LITTLE BOY LOST

 

 

There was a knock on the door. Gram put the sock she was mending back into the work basket in her lap and then moved the work basket to the table, ready to get up.

But by that time Ma had come out of the kitchen and, wiping her hands on her apron, opened the door. Her eyes went hard.

The smile of the sleek young man in the hallway outside the door showed two gold teeth. He shoved his hat back from his forehead and said: “How ya, Mrs. Murdock? Tell Eddie I'm-”

“Eddie ain't here.” Ma's voice was hard like her eyes.

“Ain't, huh? Said he'd be at the Gem. Wasn't there so I thought—”

“Eddie ain't here.” There was finality in Ma's repetition.

A tense finality that the man in the hallway couldn't pretend to overlook.

His smile faded. “If he comes in, you remind him. Tell him I said nine-thirty's the time.”

“The time for what.” There wasn't any rising inflection in Ma Murdock's voice to stamp those four words as a question.

There was a sudden narrowing of the eyes that looked at Ma. The man with the gold teeth said: “Eddie'll know that.”

He turned and walked to the stairs.

Ma closed the door slowly.

Gram was working on the sock again. Her high voice asked: “Was that Johnny Everard, Elsie? Sounded a bit like Johnny's voice.”

Ma still faced that closed door. She answered without turning around. “That was Butch Everard, Gram. No one calls him Johnny any more.”

Gram's needle didn't pause.

“Johnny Everard,” she said. “He had curls, Elsie, a foot long. I 'member when his dad took him down to the barber shop, had 'em cut off. His ma cried. He had the first scooter in the neighborhood, made with roller-skate wheels. He went away for a while, didn't he?”

“He did,” said Ma. “For five years. I wish—”

“Used to be crazy about chocolate cake,” said Gram.

“When he'd leave our paper, I'd give him a slice every time I'd baked one. But, my, he was in eighth grade when Eddie was just starting in first. Isn't he a bit old to want to play with Eddie? I used to say your father—”

The querulous voice trailed off into silence. Ma glanced at her. Poor Gram, living in a world that was neither past nor present, but a hodgepodge of them both. Eddie was a man now — almost. Eddie was seventeen. And sliding away from her. She couldn't seem to hold him any longer.

Butch Everard and Larry and Slim. Yes, and the crooked streets that ran straight, and the dark pool halls that were brightly lighted, and the things that Eddie hid from her but that she read in his eyes. There were things you didn't know how to fight against.

Ma walked to the window and looked down on the street three floors below. A few doors down, at the opposite curb, stood Eddie's recently acquired jalopy. He'd told her he'd bought it for ten bucks, but she knew better than that. It wasn't much of a car, as cars go, but it had cost him at least fifty.

And where had that money come from?

Steady creak-creak of Gram's rocker. Ma almost wished she were like Gram, so she wouldn't lie awake nights worrying herself sick until she had to take a sleeping powder to get some sleep. If there was only some way she could make Eddie want to settle down and get a steady job and not run around with men like—

Gram's voice cut across her thoughts. “You ain't lookin' so well, Elsie. Guess none of us are, though. It's the spring, the damp air and all. I made up some sulphur and molasses for us. Your pa, he used to swear by it, and he never had a sick day until just the week before he died.”

Ma's tone was lifeless. “I'm all right, Gram. I — I guess I worry about Eddie. He—”

Gram nodded her gray head without looking up. “Has a cold coming on. He don't get outdoors enough daytimes. Boy ought to play out more. But you look downright peaked, Elsie.

Used to be the purtiest girl on Seventieth Street. You worry about Eddie. He's a good boy.”

Ma whirled. “Gram, I never said I thought he wasn't—”

Gram chuckled. “Brought home a special merit star on his report card, didn't he? And I met his teacher on the street, and she say, says she: 'Mrs. Garvin, that there grandson of yours — ' ”

Ma sighed and turned to go back to the kitchen to finish the dishes. Gram was back in the past again. It was eight years ago, when he was nine, that Eddie'd brought home that report card with the special merit star on it. That was when she'd hoped Eddie would—“Elsie, you take a big spoonful of that sulphur 'n' molasses. Over the sink there. I took mine for today a'ready.”

“All right, Gram.” Ma's steps lagged. Maybe she'd failed Eddie; she didn't know. What else could she do? How could she make Butch Everard let him alone? What did Butch want with him?

There was a dull ache in her head and a heavy weight in her chest. She glanced up at the clock over the door of the kitchen, and her feet moved faster. Eight-forty, and she wasn't through with the supper dishes.

Eddie Murdock awoke with a start as the kitchen door closed. It was dark. Golly, he hadn't meant to fall asleep. He lifted his wrist quick to look at the luminous dial of his watch, and then felt a quick sense of relief. It was only eight-forty.

He had time. Then he grinned in the darkness, a bit proud that he had been able to take a nap. Tonight of all nights, and he'd been able to fall asleep.

Why, tonight was the night. Lucky he'd waked up. Butch sure wouldn't have liked it if he'd been late or hadn't showed up. But if it was only eight-forty he had lots of time to meet the boys. Nine-thirty they met, and ten o'clock was it.

Suppose his wrist watch was wrong, though. It was a cheap one. With a sudden fear he jumped off the bed and ran to the window to look at the big clock across the way. Whew!

Eight-forty it was — on the dot.

Everything was ducky then. Golly, if he'd overslept or anything, Butch would have thought he was yellow. And —why, he wasn't even worried. Hell, he was one of the gang now, a regular, and this was his first crack at something big.

Real money.

Well, not big money, maybe, but that box office ought to have enough dough to give them a couple hundred apiece.

And that wasn't peanuts.

Butch had all those angles figured. He'd picked the best night, the night the most dough came in that window, and he'd timed the best hour — ten o'clock — just before the box office closed. Sure, they were being smart, waiting until all the money had come in that was coming in. And the getaway was a cinch, the way Butch had planned it.

Eddie turned on the light and then crossed over to the mirror and examined himself critically as he straightened his necktie and ran the comb through his hair. He rubbed his chin carefully, but he didn't seem to need a shave.

He winked at his reflection in the glass. That was a smart guy in there looking back at him. A guy that was going places. If a guy proved to Butch that he was a right guy and had the nerve, he could get in on all kinds of easy money.

He pulled out the shoe box from under his dresser and gave his already shiny shoes another lick with the polisher to make them shinier. The leather was a little cracked on one side. Well, after tonight he'd get new shoes and a couple of new suits. A few more jobs, and he'd get a new car like Butch's and scrap the old jalop'.

Then — although the door of his room was closed — he looked around carefully before he reached down into the very bottom of the shoe box and took out something which was carefully concealed by being wrapped in the old polishing cloth, the one that wasn't used any more.

It was a little nickel-plated thirty-two revolver, and he looked at it proudly. It didn't matter that the plating was worn off in a few spots. It was loaded and it would shoot all right.

Just yesterday Butch had given it to him. “ 'Sall right, kid,” Butch had said. “It'll do for this here job. There ain't gonna be no shootin' anyway. Just one bozo in the box office that'll fold up the minute he sees guns. He'll shell out without a squawk. And outa your share get yourself something good.

A thirty-eight automatic like mine maybe, and a shoulder holster.”

The gun in his hand felt comfortingly heavy. Good little gun, he told himself. And his.  He'd sure keep it even after he'd got himself a better one.

He dropped it into his coat pocket before he went out into the living room. As he walked through the door, the revolver in his pocket hit the wooden door frame with a metallic clunk that the cloth of his coat muffled. He straightened up and buttoned his coat shut. He'd have to watch that. Good thing it happened the first time where it didn't matter.

Ma came in out of the kitchen. She smiled at him and he grinned back. “Hiya, Ma. Didn't think I'd drop off. Should have told you to wake me, but 'sall right. I got time.”

Ma's smile faded. “Time for what, Eddie?”

He grinned at her. “Heavy date.” The grin faded a bit.

“What's the matter, Ma?”

 “Must you go out, Eddie? I — I just got through the dishes and I thought maybe you'd play some double solitaire with me when you woke up.”

It was her tone of voice that made him notice her face. It came to him, quite suddenly, that Ma looked old.  He said, “Gee, Ma, I wish I could, but—” Gram's rocker creaked across the silence.

“Johnny was here, Eddie,” said Gram's voice. “He said—”

Ma cut in quickly. She'd seen the puzzled look on Eddie's face at the name “Johnny.” He didn't know who Johnny was; and Gram thought Butch Everard was still little Johnny, who'd played out front in a red wagon—

“Johnny Murphy,” said Ma, blanketing out whatever Gram was going to say. “He's — you don't know him, I guess.

Just here on an errand.” She tried to make it sound casual. She managed a smile again. “How about that double solitaire, Eddie boy? Just a game or two.”

He shook his head. “Heavy date, Ma,” he said again.

He really felt sorry he couldn't. Well, maybe from now on he'd be able to make it up to Ma. He could buy her things, and — well, if he really got up there he could buy a place out at the edge of town and put her and Gram in it, in style.

Bigshots did things like that for their folks, didn't they?

Gram was walking out to the kitchen. Eddie's eyes followed her because they didn't quite want to meet Ma's eyes, and then Eddie remembered what Gram had started to say about some Johnny.

“Say,” he said, “Johnny — Gram didn't mean Butch, did she? Was Butch here for me?”

Ma's eyes were on him squarely now, and he forced himself to meet them. She said, “Is your 'heavy date' with Butch, Eddie? Oh, Eddie, he's—” Her voice sounded a little choked.

“Butch is all right, Ma,” he said with a touch of defiance.

“He's a good guy, Butch is. He's—”

He broke off. Damn. He hated scenes.

“Eddie boy,” Gram spoke from the kitchen doorway.

It was a welcome interruption. But she had a tablespoon of that awful sulphur and molasses of hers. Oh, well, good old Gram's goofy ideas were saving him from a scene this time.

He crossed over and took the vile stuff off the spoon.

“Thanks, Gram. 'Night, Ma. Don't wait up.” He started for the door. But it wasn't that easy. She caught at his sleeve. “Eddie, please. Listen—”

Hell, it would be worse if he hung around and argued. He jerked his sleeve free and was out of the door before she could stop him again. He could have hung around for half an hour almost, but not if Ma was going to take on like that. He could sit in the jalop' till it was time to go meet the bunch.

Ma started for the door and then stopped. She put her hands up to her eyes, but she couldn't cry. If she could only bawl or— But she couldn't talk to Gram. She couldn't share her troubles, even.

“You take your tonic, Elsie?”

“Yeah,” said Ma dully. Slowly she went to the table and sat down before it. She took a deck of cards from its drawer and began to pile them for a game of solitaire. She knew there was no use her even thinking about trying to go to bed until Eddie came home. No matter how late it was.

Gram came back and went over to the window.

Sometimes she'd look out of that window for an hour at a time. When you're old it doesn't take much to fill in your time.

Ma looked at Gram and envied her. When you were old you didn't mind things, because you lived mostly in the past, and the present went over and around you like water off a duck's back.

Almost desperately, Ma tried to keep her mind on beating the solitaire game. There were other games you didn't know how to try to beat.

She failed. Then she played out a game. Then she was stuck without even an ace up. She dealt them out again.

She was putting a black ten on a red jack, and then her hand jerked as she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Was Eddie coming back?

But no, not Eddie's footsteps. Ma glanced up at the clock before she turned back to the game. Ten-thirty. It was about Gram's bedtime.

The footsteps that weren't Eddie's were coming toward the door. They stopped outside. There was a heavy knock.

Ma's hand went to her heart. She didn't trust her legs to stand on. She said, “Come in.”

A policeman came in and closed the door behind him.

Ma saw only that uniform, but she heard Gram's voice:

“It's Dickie Wheeler. How are you, Dickie?”

The policeman smiled briefly at Gram. “Captain Wheeler now, Gram,” he said, “but I'm glad it's still Dickie to you.”

Then his face changed as he turned to Ma. “Is Eddie here, Mrs. Murdock?”

Ma stood up slowly. “No — he—” But there wasn't any answer she could make that was as important as knowing.

“Tell me! What?”

“Half hour ago,” said Captain Wheeler, “four men held up the Bijou box office, just as it was closing. Squad car was going by, and — well, there was shooting. Two of the men were killed, and a third is dying. The other got away.”

“Eddie-”

He shook his head. “We know the three. Butch Everard, Slim Ragoni, a guy named Walters. The fourth one— They were wearing masks. I hoped I'd find Eddie was home. We know he's been running with those men.”

Ma stood up. “He was here at ten. He left just a few minutes ago. He—”

Wheeler put a hand on her shoulder. “Don't say that, Ma.” He didn't call her Mrs. Murdock now, but neither of them noticed. “The man who got away was wounded, in the arm. If Eddie comes home sound, he won't need any alibi.”

“Dickie,” Gram said, and the rocker stopped creaking.

“Eddie — he's a good boy. After tonight he'll be all right.”

Captain Wheeler couldn't meet her eyes. After tonight— well, he hadn't told them quite all of it. One of the squad-car cops had been killed too. The man who got away would burn for that.

But Gram's voice prattled on. “He's just a little boy,            Dickie. A little boy lost. You take him down to headquarters and he'll get a scare. Show him the men who were killed. He needs a lesson, Dickie.”

Ma looked at her. “Hush, Gram. Don't you see, it's—

Why didn't I stop him tonight, somehow?”

“He had a gun in his pocket tonight, Elsie,” said Gram.

“When he came out of his room I heard it hit the door. And with what you said about Johnny Everard—”

“Gram,” said Ma wearily, “go to bed.” There wasn't any room left in Ma for anger. “You're just making it worse.”

“But, Elsie. Eddie didn't go. I'm trying to tell you. He's in his car, right across the street, right now. He's been there.”

Wheeler looked at her sharply. Ma wasn't quite breathing.

Gram nodded. There were tears in her eyes now. “I knew we had to stop him,” she said. “Those sleeping powders you have, Elsie. I put four of them in that sulphur 'n' molasses I gave him. I knew they'd work quick, and I watched out the window. He stumbled going across the street, and he got in his car, but he never started it. Go down and get him, Dickie Wheeler, and when you get him awake enough you do like I told you to.”