“Set amid Dickensian realities of poverty and injustice in Depression-era Pittsburgh, [Adventures of the Flash Gang: Episode One] was an impressive debut, offering a smart mix of action and suspense with relatable young characters going up against ruthless moguls, murderers, kidnappers, mobsters, and Nazi sympathizers. In this satisfying sequel, the plot expands and deepens as the stakes are raised even higher…” —Kirkus Reviews (Starred Review)
More info From the Publisher: “Where is the Flash Gang? Pittsburgh’s most notorious thieves haven’t struck for a year, not since a devastating fire resulted in the supposed death of two streeters. Pearl and Lewis– along with their pals, Duck and Mac– are alive and well, just in hiding. But now, their hideout is crumbling under the relentless rain. It’s been a winter of bitter winds and slim pickings, and their friendship is starting to fray. To make matters worse, streeters are disappearing. Are they skipping town or is something more nefarious afoot? When one of their own vanishes, the gang goes all out to unravel the mystery, which once again points to enemy #1: the steel tycoon who had Lewis’s father killed. But Pittsburgh is flooding and the tycoon’s plans are in motion. If they want to save their friends, they’re running out of time…”
Author Site About the Author: M.M. Downing & S. J. Waugh joined forces to write the sort of stories they loved reading when they were ten. They also write books for teens and grown-ups, but that’s for another day. You can learn more about them and The Adventures of the Flash Gang at www.downingwaugh.com.
Previously…
CHAPTER ONE
The News
Lewis Carter was about to steal something.
Of course, to a Pittsburgh streeter, it was considered pinching, not stealing. And for any twelve-year-old who survived on the streets during this terrible Depression, pinching didn’t seem like a crime. After all, a meal could not be conjured out of thin air and it wasn’t as if Lewis could saunter into a shop, pick out a tin of sardines and a loaf of bread, then count out the fifteen cents from his pants pocket to give the grocer. He had no spending money. Few orphans did.
Still, for Lewis, pinching or stealing or whatever anyone else wanted to call it was a big deal. Which is why he wasn’t doing it alone.
“Ya ready, Brain?” asked his friend Duck. He stood behind Lewis, his hands on Lewis’s shoulders, aiming him at the target: the kitchen door of Polini’s, a diner that was popular with the local mob. Duck knew the cooking schedules of most restaurants. Each afternoon at five Polini’s pulled a tray of fresh rolls from their oven.
Lewis swallowed and nodded. “So, you go in and I’m at the door behind the step.”
“Yep,” Duck said. “Count to three and be ready to catch ’em when I whistle.”
“Oh sure.” Lewis grinned.
Truth be told, Lewis was a terrible thief, but he had gotten pretty good at the catching part. He adjusted his glasses and squared his shoulders. “Okay. Ready when you are.”
They crossed the street to the restaurant and made their way to the grubby back entrance, keeping under the windowsills. Duck winked at Lewis, then hopped to the top step at the kitchen door. He carefully opened it, peeked in, then disappeared. Lewis got a heavenly whiff of fresh bread and his stomach growled appreciatively.
One, two, he counted. There was Duck’s piercing whistle—
and a simultaneous “THIEVES!”
Duck was out the door, tossing rolls to Lewis who caught them and stuffed them down his sweater. They bolted in opposite directions, oversized boots slapping the pavement. Lewis’s lungs fizzed with exertion. He catapulted across the street and collided with a lady riding a bicycle who’d just turned the corner.
“Eeek!” shrieked the lady as the bicycle brakes screeched. Lewis went down. A tomato went flying from the sack of groceries in the handlebar basket and splatted onto the pavement.
“Sorry!” Lewis shouted.
The lady honked her bike horn. “You reckless hooligan! Running wild and wasting my hard-earned money!”
“I said I was sorry!” panted Lewis, picking himself up. His eyeglasses were missing.
More honking. “A good swat across your backside is what you deserve! I’m calling Child Services!” The lady pedaled away, sending a last glare over her shoulder.
Lewis bent to search for his glasses, but a hand grabbed him by the sleeve and yanked him onto the sidewalk. “Stinkin’ crust,” Duck muttered. “Don’t mind her.”
“What are you doing?” hissed Lewis, looking around. “We’re supposed to meet two blocks from here!”
“It’s okay, they ain’t chasin’ us.” Duck handed Lewis his eyeglasses “C’mon.”
Together they walked to their designated meeting spot, a small parking lot beneath a Beech-Nut Gum billboard. They plunked down on the short barricade and Lewis pulled out the squashed rolls.
“Only two,” he sighed, passing them to Duck.
“Yeah.” Duck pushed one roll back at Lewis. “Eat it. Ain’t worth sharin’.” He scratched his chin, looking faintly sheepish. “Polini surprised me. Must be losin’ my touch.”
Lewis tucked the roll back under his sweater. “You? Never. They’re just extra vigilant. Everyone’s got it out for streeters nowadays.”
“Maybe, but Mac’ll be sour if I don’t get us a proper dinner.” Duck tore a piece of his roll and tossed it in the air, catching it cleanly in his mouth, and swallowing in one gulp. He thought for a moment. “Could try Diamond Market, even if it’s late. The meat’ll stink though.”
“Okay. We’ll hold our noses.”
“Nah,” said Duck standing. “Jes’ me. I’ll be quicker alone.” He popped the rest of the roll in his mouth. “See ya at home then,” he said cheerfully between chews. “Don’t get hit by any more o’ them bikes!” He zipped out of the lot and disappeared around the corner.
Lewis watched Duck go, his smile fading. He sat in the gray and chill of the empty lot trying not to feel useless, even though it was true Duck was quicker on his own. Lewis’s lungs went fizzy under stress and he couldn’t see his own fingers without his glasses and…okay, so he was pretty much useless.
It hadn’t always been like that.
He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets to touch the small pouches that were tucked there, what had made him, only a year before, the most notorious and mysterious food thief in all of Pittsburgh. For a moment he imagined the small whoosh and soft POP and that dazzling, consuming light…
Lewis pulled his hands from his pockets. Useless was safer, he reminded himself.
He stood and headed up Smallman Street, practicing whistles, listening for police sirens, and sticking to the shadows of the buildings like all streeters did (though shadows were few in smoggy Pittsburgh). He passed a little boy who was trying to coax a stray dog to play and handed him the roll, telling him, “Use this.” At Twenty-Seventh, he crossed the street to where a makeshift newsstand leaned against a rickety fence. The fence was plastered with useful information: ads, wanted posters, a copy of the day’s newspaper, and scrawls of chalk marks that were mostly codes for hobos. Lewis gave the fence a cursory glance and continued, only to freeze a moment later.
The news. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.
He approached the fence to get a closer look. St. Patrick’s Arsonist Given Early Release, the headline read. “Early release!” murmured Lewis, a curl of dread seeping into his stomach. “How is that even possible?”
“Hey, Brain!”
Lewis nearly jumped out of his boots. He spun around. PB, the streeter who managed the makeshift newsstand with his pal Seamus, was waving a Post-Gazette evening edition. “Did ya forget your paper?”
“No, no. Just running behind is all.” Lewis gave a relieved smile and walked over. “Thanks.” He dug in his trouser pocket and pulled out the three cents he’d set aside for this. “Where’s Seamus?”
“Quit, I guess.” PB snagged the pennies, then peered at Lewis. “What’s got y’all bugged?”
“Nothing. Just,” Lewis gestured at the fence, disbelieving, “that headline.”
“Can ya believe that guy?” hooted PB. “He goes and burns down a church—St. Patty’s, no less!—and gets a slap on the wrist. Streeters loot one measly train car an’ we get shoveled off quicker ’n you can say Mayor McNair! Sheesh.” PB tapped the newspaper he was holding with a grimy finger, pointing to the headline and the arsonist’s photo below it: a fat-faced man with a gold tooth and a nasty leer. That leer still gave Lewis nightmares.
“Maybe the Flash Gang will come back, though, once this guy is outta jail,” PB said, jabbing his finger at Scrugg’s picture. “Ya think?”
Lewis snapped out of his fog. “Flash Gang! What are you talking about?”
“I hear this guy’s their leader.” PB paused to hand the newspaper to a passerby and pocket the change before turning back to Lewis. “Ya know how the Flash Gang ain’t struck for a year? It’s cuz he’s been in jail.”
Lewis said innocently, “I thought their leader was Fat Joe.”
“Fat Joe!” PB scoffed. “Flash Gang ain’t the mob!”
“Well, it sure isn’t Floyd Scrugg.” Lewis didn’t mind the Flash Gang fame being passed around, but he would not allow that bulldog to get any credit.
PB shrugged. “I also heard they was streeters.”
This was new and a little too close for comfort. “Streeters?” Lewis laughed. “No way.”
“Could be,” said PB, quite serious. “I mean, after all o’ that mess on them train tracks last year, maybe the Flash Gang got sent to one of them orphan houses or somethin’.”
“Maybe.” Lewis sounded dubious.
“Well, whoever they are, I miss ’em!” PB said wistfully. “Boy, oh boy, that Flash Gang sold a lot o’ papers. Everyone clamoring to hear about ’em.” He shrugged. “Now, it’s jes’ stories ’bout other places.”
“Yeah,” agreed Lewis.
PB looked around. “Well, anyways, here ya go.” He tipped the crate he used for a seat and withdrew a folded newspaper from underneath. “Tell Lola she’ll like this edition. Real good ‘Gabbler Gossip’!”
With that, PB carefully handed him the paper with both hands and Lewis took it just as carefully. “Thanks, as usual, PB.”
PB looked up and down the empty street then sighed. “That’s it fer tonight, I guess.” He stuffed the unsold papers in the crate and hefted it on one hip. “Gonna find some supper. See ya, Brain.” He limped off.
“Sure. See you.” Lewis watched until PB was halfway down the block before exhaling.
Scrugg and the Flash Gang, together! Dark memories from last year were suddenly surging up, which was terrible because Flash Gang rumors usually made him happy.
The infamous Flash Gang, a supposed group of thieves who stole food by setting off a harmless but brilliant flash of light that momentarily blinded everybody and left just a blue smudge and lingering stink in its wake. The police called them the worst of criminals, but some of that food made its way to St. Patrick’s soup kitchen, which made the Flash Gang extremely popular.
It also made them hunted. Besides the police, that bulldog Scrugg and his evil boss spent much of last winter scheming to get their hands on the Flash Gang’s secret Recipe.
What would Scrugg do now that he was out?
This excerpt is published here courtesy of the authors and should not be reprinted without permission.
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