Children of the Streets: Scott's Story: Part One: The Runaways, Part Two: The Aftermath

By Richard W. Stavros

A suburban golden boy, an inner-city girl forced to grow up too soon, and a street kid doing whatever it takes to survive cross paths in New York City. As their fates intertwine, they find themselves wrapped up in the underworld workings of a powerful crime boss. In a struggle to find salvation and meaning in dark times, they search for forgiveness and understanding in places where there seem to be none. When one family is torn apart, another is brought together as Children of the Streets, Part 1: The Runaways and Part 2: The Aftermath are presented together in one volume: Scott's Story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645696506

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Children of the Streets

Scott's Story: Part One: The Runaways, Part Two: The Aftermath

Richard W. Stavros and Timothy J. Gardner

Copyright © 2019 by Richard W. Stavros and Timothy J. Gardner

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

[Chapter 1]

[Chapter 2]

[Chapter 3]

[Chapter 4]

[Chapter 5]

[Chapter 6]

[Chapter 7]

[Chapter 8]

[Chapter 9]

[Chapter 10]

[Chapter 11]

[Chapter 12]

[Chapter 13]

[Chapter 14]

[Chapter 15]

[Chapter 16]

[Chapter 17]

[Chapter 18]

[Chapter 19]

[Chapter 20]

[Chapter 1]

[Chapter 2]

[Chapter 3]

[Chapter 4]

[Chapter 5]

[Chapter 6]

[Chapter 7]

[Chapter 8]

[Chapter 9]

[Chapter 10]

[Chapter 11]

[Chapter 12]

[Chapter 13]

[Chapter 14]

[Chapter 15]

[Chapter 16]

[Chapter 17]

[Chapter 18]

[Chapter 19]

Edited by

Jake Mahon and Grace Gunning

Cover design by

Mary Ann Stavros-Lanning

The Runaways

This book is dedicated to all the children and young adults who, through no fault of their own, have become victims of society. Their lives may be ignored by most, deemed unimportant by some, but to a handful of special individuals, helping these children has become their life’s work. This work is to honor those children, to help bring light to their plights and struggles, but also to honor those who devote their lives to helping them. These are the people who care about the children of the streets.

These children are all around us, whether we know it or not. They are our sons and daughters, our brothers and sisters. They share our dreams, and they share our nightmares. They face the same demons we all face and more. They even sometimes share our laughter and, more often, our tears. Life has handed them the same peaks and valleys, although their valleys are often deeper and their ascent to the summits longer and more dangerous. They live across the city, around the corner, or even just next door. They sometimes live in our own homes.

Despite the grim and dark situations too many children find themselves faced with, there is the possibility of better days. This book was written in the hope that no more will become victims and that those currently living in fear and desolation might be pulled into safety. Compassion, love, and kindness, coupled with deliberate action and emotion, can help save the children of the streets. When was the last time they heard I love you? When was the last time you told them?

[Chapter 1]

A New York Back Alley

Behind the proud but weary skyline of New York City, the sun had finally decided to lift its head. It was springtime, and while the air was still clean from the winter, the faintest hints of smog were beginning to rise as the city drew closer to summer. Its residents had just begun to stir, alarm clocks shaking the sleep-deprived from their rest. Even so, some New Yorkers were just finishing their night’s work.

In a dirty alleyway on the south side of the Bronx, a group of young kids were beginning to gather. Some were huddling together in the early morning chill, and others were leaning up against the dirty, graffiti-crusted walls of the concrete buildings around them, staring off into space with vacant, tired eyes. A tall teenager who looked to be about nineteen years old was standing at the far end of the alley. On a building nearby hung a rusted sign that read The Promised Land Shelter. A cross had once been painted underneath the name of the establishment, but the paint had long flaked away, and a single bullet hole marked the spot where the crucifix had once stood.

Dragging themselves along, the crowd filed up to the teenager at the far end of the alleyway who appeared to be in charge. Each one handed him a stack of dollar bills pulled from old coat pockets, the insides of beaten shoes, and the cuffs of torn and tattered sleeves. Their movements were methodical, and after they handed him the cash, the teenager would count out a precise number of bills to hand back to them. After they received their cut, the kids stepped out onto the sidewalks and went their separate ways. As the group dwindled slowly, a pretty young girl with blonde hair, red lipstick, and a tight-fitting purple dress approached the tall teenager.

So what time do you usually get off? the girl asked, raising a playful eyebrow.

She stood straight with her head cocked to one side, smirking. As it was no longer night, the amount of makeup she had carefully applied earlier was now apparent.

The ringleader, still counting his money, glanced up at the girl, unamused. The girl smirked knowingly.

Working, Joey. What time do you get off working? she asked.

Joey leaned toward her and whispered, When I stop fucking breathing, Rox.

"Oh, c’mon, Joey, don’t be boring. Have some fucking fun every once and a while. You’ve got to get bored of this shit, just like the rest of us," she said coyly.

Joey looked at her and shook his head, laughing, but there was no mirth in his eyes.

There ain’t no rest for the wicked, isn’t that what they say? he shot back.

Roxy laughed loudly and gave him a little shove.

Well, fuck. Then you’re never going to get any rest, seeing as you’re a piece of shit, Joey. What a shame. But I mean, if you’re gonna be up all night, she said as she leaned in close, you know where to find me. She stood inches from him, looking up into his face. He looked down at her, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of sadness in his eyes.

Ignoring how close he was to her chest, Joey handed over her cut. She took the crumpled bills, folded them up tight, and slid them into her bra. Reaching into a worn black purse she wore over her shoulder, she pulled out a wrinkled thin sweater and put it on. Joey nodded at her and started to walk off.

See you tomorrow, Rox, he said.

Roxy watched him go. His brown hair was ruffled by the breeze, which was beginning to pick up, and on his shoulders, he wore a beat-up jean jacket with a jagged hole over his left elbow. He didn’t stop to look back. She sighed, bent down carefully to take off her huge black heels, and replaced them with a pair of ancient black Converse high-tops.

A damn shame, a real fucking shame, she said sadly. She headed off in the opposite direction, toward the rising sun.

[Chapter 2]

Breakfast at the West’s

In Massachusetts, the same rising sun was casting beams of light through the windows of an elegant yellow colonial. A middle-aged woman with mousey hair was busy cooking breakfast in the kitchen. Eggs were sizzling in a frying pan, and the ding of a toaster signaled the arrival of two pieces of perfectly browned wheat toast. A clock on the wall ticked rhythmically. Its black metal hands read 6:45. At the table, a solidly built man with graying hair was reading the sports section of the newspaper. The headlines announced that the Red Sox had beaten the Dodgers the night before, 5–4.

The sound of feet plodding down the stairs distracted the woman from the eggs on the stove. She glanced down the hall and saw her son, very much the teenager, groggily walking toward the smell of breakfast. Even slouched, he was tall for his age but broad like his father. He had his mother’s hair, although it resembled a bird’s nest as he entered the kitchen.

Morning, Scott said, his voice deep from sleep.

Morning, sweetie, Mrs. West piped.

Mrs. West prepared a steaming of plate of eggs and toast for Scott and placed it on the kitchen counter. Reaching into the fridge, she poured a glass of orange juice and set them both on the kitchen island. He picked up the plate and glass and walked over to where his dad sat.

Thanks, Mom, I’m wicked hungry this morning for some reason, Scott replied. Good morning, Dad. Anything good in the paper?

Mr. West, seated at the table, flipped over to the next page of the newspaper.

Today’s the big day, he said, ignoring Scott’s question and keeping his eyes on the paper.

Yeah, Dad, the big day, Scott said, lowering his gaze to his breakfast plate. He found he was no longer hungry.

Mr. West lowered the paper and turned to look at Scott. His gray eyes met Scott’s gaze and quickly broke eye contact.

Make sure you keep your eye on the ball today. Just stay focused.

Yes, sir, Scott replied. He turned around and put his food back on the counter, still keeping his eyes low. His shoulders were slouched as he turned slowly, heading back upstairs.

Scott, where are you going? You didn’t even touch your breakfast, Mrs. West said, concerned.

Thanks, Ma, but I’ve had enough, he responded with an edge to his voice as he headed up the staircase.

Mrs. West walked to the kitchen island and picked up his uneaten breakfast. She placed it on the counter by the sink and turned to face her husband, who was still reading the sports section. She took a couple steps toward him, head cocked to one side. She was frowning.

Okay, what’s going on? Mrs. West said.

He’s just nervous. Jittery stomach is all, Mr. West answered dismissively.

"But Scott never gets this nervous before a game. He’s never missed a meal because of baseball in his life. Also he’s usually the calm one, isn’t he? If everyone else was freaking out in the locker room, he was always the one talking sense into them." She crossed her arms, clearly not convinced.

That’s because he’s never had a major league scout come to see him play before. I pulled a couple of strings and called in some old favors, so they’re finally sending someone down to see my son play ball. Mr. West put the paper down and stood up to get some coffee.

Wait, you mean you signed him up for a scout already? Mrs. West asked. "And don’t you mean our son?" She raised her eyebrows.

You know what I mean, Mr. West responded scornfully. A chance like this only comes once in a lifetime. It’s like a dream come true for him! He attempted to pour a cup of coffee from the pot and nearly missed the mug. He reached for a napkin and wiped up the spill before leaning against the counter.

Are you sure it is? Mrs. West turned to face her husband.

What do you mean, Karen?

Are you sure it’s a dream come true for him? She pointed upstairs and then turned her finger toward him. "Or is it a dream come true for you?"

Karen, don’t be ridiculous. He’s been talking about this since he could hold a baseball! Mr. West paused. Memories of Scott as a child momentarily flooded his mind. They had played catch in the yard all summer for years, and sometimes, they would keep playing into fall. Scott used to wait in the front hall for him to come home every day the sun was out, glove and ball in hand.

He’s the most talented baseball player I’ve ever seen, Mr. West asserted with renewed conviction. My son is a natural at the game! He has a gift that we, that I have to help him develop. I have to keep him focused on his dream.

Mrs. West moved to the window and stared out into the spring morning. A hummingbird whizzed by, but she didn’t notice. She was picturing the same afternoons and how, once they were done playing catch, she would have to wash all of Scott’s jeans twice to get the grass stains out. It used to drive her crazy. Now the memory just made her smile. But those days are long gone now, she thought, and that little boy with the baseball spends his free time doing homework. She turned back to her husband, who was halfway through his cup of coffee.

Being a teenager is hard enough as it is, Bob. The schools put so much pressure on them now, it’s nothing like when we were kids. I’m sorry, but there’s no way you are helping him by adding more stress to his daily load. To be honest, I don’t know how he can even take it. She looked at him somberly.

Mr. West’s eyes flashed with anger.

Haven’t I always done what’s right for this family? he said, raising his voice. Do you know how many kids get this kind of chance in life? Not many, Karen, he snapped, waving his hands around wildly.

This isn’t about you, Bob. It’s never been about you. It’s about Scott, Mrs. West said, trying to reason with him. She kept her voice firm but gentle.

Mr. West was full-on yelling now, taking a few steps toward his wife. Don’t you think I know that?

How would you? Mrs. West remained in the middle of the kitchen.

Because I know my son, that’s how! Mr. West slammed his mug down against the countertop. The cup shattered into dozens of shards, clinking as they spread across the floor. The leftover coffee had sprung up like a fountain and rained onto the floor as dark brown stains.

Mr. West stared at the mess for a moment, his face pale. He looked down at his hands, which were now covered with coffee, small pieces of porcelain, and beads of blood. Mrs. West stood quietly a few feet away, transfixed. Mr. West, without turning to look at her, walked to the sink and quickly washed his hands. He then walked over to the key rack, still avoiding her gaze, and picked up his car keys. He paused.

Look, I’m sorry for yelling. And I’m sorry about the mug. I’ll buy a new set this weekend. He played with the keys. To be honest, I’m just as nervous as he is. They both turned and stared at the broken pieces of the mug all over the kitchen. Mrs. West’s expression softened a little, but she still made no move toward him. Her arms were folded. They looked at each other for a few moments, and Mr. West scratched the back of his head.

Mr. West broke the silence. We’ll take one car today, so I’ll pick you up at 2:30, okay?

I’m not going today. I’ve seen enough games over the years, Mrs. West replied, still looking at the floor.

Mr. West looked at her incredulously. So that’s how you’re going to support Scott? By not going to his big game?

When the two of you come home, I’ll have dinner ready. I know you’ll tell me about the game over and over and over again anyway. Oh, and by the way, next time you decide to plan our son’s life out for him, I’d wish you’d let me in on it, Mrs. West jabbed.

Mr. West shook his head. Why can’t you just be excited for him, Karen?

"Because he isn’t even excited for him. If you stopped and paid any attention to him, you’d notice that the poor kid hates even getting up in the morning. He barely has a second to himself these days. And this whole baseball thing? It isn’t about him, it’s clearly about you. It’s always been about you."

Leaving the full dish of now-cold breakfast on the counter, Mrs. West walked past her husband, who stood holding the keys limply.

[Chapter 3]

Joey’s Apartment, Early Morning

The sun had been up for hours by the time Joey made it back to his apartment beneath the Red Lotus Adult Theater. The marquee in front was in need of a serious repair job, and the last e was missing from the title of this week’s film, Adventures in Paradise . Joey didn’t give the front of the building a glance and went through a side alley. He slipped around the back and headed toward a battered steel door.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a key chain and first unlocked the main doorknob. Next, he moved onto the two dead bolts below it, unlocking each with a separate key. As he pulled on the door, it opened with a groan. Flakes of rust drifted down from the top of the doorframe. He stepped inside and walked down a dimly lit hall. Taking a left, he reached another door, this one made of wood with peeling white paint. Joey unlocked the door with yet another key and stepped inside quietly. On the far left of the room, there was a bare mattress, full of rips with a few springs sticking out. On top of it was a cluster of faded sheets but no pillow. An old dresser stood next to it, leaning on the floor where it was missing two feet.

On the other side of the small room sat a battered cloth couch, full of rips and tears. It looked like it had once been red. Now the fabric’s hue closely resembled the ochre color of a scab. A little girl was fast asleep on it, wrapped in a threadbare blanket. Joey walked over to the couch as quietly as he could, trying not to wake her. Her eyes were still closed when he stopped a few feet away from her and crossed his arms. She looked like she hadn’t washed her brown hair for a few days, but judging by how peacefully she slept, she didn’t mind in the slightest.

I hope her dreams are better than this fucking nightmare, he thought. I haven’t been able to sleep like that for—I can’t even fucking remember how long it’s been. Whatever, at least I still have my head.

He uncrossed his arms and went to stroke her head but paused a foot away from her hair. He decided against it.

Let the kid sleep, she’ll have to wake up eventually and come back to this shit. He shook his head and turned toward the dresser.

You’re later than usual. The girl stirred and sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes.

Joey shrugged and grabbed the dresser by the side that still had feet. He yanked it back from the cinderblock wall, walked around behind it, and knelt down. Pulling a knife from his pocket, he stuck it in a gap between two of the cinder blocks. After some careful prying, the block came out half an inch on the right. Moving to the other side, he repeated the process, jiggling the block out a half an inch on the left. He placed the knife on the floor, grasped the block with his hands, and pulled at it with a grunt. It slid out of the wall and crashed onto the floor, making the girl jump. A cloud of dust lingered where it fell. Joey fanned it away with his hands and reached into the space where the block had been, rummaged around in the gap behind the wall and drew out a small metal lockbox.

The girl had gotten up and gone over to a small fridge, which was scratched all over but otherwise clean. She opened the door, grabbed a plastic bottle of orange juice, and placed it on a white folding table to the right of the fridge. She removed two glasses from a filing cabinet under the table and started pouring the juice into them.

Why do we keep the dishes in a filing cabinet, Joey? the girl called across the room.

Well, it’s either that or put them on the floor, and I’d rather not eat from plates that have been sitting on this filthy ground. Besides, I think it’s a nice touch, CJ. Joey smiled.

Yeah, you’ve certainly got an eye for style, CJ said, bringing the full glasses of juice over. You could be a regular interior decorator if you wanted to stop being a street thug. She laughed and handed him a glass.

Joey accepted the glass, took a sip, and set it down next to the dresser. Rummaging around in the box, he took note of the sixteen fake IDs and the stash of bills stored inside. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, starting to count the bills with a practiced hand. CJ sat back down on the couch. After counting the money, Joey put it with the rest of the cash in the box, took his gun from his belt, and deliberately placed it in the box with a thud. He snapped the box shut, put it back into the wall, and then heaved the block back into the space it left. He kicked it with his foot until the wall was flat. Shoving the dresser back into place, he opened the top drawer and pulled out a gray shirt.

Joey, do we have enough money yet? CJ quipped.

We will soon, if I can help it. Joey looked at the ceiling, running some last-minute numbers.

CJ shifted her weight on the couch. She glanced around the dingy room, her gaze trailing on the small cellar window above Joey’s mattress.

Where are we going to go anyway? she asked, swirling her orange juice.

Anywhere you want.

Anywhere? CJ exclaimed. Are we going to fly there? Have you ever flown before?

Joey walked over to the couch and sat down next to CJ. He grinned at her.

"Walk, crawl, drive, train, or plane. You get to pick this one,