Chosen as a Children’s Book Council Hot off the Press book
From the Publisher: “That brief, blinding dazzle? The blue smudge and lingering stink? The Flash Gang has struck again! They are the most notorious thieves in Pittsburgh, food-stealing crooks the police and newspapers say are highly trained and very dangerous. But eleven-year-old Lewis Carter isn’t a thief, he’s just homeless and hungry. The flash is a recipe he invented from bits of his missing father’s scientific research. He uses it to pinch his dinners. It’s been going pretty well, until now… Now his recipe is stolen, and he is in the clutches of some rather nasty people. Enter tutu-wearing, starry-eyed, and all around extraordinary (she will tell you) Pearl Alice Clavell. She is on a mission to uncover a Nefarious Deed she’s convinced involves the Flash Gang. Rescuing Lewis is right up her alley. Truth is, a Nefarious Deed is afoot, one that threatens the entire country. It will take Lewis and Pearl joining forces to save the recipe and themselves against an enemy who will stop at nothing, including kidnapping, and, very possibly, murder…”
More info “Packed with clever twists and ever-rising stakes, The Adventures of the Flash Gang is a bright flare of fun, a throwback gangster caper with irresistible kid sleuths and loads of page-turning action.” —Ben Guterson, author of the award-winning Winterhouse series and The Einsteins of Vista Point“Delightfully Dickensian in spirit. Period events are woven seamlessly into this rollicking tale of friendship and fortitude. I challenge any reader not to fall in love with the histrionics and devil-may-care verve of Pearl Alice Clavell and her grease-smeared partner in crime, Lewis Carter.” —J.R. Potter, author of Thomas Creeper and the Gloomsbury Secret
“Clever, catchy dialogue and non-stop action catapult the reader from page to page till we land breathless, intrigued, and anxiously awaiting the Flash Gang’s next adventures.” —Kimberly Behre Kenna, author of Artemis Sparke and the Sound Seekers Brigade
“A loveable, ragtag cast you’ll root for from page one.” —Kerry O’Malley Cerra, award-winning author of Just a Drop of Water and Hear Me
CHAPTER ONE
The Streeter
Eleven-year-old Lewis Carter sat scrunched between a wall and a giant pickle barrel at Knoertzer’s Pittsburgh Grocery. The spot was sticky and stank of vinegar, but he could see the whole shop from there – small and square, with a hodgepodge of tinned goods, loose vegetables and specialty meats crammed onto shelves and counters and in bins. To Lewis, who hadn’t eaten since the day before, everything looked delicious. It was nearly dinnertime, and for the past ten minutes he’d been planning assorted meals in his head using everything but the pickles: baloney on Wonder Bread, steamed cabbage with fried eggs, Saltines and sardines…his mouth watering with each combination.
Customers shuffled past. Some wore snug overcoats; some wore the haggard expressions of sorry times. None of them noticed Lewis. He was just another scrawny, pale boy with unkempt hair and threadbare clothes, lingering inside to cheat the cold. Lewis looked like what he was, what he had been for exactly one hundred and fourteen days: a streeter. And, except for his eyeglasses, he was as forgettable as any other streeter in the chilly March of 1935.
Streeter, not orphan. There was a distinction. Orphans were swept into charities, buttoned into gray uniforms and bunked in gray dormitories that smelled of pine disinfectant. Streeters, on the other hand, devised their own shelters and their own methods of survival. And, whether they worked in groups or operated alone, all streeters preferred to pinch a meal, to sleep under the stars with frost chewing their fingertips, than to be lost to a grim institution.
Besides, Lewis Carter wasn’t an orphan. His father was just temporarily missing.
He peeled his sleeve from the brine-stained wall again and sighed. He’d been patiently waiting for the perfect moment but now his stomach was growling ferociously. Mrs. Knoertzer squeezed by for a third time, straightening jars and dusting shelves. Mr. Knoertzer stood behind the meat counter not ten feet away, waving frankfurter links while he chatted with customers. Lewis added hot dogs and baked beans to his imaginary menu and his stomach growled some more.
Then suddenly, the moment arrived. Mr. Knoertzer set down the wieners and lifted up a round of sausage, presenting it like a proud papa and generously calling out, “Free tastes!” The grocer began carving tissue-thin slices of the meat as what seemed like the entire store rushed to the counter. Lewis stayed where he was, his mouth curving into a smile. Finally, he could begin.
Working quickly, Lewis pulled a scrap of handkerchief from his jacket and laid it on his knee. From the jacket’s left side pocket, he took a pouch that held what looked like a tablespoon of sludge. It was thick, sticky, and black. Lewis smeared some on the handkerchief.
Next came a sort of ashy material, like the remains of a paper fire, from the pouch in the jacket’s right-side pocket. He measured the ash by feel, sprinkling it over the sludge.
An off-duty copper hustled by, heading for the meat counter. Lewis held still until the officer passed, then reached down and ran his fingers along the floor, scraping up a bit of dirt. He removed his eyeglasses, rubbed the dirt on the lenses and put them back on. Then he folded up the handkerchief scrap, gave it a good squeeze, and dropped it on the floor.
Lewis now had twenty whole seconds. He wiped his hands on his knees, then stood up and stepped into the aisle, pretending to study the canned soups. Mr. Knoertzer was cracking jokes about liverwurst. The copper was in front of the grocer, cramming sausage slices into his mouth.
Ten seconds gone. Excitement tingled into Lewis’s fingers and toes. Now came the best part.
10…9…8…
Casually, Lewis reached for a burlap sack that was folded over a mound of onions in a wicker basket. He slid it from the pile and rolled it in his fists. Then he squinted through the dirt smudges, scanning for just the right spot.
7…6…5…
There: a bin brimming with oranges, just steps from the meat counter with its sumptuous display. Lewis maneuvered between the two and stopped, right next to the copper.
4…3…
He nodded politely at the officer, who was reaching for another slice of sausage.
2…
then grinned wide.
1.
First came a small whoosh followed by a soft pop! And then burst the most dazzling flare of light, expanding like an enormous umbrella, brighter than a hundred flashbulbs. Everyone in the shop froze until…
“IT’S THE FLASH GANG!” Mrs. Knoertzer screamed at the top of her lungs.
The gasps came fast and furious. “No!” “Where?” “Quick! Can you see them?” “See them? Try and catch them!”
“Out of the way, I’ve got ‘em!” The copper barked, then ran blindly into the pickle barrel, knocking down several customers like dominoes. There were oof!s and ow!s and people tripping over each other. Meanwhile Lewis, whose smeared glasses shaded the glare, was gleefully packing the sack full of sausage and cheese, then oranges and cabbage and mustard jars and loose potatoes. Food for him, food for the soup kitchen at Saint Patrick’s. A pungent smell of rotten eggs permeated the dazzle. People were covering their mouths and noses between cheering, the bell on the front door was jangling; Lewis didn’t pay any mind. Stuffing, stuffing, stuffing the sack, and then walking—not running—through the shop.
And also, not coughing. That part required a distinct resolve.
Mr. Knoertzer was beside himself. “Flash Gang! It’s the Flash Gang!! Call the Gazette! The Sun!”
Lewis exited into a burst of cold air, which briefly knocked the grin from his face. He coughed and cleared his throat and then pushed through the crowd that was already pressing in—plucky streeters, wealthy crusts, and everyone in between, all rushing towards the umbrella of light. Mrs. Knoertzer threw herself like a tarp over the bins of vegetables outside the store to keep her wares from being knocked over. She was screeching in bursts, “Flash Gang! Here! They chose our shop!”
They. Lewis could have laughed out loud.
Across the busy intersection was a tailor shop. Lewis aimed for it, wedging himself inside the triangle-shaped folding board by its door advertising “2 Suits $20.” He sorted out his knees and feet, cleared his lungs properly and wiped the dirt from his eyeglasses. Then he pulled a sausage from the sack and settled down to watch the hubbub.
And what a hubbub! A police van screeched to a stop in front of the grocery. Coppers jumped out without shutting their doors causing an immediate traffic jam. To the left and right drivers started honking. Passersby climbed on the hoods of the idling vehicles to watch the frenzy. Mothers yelled at their children to come away from the madness. Mr. Knoertzer plowed out of the shop, ecstatic. “It’s there! The blue smudge! On the floor by the pickle barrel! That’s our proof! What luck!”
Lewis chuckled and bit into the sausage. He closed his eyes for a moment in pure bliss. The fatty, salty chewiness; nothing tasted so delicious. A piece of cheese and an orange quickly followed. And then more sausage. This was almost as good as when his father splurged on two tickets and popcorn so they could see Tarzan the Ape Man.
“Psst! Brain! Is that you?”
Lewis jerked upright. He swallowed the mouthful, wiped his face, then poked his head cautiously out of the triangle. There, over to the left, were two boys his age squatting behind a metal post box. Lewis relaxed. Beak-nosed Mac and wiry-haired Duck were long-time streeters who worked together and pinched the usual way, with speed and nimble fingers. They managed to turn up almost every time Lewis set a Flash.
Lewis held up a jar of mustard. “Only left you some scraps,” he joked. “You’re late.”
“We ain’t late! Yer early!” Mac shot back. He was the smaller, jittery, and more thin-skinned of the pair. “Did you see ‘em in there, Brain?”
“Who?” Lewis asked innocently.
“The Flash Gang!”
“I did!” chirped Duck, all proud. “They ran out the side there. Five big burly types, with special lightning wicks they must’ve got from Fat Joe.”
Fat Joe! Lewis bit the inside of his lip. “You think the mob’s bankrolling the Flash Gang?”
“Yep! They bankroll everyone—the coppers, the trash collectors. Anyhow, I saw ‘em!” Duck returned loftily, puffing his chest by sticking his hands inside the bib of his many-pocketed overalls.
“Did not!” Mac socked Duck in the arm, who deflated with a grin. “Told ya, it was pro’lly Knoertzer himself. Smoosh a beet on the floor, light a firecracker, and bang! You say it’s the Flash Gang to get yerself in the papers and charge everyone to see it. Get rich.”
“What about the rotten egg smell, though?” Lewis asked, biting his lip again to keep from laughing. This was part of the fun; hearing people talk about the Flash Gang without ever once guessing the gang was just one fairly harmless boy.
Mac was stumped. “Well, uh—”
Lewis let him off the hook by pointing across the street. “Anyway, looks like Ol’ Knoertzer’s wish is coming true.”
The boys turned to watch as a dented Buick nudged its way alongside the police van and stopped. Lewis recognized the vehicle and the man who hopped from it clutching a notepad, his dog-eared I.D. sticking from the brim of his trilby. It was the reporter from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette He’d shown up the last three times Lewis had set his Flash, too.
The reporter approached the grocer, who began an exaggerated retelling, thrusting and swiping at the air as he raved. Then Mrs. Knoertzer cupped her hands to her mouth, and shrieked from the doorway, “Come see the smudge! One penny!” Almost immediately, a line began to form.
“Told ya,” said Mac, socking Duck again. “Rich.”
“A penny! Forget that!” Duck winked at Lewis. And, just like that, he was gone, zigzagging across the street toward a darkened passageway at the side of the grocery. Duck was tall for his age but could whisk anywhere without being seen. He parked himself by the grocer’s coal chute, mere inches behind three coppers idly watching the crowd, and waved at Lewis and Mac.
Mac looked over at Lewis. “You wanna come?”
Lewis’s heart gave a little leap at the offer, but he squashed it down. Joking with Mac and Duck was fun, but he needed to keep to himself. He couldn’t arouse any suspicion that he was, in fact, the Flash Gang.
Besides, his lungs were weak. They shut tight when he ran, fizzed when he got anxious, and burned sometimes when he was walking. There was no way he could keep up with their speed.
“I’ve been already, remember?” Lewis answered heartily instead, waving the mustard. “You be careful though with those coppers.”
“They don’t scare me,” Mac scoffed. Still, Mac chewed his thumb for a nervous moment before charging to where Duck waited, vaulting over his friend’s shoulders and sliding straight down the coal chute. Duck stuck his tongue out at the oblivious coppers and followed him into the grocery’s basement.
Lewis waited another minute, then crawled out from between the folding sign and considered his hefty sack. He often made anonymous contributions to St. Patricks’ soup kitchen as thanks for the meals they served those first nights he was on his own. Tonight’s contribution would be large. Lewis stuffed the sack underneath his jacket and just barely managed to button it. If anybody bothered looking, they’d see a skinny kid with a hugely unnatural bulge at his waist.
But nobody bothered. Everyone was either pushing to join the blue smudge line or listening to Mr. Knoertzer recount the adventure to the reporter.
Lewis smiled. Nope, nobody would notice him, not at all.
This excerpt is published here courtesy of the authors and publisher and should not be reprinted without permission.
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