"Duck under the yellow tape, ankle-biter," Old Man Corvis wheezed, his reflective safety sash rustling like dry corn husks. "Before the township trustees smell the contraband."
Tammy Gable did not duck; she conducted a low, tactical crouch. Her velcro sneakers squeaked sharply against the damp asphalt behind the school crossing shed. At five years old, her center of gravity was insultingly low, but her spatial awareness was immaculate. Two minutes ago, she had slipped past her father while Ned was busy weeping over Delroy's sudden interest in backyard waffle franchises. A brisk diversion involving a flipped sprinkler had granted her precisely seven minutes of operational freedom.
Corvis shoved aside an overturned salt barrel, revealing a hatch covered in rotting plywood. He hauled it back. Warm, damp air smelled intensely of chewed bubblegum, cardboard fiber, and unwashed tube socks rolled up from the subterranean storm cellar below.
"Watch the step," the old man grunted. "Steps are built for adults. Or very tall thieves."
Tammy dropped down, landing on the balls of her feet. Her OshKosh B'gosh overalls made no sound.
Illumination flickered from two battery-operated lantern lamps dangling from rusty iron pipes. Around three milk crates pushed together into a makeshift conference table stood four children, none under the age of eight. In the center lay piles of circular cardboard discs, shimmering foils, and heavy brass discs that clinked with the dangerous weight of actual silver dollars.
The Pog exchange.
"Listen up, maggots," Corvis barked, leaning heavily on his wooden stop sign. "The syndicate's got fresh blood. She says she understands margins. She says she wants wholesale distributor rights for Bellridge East."
A husky boy with a bowl cut and a dirty windbreaker sneered down at Tammy. "She's wearing light-up shoes, Corvis. Her feet blink red every time she shifts her weight. She's a baby."
Tammy stepped up to the milk crates. Her icy stare didn't blink. "Your collar is frayed, your thumbnail is chewed to the quick, and you've got three duplicate World Tour caps sitting exposed to moisture on an untreated pine slat. You're bleeding liquid capital, chubby. Let's talk about the eight-ball slammer tucked under your left elbow."
The boy, with 'Petey' sharpied across his windbreaker, jerked back. "This is twenty-gram brass! Solid milled! It’s an authentic Hawaii Poison holographic! You can’t touch this with lunch money."
"I don't offer lunch money. Lunch money is taxable under parental audit," Tammy replied, her child voice pitch-perfect and cold as winter gravel. She slapped two items onto the plastic grid: a completely untampered pouch of Capri Sun Pacific Cooler and a sealed foil wrapper containing a pristine, limited-edition holographic Michael Jordan sticker she had lifted from Ned's vintage shoebox three nights ago.
Petey's mouth went slack. "Where... where did you get the Air Jordan? That's from the gas station promotional pack. The whole town bought out the Exxon!"
"Supply lines are my business," Tammy whispered. "The brass Poison heavy disc. Plus thirty skull-foil caps. And you swallow the shipping risk. If Principal Henders catches you carrying behind the monkey bars, my name doesn't cross your chapped lips, or I tell the sixth-grade hall monitors who really broke the water fountain handle last Tuesday."
Petey trembled. His hand reached forward, fingers twitching toward the Jordan foil, then dropped the gleaming eight-ball brass disc into Tammy's small, sticky palm. Corvis gave a low, appreciative cackle that ended in a wet rattle.
"Ruthless," the old man murmured, poking the ground with his wooden sign. "Clean through the jugular. Never left him a nickel for the penny candy machine. You've got grease in your blood, Tammy."
[PROFIT REGISTERED: HIGH-TIER COMMODITY ACQUISITION!]
[SYSTEM CONGRATULATES USER ON DOMINATING LOCAL JUVENILE COMMERCE!]
[DISPENSING LUXURY FRAGRANCE BURST: EAU DE BUBBLEGUM ROYALE!]
The digital tamagotchi clipped to her denim waistband gave a violent mechanical whir, spewing an invisible cloud of hyper-concentrated artificial strawberry mist directly into the cellar air. It smelled like three hundred melted popsicles.
"Nice parlor trick," a smooth, mocking voice drawled from the tunnel shadows.
A kid stepped into the yellow lantern light. He wore a red leather bomber jacket two sizes too big, acid-wash shorts, and yellow fingerless cycling gloves. Julian Vance leaned against a customized high-rise tricycle frame with a rear-axle handbrake modification, chewing calmly on a string of sour licorice.
"Julian," Corvis nodded respectfully. "Brought the fresh import batch?"
"Two hundred caps, straight from the docks in San Pedro via my cousin’s mail-order catalog," Julian said, tossing a cloth sack onto the milk crate without sparing Corvis a glance. His dark, mocking eyes were fixed squarely on Tammy. "Corvis, why are you letting kindergarteners into the basement? She still needs a booster seat at Pizza Hut."
"This 'kindergartener' just took Petey's heirloom brass for half a juice bag," Corvis countered.
Julian snorted, kicking the pedal of his trike. "Big deal. Taking candy from Petey is like stealing shoes from a kid with no feet. She thinks she's a queenpin because she hustles stale flour on a wooden pushcart. Meanwhile, she doesn't even know when her front lawn is burning down."
Tammy felt a cold fury spike behind her temples. "My street-cart operates on clean margins, Vance. Your entire family's funnel-cake empire is built on spoiled lard and counterfeit vanilla extract."
"Keep barking, Gable," Julian said, taking a slow step toward her, his tricycle clicking beside him like an attack dog on a short leash. "While you were down here haggling for cheap cardboard, you left your perimeter completely dark. Your cart's sitting out in the open. Under a neon beacon bright enough to land an airplane."
Tammy remained motionless, her fingers biting hard against the cold circumference of the brass disc.
"You think you're so smart," Julian continued, leaning down until his smirk was three inches from her nose. "You think you're the only one who knows how township ordinances work? That cart of yours isn't zoned for residential baking. And unlike you, I know how to use a payphone."
"What did you do?" Tammy's voice dropped an octave, the tone entirely stripped of playground innocence.
Julian smiled, showing a gap where an incisor had fallen out last week. "I made a call. An anonymous civic report. Said Ned Gable was running an illegal commercial fryer in a high-density neighborhood zone without an industrial grease trap."
He pointed a gloved finger upward, toward the ground-level street grate where daylight filtered through the rusted bars.
Through the iron slats, the squeal of a white municipal sedan’s brakes echoed down the concrete culvert. A door slammed. Striding up the Gable family's front sidewalk—clipboard in hand, wearing a starched brown uniform and thick spectacles—was Officer Higgins, Bellridge’s most vindictive, bribe-proof chief health inspector, heading straight for the flashing turquoise sign.