He expected Henry to foul his brother, perhaps heavily, as a payback for the steal, but he had underestimated Eddie’s guile. Henry offered a head-fake that wouldn’t have fooled Jake’s mother, but Eddie appeared to fall for it. Henry broke past him and drove for the basket, gaily travel-ling the ball most of the way. Jake was quite sure Eddie could have caught him easily and stolen the ball again, but instead of doing so, the lad hung back. Henry laid it up—clumsily—and the ball bounced off the rim again. Eddie grabbed it … and then let it squirt through his fingers. Henry snatched it, turned, and put it through the netless hoop.
“One-up,” Henry panted. “Play to twelve?” “Sure.”
Jake had seen enough. It would be close, but in the end Henry would win. Eddie would see to it. It would do more than save him from getting lumped up; it would put Henry in a good mood, making him more agreeable to whatever it was Eddie wanted to do.
Hey Moose—I think your little brother has been playing you like a violin for a long time now, and you don’t have the slightest idea, do you? He drew back until the apartment building which stood at the north end of the court cut off his view of the Dean brothers, and their view of him. He leaned against the wall and listened to the thump of the ball on the court. Soon Henry was puffing like Charlie the Choo-Choo going up a steep hill. He would be a smoker, of course; guys like Henry were always smokers. The game took almost ten minutes, and by the time Henry claimed victory, the street was filled up with other home-going kids. A few gave Jake curious glances as they passed by.
“Good game, Henry,” Eddie said.
“Not bad,” Henry panted. “You’re still falling for the old head-fake.” Sure he is, Jake thought. I think he’ll go on falling for it until he’s gained about eighty pounds. Then you might get a surprise. “I guess I am. Hey, Henry, can’t we please go look at the place?” “Yeah, why not? Let’s do it.”
“All right!” Eddie yelled. There was the smacking sound of flesh on flesh; probably Eddie giving his brother a high-five. “Boss!” “You go on up to the apartment. Tell Mom we’ll be in by four-thirty, quarter of five. But don’t say anything about The Mansion. She’d have a shit-fit. She thinks it’s haunted, too.”
“You want me to tell her we’re going over Dewey’s?” Silence as Henry considered this. “Naw. She might call Mrs. Bunkowski. Tell her . . . tell her we’re goin down to Dahlie’s to get Hoodsie Rockets. She’ll believe that. Ask her for a coupla bucks, too.” “She won’t give me any money. Not two days before payday.” “Bullshit. You can get it out of her. Go on, now.” “Okay.” But Jake didn’t hear Eddie moving. “Henry?” “What?” Impatiently.
“Is The Mansion haunted, do you think?”
Jake sidled a little closer to the playground. He didn’t want to be noticed, but he strongly felt that he needed to hear this. “Naw. There ain’t no real haunted houses—just in the f**kin movies.” “Oh.” There was unmistakable relief in Eddie’s voice. “But if there ever was one,” Henry resumed (perhaps he didn’t want his little brother feeling too relieved, Jake thought), “it’d be The Mansion. I heard that a couple of years ago, two kids from Norwood Street went in there to bump uglies and the cops found em with their throats cut and all the blood drained out of their bodies. But there wasn’t any blood on em or around em. Get it? The blood was all gone.”
“You shittin me?” Eddie breathed.
“Nope. But that wasn’t the worst thing.” “What was?”
“Their hair was dead white,” Henry said. The voice that drifted to Jake was solemn. He had an idea that Henry wasn’t teasing this time, that this time he believed every word he was saying. (He also doubted that Henry had brains enough to make such a story up.) “Both of em. And their eyes were wide open and staring, like they saw the most gross-awful thing in the world.” “Aw, gimme a break,” Eddie said, but his voice was soft, awed. “You still wanna go?”
“Sure. As long as we don’t . . . you know, hafta get too close.” “Then go see Mom. And try to get a couple of bucks out of her. I need cigarettes. Take the f**kin ball up, too.” Jake drifted backward and stepped into the nearest apartment build-ing entryway just as Eddie came out through the playground gate. To his horror, the boy in the yellow T-shirt turned in Jake’s direc-tion. Holy crow! he thought, dismayed. What if this is his building? It was. Jake just had time to turn around and began to scan the names beside the rank of buzzers before Eddie Dean brushed past him, so close that Jake could smell the sweat he had worked up on the basket-ball court. He half-sensed, half-saw the curious glance the boy tossed in his direction. Then Eddie was in the lobby and headed for the elevators with his school-pants bundled under one arm and the scuffed basketball under the other. Jake’s heart was thudding heavily in his chest. Shadowing people was a lot harder in real life than it was in the detective novels he some-times read. He crossed the street and stood between two apartment buildings half a block up. From here he could see both the entrance to the Dean brothers’ building and the playground. The playground was filling up now, mostly with little kids. Henry leaned against the chainlink, smoking a cigarette and trying to look full of teenage angst. Every now and then he would stick out a foot as one of the little kids bolted toward him at an all-out run, and before Eddie returned, he had succeeded in tripping three of them. The last of these went sprawling full-length, smacking his face on the concrete, and ran wailing up the street with a bloody forehead. Henry flicked his cigarette butt after him and laughed cheerfully.