ONE        

(Forest Oaks, Illinois, June 23, 1939)         

 

 

 

     "Off!"

     Robert moved an arm, another arm, his legs. I'm alive.

     "Off!"

     He rolled off of Merwyn and felt soft, cool grass under his

stomach. A robbery, he thought. A Brinks job. They didn't look like

Brinks guys. "I must have fainted."

    The possibility that he'd passed out was so astonishing that

the idea came out aloud.

     "I pulled you down, jerk!"

     Hearing this, both the assertion and the tone, Robert felt a

little better about himself. Okay, okay. I didn't faint.

     The air stank. A line of black smoke went straight up from the

burning tires of the armored car.

     Things were coming back: the careening armored car just

missing them, knocking the mower away; the Packard at the

curb; the ball of fire exploding with a whoosh under the armored

car; the neighbor lady jumping screaming from her maroon

LaSalle.

     Looking now, he saw her lying on his front stoop. Is she dead?

He knew from his father that her husband ran some labor

union.

     Robert saw Merwyn get up and run toward the driveway.

He got himself up and followed. The man lay still, with open,

unmoving eyes, the back of his head flat on the concrete, blood

and streaks of gray oozing out of his nose and ears.

     Robert turned away and puked. He remembered seeing the

guy running with the other two, hauling the big green bag, and

then like he was dancing. That was it, dancing.

Turning again to look, Robert saw Merwyn reach down into

the grass, pick up a tan leather wallet and put it in his pocket.

     Robert tasted bile, spit. "What're you doing, Merwyn?"

      "Those guys tried to kill us, Bob."

      "So? Leave it." He remembered the guy jumping out of the

Packard, grabbing the bag from the guy on the driveway, pulling

him up. The plop as his head hit the driveway.

     Merwyn's eyes said, You are so naive. He beckoned Robert to

follow him back to the tree, felt around the chipped bark and

scraped at a hole. "Feel it."

     Robert reached up and put his finger in the hole. Buried in

the wood was a slick, warm substance. With his fingers he traced

four more lead-filled holes.

     The big memory of impending death came to Robert: the

Packard backing up, the red-faced guy bringing up the tommy

gun. The burst of noise. The tree had saved them.

      "Why'd they shoot at us?" Robert said, amazed.

      "We seen ‘em, that's why."

     Robert tasted bile, spit. He felt a chill, felt the intense heat

from the armored car. "Why'd you take it?" He spit.

      "Now we got leverage."

      "What are you talking about?"

     Merwyn sighed. "It's like insurance, Bob. We got something

they don't know we got. We got control."

      "Control?" Robert was losing what control he had. "Who

says?"

      "My dad, that's who. ‘Find the leverage.' One of his little sayings."

      "We should give it to the cops."

     Merwyn shook his head. "Oh, no. Then they got the control.

And we do get knocked off."

      "They who?"

     Merwyn shrugged. He took off running, heading toward the

back of Robert's house.

     Robert followed, right into the outstretched arms of his mother.

She pulled him to the back porch.

     She looked to Robert as pale as a catfish belly.

      "There's a dead guy on your neighbor's driveway," Merwyn

said to her.

      "Dead? Did you say dead?" She led the boys into the living

room and peeked out the window. "Oh!" She put her hand to her

mouth in horror.

      "Mrs. Friend's on the porch," Robert said.

      "Dead? She's dead too?"

     Robert eased the front door open. Mrs. Friend's head, which

had been propped up by the door, slipped across the threshold.

     Red lights flashed and a fire bell clanged. Stinking black

smoke hazed the neighborhood. Robert saw people sneaking up

on the scene like so many deer coming out of the woods. He

scanned the wreck to see if he could make out what might be

left of his lawn mower.

     Snapping out of her trance, his mother said, "Are you hurt,

Mona? I'm so sorry."

     The woman on the doorstep looked up. "You heard me banging

on your door but you didn't let me in?"

     A man in a tan suit stepped up onto the stoop, looked down at

Mrs. Friend and said, "Can you get up? You sure?" He gave her a

hand up. He looked at Robert, his mother, Merwyn. "Detective

Lieutenant Quinlan, FOPD," he said, displaying a wallet with a

badge.

     He was squat and square, bald with a ring of white hair. Robert

figured the bulge under his coat was a shoulder holster.

     Mrs. Friend said, "My car! Where's my car?"

     Ignoring her the detective said, "Anybody see this happen?"

      "We saw the whole thing," Robert said. "We were under that

tree. They–" He felt Merwyn's eyes boring into him.

      "May I sit down?" Mrs. Friend said.

      "Yeah, go sit down," the detective said. "I want to talk to you

– "and you" – he pointed at Robert's mother. "Stay here. You two

come with me."

     The boys pointed at themselves. "Me?"

      "Yeah, you."

      "Where are you taking them?"

     The detective picked Robert's mother's hand off his sleeve.

"Down to the squad car. Ask ‘em a few questions. Then we'll

have a few for you."

     At this point Robert got back to Mrs. Friend's question. "They

took it," he said.

      "They took it?"

     He nodded.

      "Come on you two," the detective said.

     As Robert and Merwyn walked with him to the squad car,

men hauled a stretcher to an ambulance.

     Robert's stomach hurt. Why'd they have to kill the guy? He was

reading Merwyn's signals: keep your mouth shut!