Эд Горман - Moonchasers and Other Stories

“All right if I come in and talk a minute?”

“Sure.” So it wasn’t over. And I knew what was coming.

He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me. He’s not a very big guy but boy can he scowl.

“I’m going to ask you one question, one time only and if you ever told the truth in your life, it had better be this time. You understand?”

“I understand.”

“Hamblin said you had a lot of money on you. Twenties and fifties. Is that true?”

“Yessir.”

“Care to tell me just where the hell you found that kind of money?”

“Out by the old fairgrounds.” I’d been ready for that one, too.

“The fairgrounds?”

“Down by the crick. In a paper bag. Nearly three hundred dollars.”

“Is that the truth?”

I didn’t feel good about lying to Clarence but I didn’t have any choice. “That’s the truth.”

“That money should have been turned over to the police.”

“We tried. We went to the police station and asked for Sergeant McCorkindale but he went fishing for a couple of days.”

“There are other policemen there.”

“Yeah but then Cushing came in and started calling us girls and insulting us the way he usually does.”

“Cushing’s a jerk. You shouldn’t pay any attention to him.”

I shrugged. “I get tired of being insulted.”

“I’m going to speak to the chief about that. I’ll tell him I want Cushing to keep his tongue off my son.”

I shook my head. “That’ll just make it worse, Dad. Cushing’ll get me alone somewhere and then make fun of me for siccing you on the chief.”

He nodded. “I suppose you’re right.” He glanced around the room. “Where’s the rest of the money?”

“In my jeans pocket.”

“How much did you spend?”

“Fourteen bucks.”

“I’ll take the rest of it over to the chief in the morning.”

“Fine.”

He thought a minute and said, “I wish I could tell you that the next time Cushing says something to you I’d clean his clock for him.”

“I know, Dad.”

“I’m just not very tough.”

“Neither am I, Dad. I guess it runs in the family.”

“But guys like that usually get theirs in the end. One way or another, they get it.”

The next morning around ten, I met Barney by the water fountain in the town square. As usual, a lot of the old men who play checkers all day long had pulled their green park benches up so they could be closer to the fountain. I’ve never figured that out. All these old-timers must have had a bad drought when they were kids because they sure do treat the fountain like somebody was going to sneak up and take it away.

The first thing Barney asked, his red hair brilliant in the hot August sun, his blue-and-white striped polo shirt already showing little patches of sweat here and there, was “Clarence ask you about the money?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You tell him what we talked about?”

“He was pretty cool about it, actually. I’m going to get a paper bag and stuff the rest of the money in it and give it to him. Roy won’t need it. He’s got plenty more.”

“So old man Hamblin called him then?” Barney said.

“Sure. Did you think he wouldn’t?”

“I wish we could go out there. To see Roy, I mean.”

“So do I.”

“I woke up in the middle of the night. I had this dream that Roy was dead.”

“He’s pretty tough. Did you read the newspaper this morning?” My dad subscribes to the Des Moines Register. Even though it’s pretty much a “Democratic rag” as he frequently calls it, it’s the only daily we can get in this part of the state.

“Yeah,” Barney said. “He really is a tough guy.”

Right there on the front page, in a big black blaring headline, it had said: State Police Seek Fugitive and just below this was a picture of Roy looking more like Mitch than ever. The story told of how Roy had been a war hero in Korea but that he’d drifted into crime with his older brother and how authorities suspected that they’d been responsible for at least ten bank robberies in the past six months.

“He’s a pretty cool guy, no doubt about it,” Barney said.

“Very cool guy,” I said.

“What’re we gonna do all day?”

“You wanna see a flick?”

“Which one?”

“Blackboard Jungle is back at the Rialto.”

“And there’s another one,” Barney said.

“What’s the other one?” In those days, the Rialto always played two and sometimes three movies. Of course, when they had three of them, you could bet that two of them were real dogs, usually something with Bing Crosby and a lot of nuns.

“It’s a western with Rory Calhoun.”

“I still say,” I said, “that Rory is a fake name.”

“You wanna go or not?”

I shrugged. “Guess there isn’t much else to do.”

So we killed two hours before going to the movies by riding our bikes all over town and seeing who was out and around. We saw Maynard the bully unloading peat moss at his uncle’s hardware store and just as we were passing him, Barney said, “I’ll give you a buck if you give him the finger.”

“I’ll give you two bucks if you give him the finger.”

But of course, wanting to live till sundown, neither one of us gave him the finger.

The Blackboard Jungle was still a pretty cool movie. The only problem was that I couldn’t see myself as any of those kids. They were really kind of whiny and immature. I mean I’d much rather be Glenn Ford than any of the kids. (For one thing, Glenn had made two movies with Rita Hayworth, who I still think is the most beautiful and sexy and in some strange way saddest woman I’ve ever seen, her sadness being a part of her beauty.)

And Rory Calhoun was pitiful as usual. He looks like a decent guy and I’m sure he is a decent guy but he sure can’t act. And when a fifteen-year-old kid from Somerton, Iowa, knows you can’t act then you really can’t act.

But it was air-conditioned and three rows ahead of us sat two really cute girls from Catholic school (Dad has never liked Catholics much but Mom says except for the Pope they’re very fine people) and there were some especially neat coming attractions for two new monster movies. (Later on, I’d learn that coming attractions are a lot like life — the buildup is usually better than the payoff.)

When we got out, the sunlight was blinding and my body felt like some invisible demon had taken this huge paint roller and covered me with glue.

We got on our bikes and started down the block. We stopped at the corner for a red light and that was when the black Plymouth sedan pulled up to the curb. The window was rolled down on the passenger side. Cushing had to lean way over. “Afternoon, ladies.”

Neither of us said anything.

“I want you to ride those bikes of yours over to the square and wait for me there. I’ll meet you by the drinking fountain.”

Even Cushing was fixated on the drinking fountain. “You girls understand me?”

We didn’t nod or anything but obviously we were going to do what he told us.

When he pulled away, Barney said, “I think we’re in trouble.”

“I think you’re right.”

“That jerk.”

We rode over to the square.

Since it was nearing suppertime, the square was pretty quiet, except for a couple of squirrels running around the edges of the wading pool where I used to go when I was five or so. But one day I saw some little kid’s turd floating in there and I got out of the water and I never got back in again. I mean never.

We sat on the bench next to the fountain. Cushing parked down by the railroad tracks so it took him a few minutes to get up here.