KEEPERS

CHAPTER 3

HARRY'S POV

A dozen of go-carts were ready to go, four to a row. I was behind the unsteady wheels of Wolf, on the front line, next to Mathew Lewis's cart, Devil's Pain. The crowd of onlookers, drawn out by the heavy September heat, was larger than the most years, standing two deep behind rows of illegally 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 Mathew, nodded my head and smiled in as friendly a way as I could manage.

"Hey Mathew," I said.

"Eat shit, grease ball," he said back.

Little was known about Mathew 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 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 as 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 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 black shirt and hated baseball.

I couldn't help but stare at Mathew'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 sided 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 Bear fan?" I asked him, waiting for the starting flag to drop.

"No, asswipe," Mathew said. "I'm not."

Mathew was chubby with a round face, soft, pudgy hands and a practical sneer. A small scar decorated his right brow and he never smile, 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 Mathew's always pleasant response.

"What's goin' on?" Louis asked, leaning next to me.

"We were wishing each other luck," I explained.

"Never mind that," Louis 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." Louis said. "Go right at him. It'll knock him off balance."

"What if it doesn't?"

"Then you're on your own." Louis said.