Johnny leaned against the rough-hewn workbench and flipped a coin. It spun into the air, landed on his palm, and disappeared when he closed his hand. He reached behind his own ear and pulled it out, then flipped it once more, starting the process all over again. Coin tricks were one of Johnny's specialties; back when he and Lincoln used to hustle people at the park for money, he'd do elaborate routines that involved two and sometimes three coins at a time. Now he only did them when he was bored or deep in thought.

And right now he was bored.

It was a hot and muggy Sunday afternoon and he and Lincoln had been in the garage most of the day working on their latest project, an old school Coke machine with a glass front that they rescued from the junkyard on Route 9. About six feet tall and three feet wide, it was currently resting lengthwise on a stack of cinderblocks, Lincoln underneath on a backboard. From here, all Johnny could see were his legs jutting out; every so often, he dropped his wrench on the floor with a clang and issued an exasperated, "Darn it."

"You almost done?" Johnny asked.

"Almost," Lincoln grunted, "Go make some sandwiches and leave me alone."

Johnny started to snap, but he did need to make some sandwiches. "Alright," he said and pushed away from the workbench. "Stuff's in the fridge, right?"

The wrench clattered to the concrete again and Lincoln sighed. "Where else would it be?"

"I could think of a place," Johnny muttered to himself. He crossed the garage and opened the door connecting to the kitchen. Cool air rushed over him and dried the sweat to his forehead. Mom was in the living room watching some kind of cooking show and Dad was nowhere to be seen; he was probably in the attic listening to Public Enemy with Sergio.

Opening the fridge door, Johnny fetched a package each of roast beef, ham, turkey, and Swiss cheese. He sat them on the counter and slipped a loaf of Sarah Lee white bread from the cabinet. Once he had everything he needed, he set about assembling them into sandwiches, stopping only when the bread ran out. He counted eight of them, then cut each one diagonally, wrapped them in Saran, and put them into Ziploc baggies. He was just finishing up when Lincoln came in, sweaty and covered in grease and dirt. "Coke machine's done."

"Awesome," Johnny said.

Lincoln and Johnny were capitalists through and through, and were always on the lookout for new ways to make money. A long time ago, they hustled and stole, but these days they were on the up and up and actually worked for their coin, creating a dozen different business ventures over the past year and a half from shovelling driveways to fixing bikes. Their most recent method was three pronged. One, they fixed up old vending machines they raided from the junkyard, filled them with snacks (most of them homemade), then deposited them in high traffic areas. Once a week, they went around, replenished the stock, and collected the money. Two, they sold sandwiches from Lincoln's locker. They lucked into that one; the school switched food distributors and the quality of the fare in the cafeteria took a nosedive, leading most kids to either pack their own lunch or go hungry. Where there is a demand for something, say food, there is always someone willing to supply.

They also ran the school supply store. All profits went to the PTA but Lincoln and Johnny skimmed a little off the top and fudged the record book (okay, maybe they weren't all the way legit, but Rome wasn't built in a day).

Lastly, they sold music from songs they make with their two person band. (Lincoln played the cello, Johnny played guitar, with drums wrapped in wires connected to him like a band geek).

"I'm gonna get cleaned up," Lincoln said and grabbed a Coke from the fridge, "when I'm done, we'll run it over to the hospital."

While Lincoln showered, Johnny filled a cardboard box with cans of Chocolate Cherry Cola and carried it out to the garage. He got down on his knees before the machine, opened the front with a special key, and jammed the cans in until it was full. Next, he went outside and around the corner. A cart with wood slats for sides sat along the garage's western wall, tall grass hiding its dry rotted wheels. He stooped, lifted the hitch, and dragged it out to the driveway, its rusted frame creaking dangerously. He sat it down, took a step back, and considered it.

He and Lincoln found it on one of their many excursions to the old Sutter Farm south of town. Abandoned as long as anyone remembered, the Sutter Farm consisted of a decaying house, a tumbledown barn, and a slanted grain silo surrounded by thick forest and overgrown fields gone to seed. Legend had it that the former owner, Old Man Sutter (because what else would he be called but 'Old Man'?) fled in the dead of night after the cops raided his moonshine still and never came back. Johnny didn't know if that was true or not, but Old Man Sutter (if he really existed) really did leave in a hurry: The barn and house were filled with tools, supplies, and appliances, every room furnished and laid out as if awaiting their master's return. Johnny and Lincoln went there all the time and came away with all sorts of stuff. Last summer, they took the TV from the living room, which was no easy task since it was one of those old school ones that were as big as dressers. The manufacture date on the back was Aug. 1977 and miraculously still worked. They sold it to the TV and Appliance store on Main Street for twenty bucks.

The cart, Johnny imagined, was used to haul hay from the field to the barn (where they found it). He and Lincoln had been loading it with things a lot heavier, and it was starting to break down. There was a chance it wouldn't make it to the hospital. Man, if it broke down, he and Linc were screwed.

He was still standing there and imagining the worst when Lincoln came out a few minutes later, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up his scrawny arms. He took out a razor blade and pressed a button: A comb popped out like a greaser's pocket knife. He ran it through his hair and followed Johnny's line of sight. "What's up?" he asked.

"I'm worried this piece of junk's gonna crap out on us," Johnny said. "It feels like it's going to fall apart."

Lincoln closed his comb, shoved it back into his pocket, and walked around the cart in a slow circle. He kicked one of the tires, and the whole thing wobbled. He picked up the hitch and a deathly shudder ran through the frame. "Huh," he said and sat it back down. "I don't know."

"What if it breaks on the way and we get stranded?"

Lincoln was quiet for a moment. "We'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it."

He dragged it into the garage, took the wooden slats out, and stacked them in the corner, leaving the cart open on all sides. "Help me with this, will you?" Lincoln asked and nodded to the soda machine. He got on one side and Johnny the other, and on the count of three, they lifted; Johnny's back quivered, his arms strained, and his eyes bugged from their sockets. "This is heavy," he hissed through his teeth.

"So's your mom," Lincoln hitched.

"She's your mom too, jackass."

"Shut up and worry about the machine," Lincoln snapped.

They got it to the cart and sat it carefully down, front facing up. Johnny dusted his hands off and stretched his aching back muscles. Lincoln fetched a few bungee cords from a tool chest, climbed onto the cart, and secured the machine, pulling them as tight as he could. He gave it a testing shake, and it barely moved. "We're good," he said and jumped off.

Johnny attached the hitch to the back of his bike and wound duct tape around it to keep it in place. Done, he climbed on and pulled a U-turn. The cart groaned and swayed, but held together.

For now.

Lincoln grabbed his bike from between the side of the garage and the fence separating their yard from the next one over, and side by side, they made their way north along Franklin Avenue. At the end of the street, they turned left, then right. Three blocks later, they came to Central Street, where fast food joints, cheap motels, and gas stations crowded the cracked and trash strewn sidewalk. Central was the roughest and ugliest place in all of Royal Woods. The three neighborhoods that branched off of it were packed with dilapidated houses and Section 8 apartment buildings where guys sold weed and drank forties all day instead of working. Dad grew up on Compton Street and hated it; the other black kids used to roast him for liking wrestling and called him Ric Gayer, a play on Ric Flair but with more homophobia. He told Lincoln and Johnny to never go into those 'hoods or he'd ground them for a month.

That wasn't their destination, though.

St. Eligius Hospital sat on five acres of land at the end of Medical Drive, a sprawling complex six floors high. Its stonework was faded and scrubbed raw by time and weather, and the decorative window molding sagged in places, adding to the building's atmosphere of age and decrepitude. Inside, a maze of dimly lit corridors zigzagged back and forth, some completely shuttered and disused, and vast wards with vaulted ceilings housed only a handful of patients at a time. Your footfalls echoed everywhere you went, and it was all too easy for your imagination to run away with you. Like every hospital ever, St. Eligius was reputed to be haunted by the ghosts of people who had died there over the years. Of course places full of misery and death get that kind of rap; Johnny laughed at it in the daylight, but the few times he was deep in the bowels of the place, alone with only cobwebs and flickering overhead lights to keep him company, he believed in the supernatural wholeheartedly.

They turned into the main entrance and navigated their way to the double doors leading into the emergency department. An ambule idled at the curb and red NO SMOKING signs glared at them from their perches on the exterior walls. Johnny backed the cart to the doors, hopped off his bike, and helped Lincoln untie the bungee cords. They fought the machine into the stone-floored atrium and sat it up in a little alcove where people passing by could easily see it. Lincoln got down on his knees and plugged it into the outlet; It lit up and began to hum a low, enchanting siren song. Come spend your money, I got Chocolate Cherry Cola, honey. Lincoln got to his feet, and he and Johnny bumped fists. "Mission accomplished," Johnny said.

The heavens picked that moment to differ. "Excuse me!"

A woman in blue scrubs hurried over, her Karen cut rustling around her forehead. Uh-oh, she wants to speak to our manager. She stopped, put her hands on her hips, and regarded them with tight-lipped disapproval. "What are you doing?"

"Installing a vending machine," Johnny said.

Wasn't that obvious?

"I'm sorry, but we already have vending machines," she said. "You're going to have to take it away."

"But we cleared it with Dr. Raymond," Lincoln said, "we're gonna donate 90 percent of the profit to the children's ward."

Dr. Frank Raymond was in charge of St. Eligius's emergency room. He and Dad knew each other from the RWWFFC - the Royal Woods Wrestling Fanatics Fan Club. Dr. Raymond was a soft spoken and cerebral man in his sixties and looked for all the world like a wise old college professor, but apparently even smart people can like fake fights between men in tights.

Heh, that rhymed. Johnny would have to write that one down.

Karen lifted an incredulous brow. "Oh, really?" she challenged.

Lincoln and Johnny both nodded. "You can call him and ask him," Johnny said.

"I will," Karen spat. It was clear from her tone that she thought they were lying, and that once she was done calling Dr. Raymond, she would get to chew them out and make them leave. LOL.

While she sat behind the front desk and called Dr. Raymond, Johnny fed four quarters into the machine and pressed a button. The door unlocked and he took a can of Chocolate Cherry Cola out. He cracked it open, tilted his head back, opened his mouth, and poured some in, never once touching it to his lips. He handed it to Lincoln and he did the same.

Across the lobby, Karen huffily hung up the phone and started typing on the computer. She looked like a little girl who'd had her hopes and dreams to pull the wings off two flies crushed. Johnny went over and laid his hands on the counter. "Did you call him?"

She didn't reply.

"Ma'am?"

Nothing.

Taking her sullen silence as a yes, Johnny smiled smugly and popped his collar. That's what I thought, he didn't say out loud. He turned on his heels and walked back to the soda machine, where Lincoln stood.

He wasn't alone.

Ronnie Anne Santiago, in a purple skirt with black horizontal stripes and a long sleeve purple shirt that bared her shoulders Sid style, stood before him, her arms crossed. She craned her neck to see the machine over his shoulder and a thoughtful look crossed her freckled face. "Hey, Ronnie," Johnny said guardly as he walked up.

"So it's you guys putting these old vending machines around town," she said without looking at him.

"Yep," Johnny said proudly, "that's us."

What she said next wiped the smile from his face. "I want a cut."

'Huh?"

She shrugged. "I want a cut. You guys are making money and I think I deserve some."

Johnny folded his arms sassily over his chest. "Yeah? For what? Me and Linc work hard for our profit. You haven't even done anything.'

"Protection," Ronnie Anne said. "Hire me to make sure nothing bad happens to one of your machines."

"We don't need it," Johnny said, "no one's ever bothered our stuff before."

Lincoln nodded. "It's a frivolous expense."

"Oh yeah?" Ronnie Anne asked. She brushed between them and went up to the machine. "What if someone did this?" She lashed out and hit the front of the dispenser with the heel of her palm, rocking the rig back and forth. "Or this?" She slammed her fist into the glass door; it didn't break but Johnny distinctly heard a cracking sound.

Backing up, Ronnie Anne kicked it. "Or this?"

Lincoln and Johnny came unfrozen. Yelling at her to stop (for the love of God, stop!), they grabbed her arms and pulled her back. "Are you crazy?" Johnny squealed.

"This is extortion," Lincoln said indignantly.

That earned an indifferent shrug from Ronnie Anne. "Eh. Whatever. You gonna pay me or what? I'd really hate to see one of your machines get torched."

Lincoln and Johnny looked at each other. Ronnie Anne wasn't just blowing hot air; she was crazy enough to actually do something. "Fine," Johnny sighed. He whipped his wallet out, removed a five dollar bill, and handed it to her. She looked at Lincoln, and slumping his shoulders, he reached into his pocket and came back with a wad of ones. He shoved them into Ronnie Anne's hands and she took them with a pleased grin.

"Nice doing business with you," she said, "losers."

With that, she shoved the money into her pocket and left through the automatic doors. She followed the walkway toward the employee parking lot, and when she was out of sight, Johnny let out a deep breath. "You should have told her no."

"Me?" Lincoln cried and slapped his chest. "She shook you down first. Why didn't you say no?"

"I was going to talk right after you," Johnny said. And that was true; if Lincoln bucked up, Johnny would have found the courage to do it too. But since he didn't buck up, Johnny was forced to keep still. "This is all your fault. Now we have to pay Ronnie Anne to keep from busting our vending machines. Thanks a lot." He slammed the heel of his palm into Lincoln's shoulder.

Lincoln's face darkened and he hit Johnny's shoulder back. Johnny almost dropped him, but stopped when someone cleared their throat. Karen shot daggers at them over her counter. Flashing a nervous smile, Johnny lifted his hand, then got out of there before she could bother his poor manager.

"We gotta find a way to get Ronnie off our backs," he said as he and Lincoln pedaled home.

"Yeah, but how?" Lincoln asked.

Johnny didn't have the answer to that...but he would find it one way or another.

Oh, yes he would.


Or not.

All Sunday afternoon, Johnny wracked his brain for a way to get rid of Ronnie Anne, but nothing he came up with stood a snowball's chance of working. That night, lying awake in bed, he considered just cutting to the chase and refusing to pay her. If he did that, though, she'd ruin his and Lincoln's vending machines. What then? They'd lose profit. It would be better just to give her a few bucks here and there than to go through the hassle of having her wreck their stuff. They'd either have to take it lying down or do something back. This way was easier.

He didn't like it, though.

The next morning, he woke to the alarm and took a shower, then dressed. Lincoln was waiting at the door, hopping impatiently from one foot to the other, and Johnny blocked the way. "What's the magic word?" he asked.

"I gotta pee."

"You gotta give me the -"

Lincoln reached into his underwear like he was going to take his thing out and pee on Johnny's shoes, and Johnny jumped out of the way. "Fine, jeez."

While Lincoln tinkled, Johnny pulled his shoes on, grabbed his backpack, and went downstairs. Mom stood at the stove, frying eggs and bacon, and Dad sat at the table with the morning paper and a cup of coffee.

After wolfing down their food, Johnny and Lincoln left the house and walked to school. The whole way, Johnny turned the Ronnie Anne situation over in his mind. He wasn't happy with having to fork over dough to her, but whatever. They could afford it.

Famous last words.

At lunch, he and Lincoln stood by Lincoln's open locker and waited for kids to come along and buy some sandwiches. Ronnie Anne came along instead. "You know selling food out of a locker is against the rules, right?"

Johnny genuinely laughed. "Since when do you care about rules?"

She crossed her arms, and he sobered. She was being serious. "I started caring when I decided I want a cut of this business too."

Lincoln and Johnny both gaped. "What?" Johnny blurted. "Dude, no."

"Alright," Ronnie Anne said, "I'mma just snitch on you then."

"You wouldn't," Lincoln challenged.

She narrowed her eyes. "Watch me."

Spinning on her heels, she marched down the hallway toward the office. Johnny gaped after her, then shook his head. If she told, Principal Bodner would shut him and Lincoln down. He'd probably even call Mom, who'd in turn tell Dad. If Dad found out they were hawking sandwiches from Lincoln's locker, he'd do to them what New Jack did to Mass Transit.

Johnny shuddered.

"Wait!"

Ronnie Anne stopped and turned around. "What are you doing?" Lincoln whispered.

"Saving our business," Johnny said through his teeth.

"Screw it, let her rat us out. I'd rather lose the gig than let her rob us."

Ignoring Lincoln, Johnny reached into his pocket and slipped out a crisp five dollar bill. He walked up to Ronnie Anne and held it out. "Here," he said, "that's all I have on me."

Her eyes darted between his face and the bill. She took the money and pocketed it, then looked at Lincoln. "What'cha got for me, lame-o?"

Lincoln's face settled into a glower. Johnny shot him a dirty look and jerked his chin at Ronnie Anne. Come here and give her your money. Lincoln took a deep breath, came over, and dug a five from his pocket. "Here," he said sourly.

Ronnie Anne took it. "Pleasure doing business with you."

She turned and walked away.

"This is getting ridiculous," Lincoln grumbled. "Next she'll take the shoes off our feet."

Johnny sighed. Lincoln was right but what could they do? She had them in the corner like Ric Flair screaming on some jobber. What could they do about it? If they said no, she'd make their lives a living hell.

They'd just have to go along with it.

And go along with it they did. Every day for a week, they handed over a percentage of their profits to Ronnie Anne. On Thursday, she upped her take from five a piece to ten. On Friday, she asked for extra because "I got stuff to buy." On Saturday, she accompanied them as they went around Royal Woods and serviced their vending machines. On Monday, she increased her share again. Lincoln had finally had enough and put his foot down. Johnny wasn't there when it happened and Lincoln didn't tell him until they were on their way home from school. "Dude," he said, "she's gonna do something now."

"No she won't," Lincoln said, "I think I really stuck it to her."

Two hours later, Johnny got a text.

It was a picture.

The snack machine they installed next to the bathrooms at the park lay on its side, broken and covered in dents. A baseball bat jutted from its plastic face and baggies of chips and trail mix littered the ground. "I was taking a walk and I found this," the accompanying text said, "this is why you have to pay me protection. People out here are loco."

Johnny pursed his lips and showed the picture to Lincoln. "Good job, Stinkcoln. You got one of our units destroyed."

"SHE'S ROBBING US BLIND!" Lincoln screamed and waved his arms. "Dude, she's taken 48.4 percent of our profit this week."

Johnny winced. "Ouch. That much?"

"YES!"

He sighed.

This couldn't go on.

Maybe if they talked to Ronnie Anne she'd…

No, that probably wouldn't work.

Perhaps they just had to square up. If she wrecked their machines, they'd just have to hit back the way they did when the Loud girls did something messed up. "Just...give me some time to think," he said.

"What's there to think about?" Lincoln asked.

Johnny didn't know, he honestly didn't.

For the rest of that week, things went on as they had: Ronnie Anne came around at lunch time to collect and they begrudgingly paid their ransom. On Friday night, Johnny sat defeatedly on the edge of his bed and drew a deep breath. "Tomorrow," he said, "we're gonna fix this tomorrow."

"How?" Lincoln asked over his shoulder. He sat at the PC.

"I have an idea," Johnny said, "it might take some time but I think it'll pay off."

Lincoln turned in his chair. "What is it?" he pressed.

"Alright," Johnny said and leaned in, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "We know Ronnie's a crook, right? We follow her around, wait for her to do something wrong, and take pictures. Then we tell her to back off or we'll show her mom."

A devilish grin crept across Lincoln's face. "I like the way you think."

Johnny tapped his temple.

Always thinking, Linc.

Always thinking.


Saturday morning, Lincoln and Johnny rode their bikes to Central, then crossed it and followed Watts Ave to Ronnie Anne's building, a three story apartment block wedged between a stand of pine trees and a cyclone fence overlooking I-13. A group of black kids a little older than Lincoln and Johnny packed a nearby basketball court, and a gang of children chased each other and climbed over rusted playground equipment. A couple guys stood by a crappy Honda with chrome spinners, and bass heavy rap music drifted from the open doors, N-word this and cappin' people that. Lincoln and Johnny parked across the street and hid themselves behind a pine tree as best they could. "I hope no one gets suspicious," Johnny said, "two white dudes scoping the place out will look pretty bad."

"You're the only white boy here," Lincoln said.

Johnny rolled his eyes. ''Look at my skin."

"You're black the same way Issac Yankem was a dentist."

Okay, that was uncalled for. Listen here, you -"

Lincoln perked up. "Shhh, here she comes."

Ronnie Anne came out of her apartment and started south, toward Central. Lincoln and Johnny waited, then followed at a distance. Johnny fumbled for his phone and opened the camera app.

Alright, RA, let's see what kind of crimes you commit today.

Her first stop was a corner store, where she bought a fountain drink. Next, she hit up a pharmacy. Johnny left Lincoln outside and went in after her. He grabbed a magazine to hide his face. She stood in line at the counter, then when her turn came, the pharmacist greeted her by name. "I'm here for mom's medication," she said.

"Alright," the pharmacist said. He handed her a bag. "That'll be ten dollars."

Ronnie Anne paid and left, passing Johnny.

After the pharmacy, she went into a Save-A-Lot on Central. Lincoln and Johnny crouched behind a cart carousel in the parking lot and watched the front of the store, Johnny almost certain she was gonna knock the place over. Instead, she came out clutching bags of groceries. She came their way, and they ducked down. She passed by and Johnny tracked her with his eyes. "What's she up to?" he wondered aloud.

Her final stop of the morning was at a florist stop, where she bought a bouquet of flowers. After that, she walked home, so weighed down by her many purchases that she shuffled, stumbled, and staggered. When she got back to her building, she sat it all down and fished her key out of her pocket. She picked her stuff up again, went inside, and closed the door with her foot.

Huh. Johnny was sure she'd do something messed up, like kick a puppy or mug an old lady. Instead, she bought food and medicine. Even bullies need those things, but something smelled fishy here and he was going to get to the bottom of it.

Leaning his bike against a tree trunk, he gestured for Lincoln to follow. They crossed the street, ran around the side of the building, and found the window looking into Ronnie Anne's dining room. They knelt in the grass and waited a moment, then peeked over the sill.

Inside, Ronnie Anne's mom sat at a table, bills fanned out in front of her. Strands of her black hair stuck out at harried angles and dark bags hung beneath her tired eyes. She massaged her temples with her fingertips and let out a deep sigh. She was the picture of worry.

Ronnie Anne came in and sat the groceries on the counter. "Hi, Mom," she said.

Her mother looked up at her and donned a puzzled frown. "What's this?" she asked, as though she'd never seen grocery bags before.

"I went shopping," Ronnie Anne said. "I also picked up your medication"

Mrs. Santiago's confusion deepend. "With what money?"

"My money," Ronnie Anne said simply.

She turned, walked up to the table, and presented the flowers to her mother. "I got these too. Your favorite."

Mrs. Santiago smiled and took them. "You shouldn't have. I was going to go to the food bank."

"It's fine," Ronnie Anne said, "I wanted to. You do so much, it's only fair I do something in return."

Her mother hugged her and Ronnie Anne hugged her back tightly. Tears dribbled down her mother's cheeks and she looked like she was going to break down crying. "You shouldn't have to use your own money for these things," she said.

"And you shouldn't have to work twelve hours a day and still not have enough to pay all our bills," Ronnie Anne said. "But you do it anyway."

"Things will get better," Mrs. Santiago promised. "The first of the month is always the hardest."

Ronnie Anne patted her mom's back. "I know. We'll get through it."

Despite the boldness of her declaration, there was a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

Lincoln and Johnny ducked down and sat side-by-side on the ground, processing what they had just witnessed. On the way home and for the rest of the day, Johnny ran the scene again and again through his mind.

From that point forward, neither he nor Lincoln ever complained about paying Ronnie Anne again.