from her hand. A house key. A credit card. His ID card.
My ID card! He glanced up sharply at Sylvia. She knew! She knew she had just handed him the key to freedom. Ron looked over at the two warriors. They were loafing against the wall, talking to each other.
“Good luck, Ron,” Sylvia said. “And thanks.”
“No, wait!” he whispered fiercely. “Hold on. We can both get out. When the gates open . . .”
She shook her head, smiling sadly. “Ron . . . no way. We’d never make it t’gether. You’re what you are an’ I’m what I am. There’s no way fer us t’ make it t’gether.”
“But . . .”
She kissed him lightly on the lips, then turned and started to walk away, down the hall. The two black warriors followed after her. Ron stood rooted to the spot, holding the key and cards in his outstretched hand.
“Sylvia!” he called. But she didn’t turn around. She just kept walking.
