Eggplant Alley (9781593731410) Read Online Free PDF Page B

fifth floor. The door shuddered, crunched, and slid open and Nicky’s nostrils were filled with a sharp stench. Someone had gone to the bathroom in the elevator again. Most residents suspected black kids from Groton Avenue, but Nicky had a hunch it was the Rosatto brothers. Once he spotted Ernie and Sabby Rosatto zipping up as they stepped off the elevator.
    Nicky took the stairs. He passed along floor by floor and read the apartment numbers. He barely knew the tenants behind those numbered doors anymore. He was well aware of who used to livethere. Friends who went bye-bye. Nicky forgot their names (except for Andrea Abbananzo, formerly of 2-C). Now there wasn’t a single kid near Nicky’s age in all of Building B. Apparently, nobody with kids wanted to live in Eggplant Alley anymore. Not if they could help it.
    Nicky passed 3-B and the door was ajar. A kid named Bobby-something used to live there. Nicky didn’t know the current tenant. As he walked by, Nicky stole a peek into 3-B—an umbrella stand, an oval rug, brown shoes. And the door slammed shut, a lock snapped, a bolt clanked. Nowadays, footsteps in the hall were a signal alarm—
Close up fast!
To walk through Eggplant Alley nowadays was to hear doors slam and chains rattle, as fast as the fingers could work.
    Nicky moved along the second floor, sighed deeply at the sight of 2-C, and started down the final flight of stairs to the lobby.
    Behind him, out of sight on the second floor, an apartment door squeaked open.
    Feet shuffled.
    A door banged shut.
    Slow footsteps sounded along the second-floor hall tile. Grownup shoes that made a clicking, scraping noise.
    Click-scrape. Click-scrape. Click-scrape.
    â€œI’m being followed,” Nicky concluded.
    He did not stop, wait, and look to see who was there. In most places, in most times, that would be the natural reaction: “Who is that? Hey, hi, hello!” In Eggplant Alley, the reaction was: “Just keep walking.” In Eggplant Alley, you never looked back. Somebody might be gaining on you.
    Click-scrape. Click-scrape. Click. Click.
    Somebody was gaining on Nicky.
    Nicky bounded down the stairs to the lobby. He halted and stood, still as a statue. He clenched his teeth and listened hard.
    Click-click. Click-click.
    Slow, careful, creeping footsteps descended the stairs from the second floor.
    Click.
    The footsteps stopped.
    Someone was standing on the landing, out of sight, waiting. Nicky felt like the antelope in a
Wild Kingdom
special, stalked by the cheetah.
    Nicky quietly unlocked the mailbox. He plucked out the envelopes.
    He gasped.
    Big mistake. Exactly what the stalker wanted. The mail—that’s what afternoon muggers craved. Envelopes stuffed with checks and cash. They wait for you to unlock the box, smash you over the head, leave you on the tile in a puddle of blood, make off with your mail. The lunatic was probably on the landing right now, grinning evilly, dripping saliva, rubbing his grimy hands.
    Nicky considered his options. Go back up the stairs?
    No way.
    Run out into the courtyard and scream for help?
    Maybe.
    Hop on the elevator and make a break for home?
    Go for it.
    Nicky hit the button to summon the elevator. Heavy machinery clunked and the elevator shaft hummed.
    The shoes scraped on the landing. The lunatic was up there, listening, waiting, breathing through his mouth.
    Nicky smacked the button again and again and again. He banged it with his fist, over and over, as if a solid punch would hurry the elevator down to rescue him. He thought, “Why didn’t I listen to Mom?” She warned against taking the steps. She was right, once more. Nicky thought, “When they find pieces of my dismembered corpse scattered throughout the Bronx, that ought to be a consolation to Mom.”
    The elevator shuddered down the shaft, slower than ever. Nicky whispered, “Come on, come on, come on.” Sweat dripped down his back. His socks were hot and