The Fourth Stall Part III Read online

  Dedication

  For Steve Malk and Jordan Brown, real-life hit men

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue - Handcuffs or Body Bags

  Chapter 1 - That Was Easy

  Chapter 2 - Reformed and Retired

  Chapter 3 - The Death of Joe Blanton . . . Jokes

  Chapter 4 - Eeyore and Roberto

  Chapter 5 - Rookie of the Year

  Chapter 6 - Jimmy Two-Tone

  Chapter 7 - TINSTAAFL

  Chapter 8 - Big Brother Is Watching You

  Chapter 9 - Abby

  Chapter 10 - Who Cut the Lemonade?

  Chapter 11 - Watch Out for Sponges

  Chapter 12 - The Talking Mailbox

  Chapter 13 - Swimming Pool Bloodbath

  Chapter 14 - Mrs. King’s Scarecrow

  Chapter 15 - Spaghetti, Meatballs, and a Giant Sword

  Chapter 16 - Hole in One

  Chapter 17 - My-Me

  Chapter 18 - School Yard Scrum

  Chapter 19 - Dead Man Walking

  Chapter 20 - The Australian Darkness

  Chapter 21 - Ken-Co

  Chapter 22 - Jell-O and Fruit

  Chapter 23 - Impossible

  Chapter 24 - Operation Chaos

  Chapter 25 - The Fourth Stall from the High Window

  Chapter 26 - The Mac-Franchise

  Chapter 27 - One Day Left

  Chapter 28 - Erasing the Line Previously Drawn

  Chapter 29 - The Ultimate Sacrifice

  Chapter 30 - The Creek

  Chapter 31 - Defeat

  Chapter 32 - Return to Thief Valley

  Chapter 33 - A Wall Named Sue

  Chapter 34 - The War Begins

  Chapter 35 - Pulled Back In

  Chapter 36 - Expulsion

  Chapter 37 - Facing the Enemy

  Chapter 38 - Battle Royale

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Chris Rylander

  Back Ad

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Simple.

  My new favorite word. I never knew life for a kid could be so simple. Seventh grade had started just a month ago, and that’s probably the one word that could best describe how my school year had gone so far: simple. Even the word itself had a kind of easiness to it, like it wanted you to say it over and over again.

  Life was simple. And I liked it. I mean, I still couldn’t figure out why other kids were always complaining all the time. School was a piece of cake when that was all that was on your plate and you didn’t also run a huge business operation with multiple employees and a healthy cash flow.

  This was my first school year since kindergarten that had started without my business up and running. I used to run my business with my business partner and best friend, Vince, in the East Wing boys’ bathroom. Basically, if any kid in school had a problem, they knew they could come to me and I’d solve it for them. For a fee, of course. By the time sixth grade rolled around, we pretty much owned the school.

  But at the end of last year, we had to end our business after coming clean and sacrificing its secrecy in order to save our school from this sadistic vice principal named Dr. George. At first, Vince and I had planned to shut our business down temporarily while the heat subsided.

  But then near the end of summer, we both decided it was kind of nice to not have to worry about it for once. We could just focus on playing baseball, watching the Cubs, playing video games, going to movies, blowing up stuff with fireworks, etc. You know, doing normal kid stuff.

  It was so nice that we decided just to shut the doors for good. Or, well, maybe not for good as in “forever,” but at least for all of our seventh-grade year, and probably even longer. I mean, eventually our saved-up money, our Fund, would run dry and we’d maybe need to get some sort of business going again. And eventually kids would get tired of having to solve their own problems and they’d come begging for us to open up shop once again in the East Wing boys’ bathroom, fourth stall from the high window.

  One thing you can always count on: kids are going to find ways to get into trouble and are going to need someone to get them out of it.

  Actually, several kids had come to me already to ask when we were reopening the business or to ask for help or advice. But I had turned them down each time. I was pretty determined to stay retired for now. The business used to be a lot simpler. It used to be just me and Vince and the problems kids brought to us. But last school year had been a nightmare. First we’d gotten involved in that mess with legendary crime boss Staples, and then a few months later a new principal had tried to take down the whole school. And our business had buried Vince and me alive right in the middle of both of those messes.

  So, as much as it disappointed the kids who had come asking for help, and as much as I kind of did still want to help them out, I couldn’t. I’d turned down every one of them. And they understood, for the most part, why I had to. They knew I couldn’t open up business right away given all the attention we’d gotten saving our school last year.

  Here’s the thing, though: if you asked me, I might have said, even then, that I know deep down that it just wasn’t going to be that easy to get out. There’s this old trilogy of movies called The Godfather. They are some of my favorite movies because they kind of remind me of Vince and me. In fact, the first time I saw them, I had to double-check what year they had come out because I could have sworn the guys who wrote that movie had stolen some of my business tricks. Anyways, in the third movie, the main character says, “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

  I just hoped it wasn’t the same deal for me. Where the only way out was either in handcuffs or a body bag. Well, okay, my business probably wouldn’t ever lead to anyone ending up in a body bag, but detention, suspension, or juvenile prison were all bad enough; and those were all definitely possible. Maybe worse than that if some of the juvie horror stories I’d heard were true.

  Take this one kid Jack Knife who’d served a four-month stint upstate at the Estevan Juvenile Detention Center last summer. He was a changed kid when he got out but not in a good way. Kids hadn’t always called him Jack Knife. No, back before he’d served his time, they used to just call him by his real name, Greg. Well, one day Greg accidentally blew up his friend’s dad’s car while trying to prove that Twinkies are completely fireproof. Anyways, the string of events that led to the car exploding are so crazy, you’d never believe me, but I was there and I saw it with my own two eyes. And by explode, I mean literally the car burst into a huge ball of fire. One of the tires got lodged right inside the middle of this old oak tree in his front yard. The fire chief had said it was a miracle that nobody got hurt. That kind of thing pretty much automatically earns you an extended stay at one of our state’s fine juvenile correctional institutions.

  Anyways, the point I’m trying to make is that Greg was a pretty good kid; he wasn’t juvie type material. It was really just bad luck that he had happened to be experimenting with Twinkies, lighter fluid, and a blowtorch in the wrong place at the wrong time and caused an explosion so huge that to this day some kids say you can still feel the ground vibrating slightly where the car had been parked. But when Greg got back from juvie, he was a different person. He told me stories that I can’t even bring myself to repeat. He said the only reason he’d survived was because he developed a signature move called the Jack Knife. It’s pretty complicated and I’m not even too sure how it works, but let’s just say at the end of it, the other kid looks like he just got run through a pasta maker, complete with ricotta cheese filling.

  So that’s what I was worried about. Becoming a human ravioli so
meday and getting sucked back into my business made it likely that this was going to be one of those things where the only way out was to go to juvie. And as much as having a cool nickname like Flint Cracker and a killer reputation to match sounded awesome, I didn’t really want to go through what Jack Knife had told me he’d had to in order to earn them.

  If only it could have been that simple.

  It all started one day when I was walking home from school. I was walking because I was still grounded from using my bike due to the exposure of my business last year. I mean, I had helped take down an evil psychopath, so I had gotten off fairly easy, but that still didn’t mean I escaped punishment altogether. Anyways, that’s beside the point. The point is I was walking home one day and got a surprise visit from someone I’d thought I’d never see again. . . .

  It was a pretty nice day, sunny and warm but not melt-your-face-and-start-your-hair-on-fire-if-you-stay-outside-longer-than-eleven-minutes hot like it could sometimes get in September. It was pleasantly warm on this particular day. Why is it that the worst things always seem to happen on the nicest days? Like when I’d almost gotten killed out at the Yard nearly a year earlier. The weather on that day had been almost perfect as well.

  It was actually pretty funny that I was thinking about that whole thing at that very moment. I mean, not funny ha-ha but more funny-that-weird-coincidences-always-have-to-end-up-being-terrible.

  So, anyways, I was walking home from school. Vince wasn’t with me because he had to be home within fifteen minutes of school ending every day to watch his little sister. His mom had gotten a new job recently, which was cool because then she could, like, pay her bills again and stuff, but it also stunk because that meant he couldn’t hang out until later in the day. So I’d been walking home from school alone this year. It wasn’t so bad, really. I lived fairly close, and the trip always gave me time to think about how easy life was now. So far, every walk home had been entirely uneventful.

  But on this particular day I heard a voice call out from behind me.

  “Hey, Mac.”

  I didn’t stop walking. Probably someone looking for help who hadn’t understood that I wasn’t in business anymore.

  “Mac!” the voice said, louder this time. I was annoyed, and I didn’t turn around. But I did stop walking.

  “What?” I said.

  “I need your help.”

  Just as I thought.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, as I had said so many times since school had started back up. “I’m not in that business anymore. I can’t help you.”

  “I bet you’ll make an exception for me.”

  The voice was closer now. Whoever it was had come out from wherever he’d been concealed, likely the bushes that lined the sidewalk. I could tell he was pretty much right behind me now. I could feel the cold of his enormous shadow engulf me. And that’s when I realized who it was.

  I’d know that shadow anywhere. I’d never forget it for the rest of my life. Which is why it was also impossible that I was seeing it; the owner of that shadow had skipped town shortly after I took him down. Everyone knew that. A circus family that had yard sales every other weekend lived in his house now.

  Vince and I went there to check out the rummage sales every once in a while because they always had the craziest, funniest stuff. Like a purple feather vest designed to fit an elephant. Or a Poo Sling, a slingshot designed specifically to fling animal poop. And haggling with them was the best part. I wasn’t as good of a negotiator as I expected. For my first purchase I managed to negotiate the price for a talking wig from seven dollars up to nine dollars. Yeah, I was that bad. But the wig was pretty sweet just the same. It could say only a few lines, but they were all awesome and insulting, such as, “Stop pulling on me, Scum Bucket” and “You make me look ugly, Crap Waffle.”

  Vince, however, was a master negotiator. He’d worked the price of a car down to two bucks. Okay, so maybe it was only a model clown car and not a real one, but still, the original price had been twelve dollars.

  But all this was beside the point. The point was that the circus family was there, living in the former house of the owner of this shadow. He’d left town. If he hadn’t, we would have known about it. He was so legendary that someone would have seen him lurking about and said something. Right? Right?!

  It didn’t matter. All I could do now was turn around.

  His smile hadn’t changed much; it was still all teeth and menace. And his laser-beam stare could still melt a penny at a hundred yards. And he was still huge. And he still looked like he could crush a pair of fifth graders in each hand like soda cans.

  “Hello, Mac,” Staples said, smirking as always.

  Staples still looked like Staples in that he still looked like he’d just gotten back from eating a nice leisurely lunch that had consisted of sick kids’ puppies. But he also looked pretty different in some ways, too. For instance, instead of a shaved head, Staples now had short dark hair that was neatly combed. And instead of his usual tank top or T-shirt, he was wearing an untucked dress shirt and a skinny necktie and dark jeans. He looked like any other normal kid. Well, except for the evil smile and the dark eyes so black that even nighttime was afraid of them, that is.

  In case you’re not aware of who Staples is, which is unlikely considering he was a legend around these parts, he used to run a business kind of like mine. The only difference was that his business was dirty. He fixed things in his favor and rarely ever showed kids mercy. He’d beat you to death with your own arm if it somehow benefited him. And last year I’d gotten involved in an all-out war against him and his cronies. In the end, with help from my friends, we’d managed to take down his whole empire. Not long after that, we got word that he’d skipped town. And I had truly believed I would never see him again.

  But I had been wrong.

  Standing there now inside his impossibly large shadow, I tried to stand my ground. That’s what I’ve learned about predators from the Discovery channel since my first run-in with Staples: Don’t ever show your fear. Predators prey on the weak.

  But he could see right through it, of course.

  “Relax, Mac,” he said. “If I was here to get revenge, you’d already be bleeding.”

  I managed to blurt out an awkward chuckle that only made Staples smile wider.

  “And besides, I don’t really want to get any of your blood on my shirt.”

  I took a deep breath and used every ounce of seventh grader I had to finally say something.

  “So . . . what, um, do you want, then?”

  Great job of not sounding weak and afraid.

  “Well, I’m trying to turn my life around. ‘Fly straight,’ as my nerdy counselor likes to say,” Staples said.

  “Counselor?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got this court-appointed counselor I go see once a week. You know, to help get me on my feet. I am eighteen with no legal guardian anymore, you know. I have to take care of myself.”

  “Court-appointed?” I asked lamely, not knowing what else to say.

  “Yeah, I did a stint in juvie shortly after our, uh, run-in last year. Part of the deal my lawyer copped with the judge for me was that upon my release I’d have to start seeing this counselor. You know, to help make sure I don’t ever find my way into real prison. But I don’t even need him for that. I realized the error of my ways on my own.”

  I really had no idea what to say to this so I merely nodded. I thought if I even tried to speak I might accidentally yell, “Liar!” And then kick him in the shin and run. But that probably wouldn’t play out to my advantage in the end, so I stayed quiet. Which was fine because Staples just kept talking.

  “Yeah, anyway, he’s a real dork, my counselor. But I guess he’s trying to help me or whatever, so I try to stomach him and his dumb motivational sayings. You know what he actually says to me basically every time I see him?”

  I shook my head.

  “He says, ‘Barry, perception is reality.’ Can you believe that? He even s
ays it all profoundly just like that. Like it’s the most genius thing anyone has ever said. How lame is that?”

  I had absolutely no idea what Staples was talking about now, so I just nodded dumbly. Perception is reality? What did that even mean?

  Staples was still Staples after all, so of course he could read me like a book. Which meant he saw right through my pretending to understand what he was talking about. He laughed at me.

  “Mac, just trust me when I say that if anyone ever uses that phrase, they’re either an idiot or a liar. Or both. Because reality is what is real. Intent and actions are real. Perception is just that: a different and individual awareness of the reality that exists; that’s why there are two separate words for it. And don’t even get me started on the quantum physics angle, because then that phrase has a totally different meaning altogether, scientifically speaking, and last time I checked, my counselor definitely wasn’t a quantum physicist.”

  “Umm . . .”

  Staples laughed at my embarrassingly obvious lack of comprehension. I felt uncomfortable thinking about just how smart he might actually be. I had always known he was smart, but his ferocity and criminal intent had perhaps always hidden the true extent of his intelligence.

  “So what exactly do you need help with?” I asked, anxious to get away from this new intellectual version of Staples. Somehow, seeing him act even remotely nice and civil made me more nervous than when he was just a flat-out psychopath.

  “I was getting to that,” he said. “So I’m still trying to get custody of my sister. Right now she’s living with foster parents and, according to what I’ve seen and read, some foster kids grow up to be just like my dad: drug-addicted, jobless, hairy, and for some reason they also always seem to collect weird crap, like used paper plates or hippopotamus figurines or, in my dad’s case, orange highlighters.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Well, I mean the part about you trying to do something good, not that foster kids sometimes end up like your dad. But, anyways, what could I even do to help you?”