Inside the Shadow City (2 page)

“Was there somebody hiding down there?”

“No. That was the strange part. They could never find an entrance to the place.”

“What do you mean they couldn't find an entrance?”

“I mean there was no door, no way for people to get inside. It was just a room, fifty feet underground, with no door.”

“Uh,” grunted the other, unimpressed. “So what happened to it?”

“Nothing. They had to take the pipes around it. My guess is it's still down there somewhere. When I was a kid, I tried to get my dad to let me dig for it.”

“What do you think they're gonna do with this one?”

“Fill it in, I'd bet. It's too dangerous. Some dumb kid'd probably fall in and get himself killed.”

“Well, if they're just gonna fill it in, I better take a souvenir,” said the fat man.

The other man laughed. “What do you want, a chair?”

“No, I'd settle for one of those bottles,” the large man announced, stomping over to the bar, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight.

I crouched in the corner of the bar, knowing I was destined for discovery. So as the fat man rounded the corner and reached for a blue bottle, I stood up and said hello. I don't think I realized just how filthy I was or how unusual
my appearance had become, because the last thing I expected was to hear the man squeal like a wounded piglet. He dropped the bottle and ran across the room toward the opening of the hole. His partner stood back in shock as the fat man tried to pull his mammoth body up the rope.

“What do you think you're doing?” the partner asked as it became ridiculously clear that his friend would never make it to the safety of the street.

“I just saw the devil!” the fat man gasped.

“Have you gone nuts?” demanded the thinner man, now thoroughly annoyed.

“Go look if you don't believe me,” the other insisted. Again I heard footsteps in my direction, and soon a flashlight was shining into my eyes. A look of terror mangled the thin man's face.

“Would you mind pointing that elsewhere?” I asked politely.

“George, get back here,” called the man. “It's not the devil, you dolt. I think it's a girl.” He bent down to study my face. “If you
are
a girl, I can tell you one thing for sure. You're in a whole lotta trouble.”

Two burly, bad-tempered policemen pulled me out of the pit. Construction workers were already building a tall plywood fence around the park, shielding it from the eyes of the curious. On the surface, I was barraged with questions. Who was I? What did I think I was doing down there? Didn't I know I could have been seriously injured? What kind of girl
was
I? Did I know how mad my parents would be? What was their phone number?

Years of watching crime shows on television had taught me how to handle such situations, and I refused to
give them any information. Instead, I played dumb, and eventually one of the policemen gave me a roll of paper towels and told me to clean myself off and wait in the back of his squad car. I was only making things worse for myself, he insisted, but I knew better than that.

I've always found that one of the biggest benefits of being a girl is that most people refuse to take you seriously. While boys must be constantly monitored and are always the first suspects when anything goes wrong, everyone expects girls to do what they're told. It may seem a little insulting at first, but low expectations can be a blessing in disguise. If you're smart, you can use people's foolishness to your own advantage. It's amazing what you can get away with when no one bothers watching.

As soon as I began scraping the mud from my arms and legs, I noticed the policemen's attention beginning to drift. A few minutes later, one walked to the edge of the hole to monitor the progress while the other directed a stream of traffic around a backhoe that was uprooting the park's little fence. When the backhoe pulled into the road, the poor fence gripped in its teeth like a limp and wounded snake, I was temporarily shielded from view. I simply sprinted across the street and up the stairs to my apartment.

• • •

Saturday mornings, my parents rarely woke before noon. Always an early riser, I would use those precious hours to devise my own entertainment. After a well-balanced breakfast of pudding or pie, I'd settle down to watch R-rated movies on a temperamental television set that had come into the world long before I had. Occasionally,
just for laughs, I'd move the furniture and play a quick game of handball against the living room walls.

I had tested the limits and determined that nothing short of fireworks and a marching band would bring my parents shuffling out of their bedroom before midday. So as I opened the door to my apartment, a filthy fugitive from justice, I felt perfectly confident that I was in the clear. I stripped out of my muddy clothing at the door and tiptoed to the bathroom. There, I wrapped the clothes in a pillowcase, intending to take them to the basement laundry room as soon as I had showered. I dropped the bundle into the hamper, where it landed on the bottom with an unusually heavy thump. That's when I remembered the book.

As I thumbed through its pages, I could tell it was no ordinary book. Entitled
Glimpses of Gotham,
it appeared at first to be a guidebook to the city of New York in 1866. But instead of listing historic sites or four-star restaurants, it guided its readers through the “darker side” of the city. The author, a man by the name of Pearcy Leake III, had gone to great pains to visit every slum, saloon, and gambling parlor in lower Manhattan.

He described in thrilling detail huge “bear baiting” pits dug into the basements of waterfront saloons, in which bears and dogs would fight to the bloody end, cheered by scoundrels and outlaws of every conceivable type. He wrote about the opium dens in Chinatown, where men and women lounged for days on dirty mats, lost in their narcotic comas. He even told of an evening he had spent trapped in the second-floor gambling parlor of a run-down mansion after a herd of angry pigs had seized the ground floor of the building.

Sitting on my bathroom floor, I studied
Glimpses of Gotham
for hours. The book's previous owners must have been equally intrigued, for the margins were crammed with the markings of numerous pens and pencils. Even the illustrations—fanciful sketches of river pirates, dance halls, and roving bands of teenage delinquents— had not escaped comment.

But it wasn't until I came across a short passage with the heading “The Shadow City” that my heart began to beat wildly.

Police raids are common in the more colorful parts of town, and gentlemen explorers may be mistaken for common criminals. However, if in the midst of your adventures, you find yourself in a bit of a spot, do not despair. Simply ask the way to the Shadow City. Almost every palace of ill reputeon the isle of Manhattan will have an entrance to the city, a network of tunnels that can serve as a handy escape route when things get hairy. And if you are not disturbed by the thought of the countless criminals who make it their home, the Shadow City also offers an excellent means of getting about when the weather aboveground is unpleasant.

Be forewarned. The tunnels of the Shadow City are uncharted territory, and anyone willing to give you directions is likely to lead you astray. Many have wandered for days without finding a suitable exit to the world above. Others have never escaped.

By the time I lifted my eyes from the page, I knew one thing for certain. I had discovered the Shadow City.
And if it were even half as vast as
Glimpses of Gotham
suggested, then I had seen only one small section of the tunnels that lay deep beneath New York. A hidden world of thieves, murderers, and pirates was about to be explored for the first time in a hundred years—not by scientists or engineers, but by
me
.

• • •

When I woke the next morning, the hole had been filled in, and the little park looked as if it had been rearranged in the middle of the night by an insomniac housekeeper. Washington Irving greeted a different side of the street, new shrubs had been planted, and the pagoda trees were missing. But otherwise, there was little to suggest that the park had been consumed by a sinkhole a mere twenty-four hours earlier. My only entrance to the Shadow City was gone for good.

I purchased copies of every New York newspaper, expecting to find a story about the little room, and perhaps even a brief mention of the mysterious girl who had escaped from police custody.

Mixed in with dreary stock market reports and coverage of city council meetings, I found:

1. A fascinating account of a three-foot-tall monkey man with steel claws who was terrorizing India

2. A tenderhearted story about a Brooklyn family's tearful reunion with a kitten that had fallen down a sewer drain

3. An investigative journalist's report on secret shipments of grade “E” (for edible) horse meat that were routinely delivered to school cafeterias around Queens

But there was no mention of the hole that had swallowed an entire park. And although I was disappointed that I hadn't been immortalized in print, I knew that it meant that the Shadow City was safe. Only the little room had been exposed, and while it might long live in the lore of New York's construction workers, it wasn't enough to interest the
New York Times.
The creature and I were still the only two who knew that the tunnels existed.

I can imagine what you're thinking. What could a twelve-year-old girl do with such information? While I should warn you against underestimating the abilities of twelve-year-old girls, I'll admit that I can't say for sure what might have happened if I hadn't met the person the world would come to know as Kiki Strike.

In the six years since this story took place, I've had the good fortune to enjoy (and survive) countless adventures. Each time I acquired a new skill, I recorded step-by-step instructions in one of my secret diaries. Until now, those diaries have sat undisturbed on my bedroom shelves, cleverly disguised as Harlequin romances. But the day has finally come to open them up and share what I've learned with a few worthy students.

However, before I can teach you how to perform complex tasks, such as caring for a friend who's been attacked by wild animals, you should first learn to use the powers you already possess. These include:

The Element of Surprise

No one takes you seriously? Let people believe what they want to believe, and the element of surprise will always work in your favor. If they think you're weak, you can surprise them with strength, and if they assume you're stupid, you'll out-think them every time. Remember, low expectations can be a blessing in disguise.

Invisibility

I've always found it amusing that many people will say just about anything in front of a girl—as if she couldn't possibly understand. Before the age of fifteen, you will see things that no one else will see, and hear things that no one else will hear. Keep your ears open at all times, and use the information you gather to your advantage.

The Benefit of the Doubt

Most people are willing to give young girls the benefit of the doubt. Girls are too sweet and innocent, they think, to be up to no good. A clever story—generally one involving a search for a missing kitten—can get you out of trouble in nine out of ten situations. Remember, a tear or two will make any tale more believable.

The Art of Disguise

A girl's biggest advantage is her ability to change her appearance at will. If you're handy with a brush and have more than one change of clothing in your closet, you can easily assume the appearance of at least five different people. Eventually, the prudent use of hair color and makeup can make your disguise repertoire limitless.

Size

So what if you're not tall enough to see above a steering wheel? Being small in stature does come with its benefits. You can hide almost anywhere. Disappear into any crowd. Fit into spaces that no adult could cram herself into and go places adults could never go. Make use of your size before it's too late!

My first adventure with Kiki Strike is now part of her legend. In fact, you may already be familiar with the story. Over the past six years, I've heard it told time and time again—at parties, on airplanes, even once in the ladies' room at Bergdorf's. Whenever people shake their heads in disbelief and refuse to acknowledge a grain of truth, I have to laugh. Because I was
there
. And even though this particular story has been making the rounds for years, it's remained more fact than fiction. I'm just here to supply you with the details.

The story begins at the Atalanta School for Girls on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, not long after my discovery of the Shadow City. It was ten minutes to three. Ten minutes until winter break and two weeks of freedom. With so little time left on the clock, all hell was breaking loose. What had begun as a few cautious whispers between friends had turned into an ear-shattering
free-for-all that was beginning to threaten the peace and quiet of the other classrooms on our hall.

Our teacher Ms. Jessel—who bore a striking resemblance to Snow White and possessed an unfortunate fashion sense to match—had made several attempts to restore order. However, it took the appearance of the principal, a rather stern, wizened old woman whose age we estimated at about 105, to shut our mouths and return us to our seats.

“Girls,” said the principal with a disapproving glance at Ms. Jessel. “We haven't much time left. Why don't we try something a little more productive than screeching like a bunch of banshees? For the next ten minutes, I'd like to go around the room and have each of you tell me what you intend to be when you grow up.”