Rock Island Line by David Rhodes (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

Carroll, and also a slight fear that if he said his father was a worker in the General Electric factory, Carroll would twirl his fork,looking up to the ceiling, and say, “Montgomery, Montgomery in the factory, let me see. Montgomery—no, I don’t believe so. You must be lying again. There’s no Montgomery there. In fact, no one whose name even begins with an mo. You’re lying again. Very stupid.”

“My father was a mechanic and welder,” said July. “He had his own garage bigger than four of these rooms. My mother was so beautiful that men used to sit all afternoon outside the garage just hoping they might be able to see her.” Tears had formed in his eyes, and he blushed. Carroll’s hands stopped moving and he turned and stared at him, almost frowning. At first July couldn’t look back.

“Look,” said Carroll softly, but very firmly, “some things you have to learn to keep to yourself after you get older—things that are better left unsaid. But just between the two of us, everything I have—all of it—I’d turn over at the drop of a hat for a chance to see my folks again, just to see them setting the table in our kitchen and have Mom scolding him for not wanting to use the matched silverware unless we had company. Any of us would. But it can’t be done—not in this life at least; so the only thing we can do is make the most of it we can, without them. Let’s get out of here.” He took out his billfold, and without hesitating over the bills—as though he’d decided the day before yesterday what he was going to take out—he plucked up a five and laid it on the counter.

They walked down to the corner together and then parted ways. Just before he got into his car Franklin Carroll said, “Say, that kid over there across the street isn’t following you, is he?”

“No,” said July. “At least, I don’t think so—or if he is I have no idea why.”

“Ugly-looking kid just the same. Say, next week. What do you say about eating here again? Same time. And bring your cat . . . Butch. Yes, bring Butch.”

“We’ll see,” said July. “But thanks.”

“Phooey.” The door slammed and the Cadillac pulled out into the traffic lane and bullied its way down the street by means of its two chrome bullet-shaped bumper extensions.

July went toward Rittenhouse Square, as good a place as any to come upon late risers—people who didn’t have to work and at about ten thirty would come wandering out of their apartment buildings slightly inebriated and hoping the day would get over with quickly. These people, if you could get close to them and talk softly, would usually buy a paper if for no other reason than to have the human experience of placing a dime in a warm hand and getting something in return. July sold out there, and began walking on Spruce toward a neighborhood grocery store where cat food was cheap. He was thinking about Mr. Carroll.

Passing Jack’s Place, he was thrown bodily into a small alleyway by unseen hands which had grabbed him from the back. Without turning around, he ran, hearing two or three pairs of feet behind him. “Get him! Get him!” Directly ahead was a wooden wall eight feet tall. It occurred to him that he was trapped, but he was too afraid to accept it and only slowed down enough to bring his movements more under his control, as though he intended running on through the oak boards. Using his speed as a lever, he jumped against the surface of the wall as though there were a ledge to support him, grabbed hold of the top and scrambled over, never seeing who it was behind him, and lit out for home.

“Did you see that!” exclaimed Al, looking up at the wall. “He just went right over it. How’d he do it?”

“Easy,” said Earl, walking back and forth, smacking his fists together. “He used his momentum for a lift up.” He kept pacing back and forth, muttering loudly. “He’s had military training. That’s an old Marine trick. We simply didn’t realize what we were up against. Don’t worry, we’ll get him—now that we know what kind of intelligence we have to cope with. We may be forced to carry weapons.”

“Do you really think he’s had military training?” asked Marty.

“No doubt about it. Marines. He’ll be tough to take. Most likely he’s had ‘touch kill’ training as well.”

“Touch kill!”

“That’s a special hands-and-feet combat fighting. Very deadly. Worse than karate.”

“Really?”

“Sure, much worse. But don’t worry, I know the technique of it, and though very deadly, it’s useless against a front-on upward thrust attack—like a fast uppercut or knee. But it might be good to carry weapons, just in case. Maybe he’s got a shiv and knows how to use it. Anyway, I’ve got a plan.”

“Beat it, boys, that’s a private yard,” came a man’s voice from above, and they ran back out onto the street.

By the time July got back to City Hall he’d calmed down pretty much, and was maybe even a little exhilarated at having gotten away so easily. But he was frightened as well. Once on the landing of the L he’d seen a mugging, in which two younger men had put a strangle hold on someone and taken his money. In Fairmount he’d seen two guys fighting with chains and automobile aerials. And once right in front of the pizza shop on Market a man had pulled a black taxi driver out of his car and beat him with a piece of pipe. But despite this, he’d convinced himself that nothing was liable to happen to him because he was only twelve. Now he knew that wasn’t true. He wasn’t safe. Someone—more than one—had tried to mug him. It was the only explanation he could imagine. He thought of the voice: “Get him! Get him!” and shuddered.

“Somebody tried to