Uncle Sly ducked into the mouth of an alleyway and spoke to strangers who were passing by. “Hey, check this out—see how easy it is to win? Step right up, I have an easy enough game for you. Double your money in a single minute. It’s as easy as one-two-three!” The strangers must have liked hearing the word easy so many times, because they stopped at Uncle Sly’s folding table.
Carter preferred Uncle Sly while he worked. When his uncle ran a racket—not a racket for playing tennis, mind you, but another way of saying tricking someone—he shone as brightly as a million-watt lightbulb. He became funny and charming and quick as electricity. His smile made old women blush, angry men applaud, and crabby babies ready to hand over all their lollipops.
When Carter’s uncle wasn’t working, his eyes went cold and dark. Being around him then was like walking around in a pitch-black room full of hard edges. Take a wrong step and you would stub your toe so badly it’d make you cry. Carter tiptoed a lot.
“Step right up, ladies and gents,” Uncle Sly called from the alley. “I’ve got a game that’ll knock your socks off!”
“If he doesn’t steal your socks first,” Carter grumbled to himself. As his uncle worked, the sun began to set and an unexpected chill crept over Carter. Though it was almost summer and the trees in a nearby park displayed green and glorious foliage, clouds blocked the sun, and Carter shivered. He would have pulled a scarf or a jacket out of his bag, but sadly, he didn’t own either.
Since he had to keep watch anyway, Carter studied his uncle’s hand movements. Uncle Sly had fast hands (though Carter knew his own were faster), and his preferred method of conning people out of their money was something called the shell game.
It involved three nutshells turned upside down on a table. Uncle Sly would place a dried pea on the table before hiding it under one of the shells. Then he’d ask the game contestants to watch as he moved the shells about. When Uncle Sly stopped, the player guessed which shell held the pea.
“That looks easy,” said another passerby. “I’ll give it a go.”
“Most excellent, sir.” Uncle Sly placed the pea on the table, covered it with a shell, then placed the other two shells on either side. “Place your bet first. That’s right, set your dollar on the table. Now, keep your eyes on the shell with the pea.” He moved the shells around the table, mixing them up. The passerby’s eyes were locked on the shell he thought had the pea.
“Okay, pick a shell, good sir,” Uncle Sly said to the passerby.
“It’s this one,” he said. “I know it is. I didn’t take my eyes off it.”
“Interesting choice.” Uncle Sly smiled. He held his breath before the reveal.
Carter shook his head. The players were never right—not unless Uncle Sly wanted them to be. This was because he had the pea stashed behind the crook of his fingers. It was all sleight of hand—a magician skill that means using your hands quickly to move objects without anyone noticing. Carter knew sleight of hand to be a very useful skill for any magician. Most magicians would use it to pull a coin from an ear or plant a card in someone’s pocket—all to earn smiles. But his uncle didn’t use it to make people happy—he and other crooks would use sleight of hand to take things from them without their knowledge.
As Uncle Sly pulled back the shell, there was no pea. “I’m sorry, sir. You lost. Would you like to try again?”
“I never took my eyes off the shell,” the passerby growled.
“I’m sorry, but it seems you did,” Uncle Sly said, flashing a smile at the man. But the charm wasn’t working.
Maybe it was that this man reminded Carter of his father or maybe it was simply that he had finally seen his uncle dupe a victim one too many times, but Carter knew he’d be no better than Uncle Sly if he stood by and watched it happen again.
So Carter came out from behind the corner where he’d been hiding. His uncle’s eyes grew wide as Carter strolled up to the table. “It’s a neat trick, isn’t it?” he asked the passerby.
“What are you doing, boy?” Uncle Sly snarled, his jaw tightening, a vein popping out of his forehead.
“Helping,” Carter whispered. Uncle Sly blinked as if his anger had made him go momentarily deaf.
The passerby grabbed the other two shells and flipped them over. There was no pea. “You no-good, dirty cheat!” he shouted.
Uncle Sly grabbed his money and the shells and dodged the man’s swinging fists. Then Uncle Sly turned and ran up the alley as fast as he could. Carter took off down the street in the opposite direction, his satchel bouncing against his side.
Behind them, the man shouted, “Police! That man’s a thief! Someone get him!”
This wasn’t the first time Carter had to outrun the law. But it was the part he hated most. He hadn’t done anything wrong—at least not to the passerby—yet if he were caught, he would still be guilty by association. So he ran.
One day soon, he thought, I’m going to stop running. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon. I’m going to stop running, settle down, and live somewhere safe.
If he weren’t so out of breath, Carter could have laughed. No matter what he hoped, as long as he was with Uncle Sly, he’d never have what he wanted most in the world: a home.
Carter walked the long way back to the halfway house where he and his uncle were staying. Looking over his shoulder, he passed through alleys, took weird turns, then backtracked, retracing his steps to see if the cops had followed. He felt nervous to face his uncle again.
A harsh wind whooshed through his clothes and brushed at the satchel hanging from his shoulder. He found Uncle Sly sitting on the steps. When Uncle Sly noticed Carter approaching, he stood up and puffed out his chest like an angry ape. Carter flinched, expecting the worst. But to his surprise, his uncle said nothing, staring at him silently instead. This was scarier to Carter than whenever his uncle screamed at him—it was so unexpected. Uncle Sly turned away, letting the door almost slam in Carter’s face. Carter followed, closed the door gently, and took off his shoes. His uncle left a trail of muddy footprints in the hallway. Carter cleaned them up.
“Cold night, isn’t it?” asked Ms. Zalewski in her thick Polish accent. The always-smiling old woman volunteered in the kitchen, feeding those that came through the shelter. She wore a dirty blue apron and a small, sparkly diamond on a chain around her neck.
“You look hungry. Would you like me to make you dinner?” she asked.
“No, I’m good,” Carter said. He wasn’t hungry, even though he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
“Rubbish,” she said. “A growing boy must always eat. Come, sit down. I’ll make you a grilled cheese and radish sandwich.”
“Grilled cheese and radish sounds perfect,” Carter admitted.