City Boy (45 page)

“Your folks home, Lennie?” said Cliff.

“Naw. My mother brought me home an' went right out shoppin'. Herb, you know about the robbery an' about the Place being sold?”

“Yeah, ain't that terrible?” said Herbie.

“I dunno. My mother says the robbers only got fifty bucks. An' she says we're gettin' a terrific lot o' money for the Place, an' it's a good thing we're sellin' it. Hey, whaddya think we're gettin'? Five million dollars?”

“Nearer ten million,” said Herbie. “That's a mighty big place.”

“It sure is. Say, we'll be rich, Herb. When our fathers die we can own speedboats an' live in Florida, an' all that stuff. Boy, that's what I want, a speedboat.”

“That's a heck of a thing to say,” put in Cliff. “You want your father to die?”

“Don't be a sap,” Lennie said angrily. “But nobody don't live forever, do they? Yer just sore 'cause you ain't in on this dough like Herb an' me.”

“All right, don't you guys start fightin' again,” said Herbie. He added craftily, “Unless you wanna do an Indian leg wrestle or somethin'. Bet Cliff can take you, Lennie.”

“Bet he can't!”

Lennie still resented the beating he had received from Cliff. He knew that his opponent had won with the abnormal strength of fury, and believed that in an unemotional state Cliff was no match for him. “Come on, Cliff, lay down,” he urged. “Two out of three, Indian leg wrestle.”

Cliff threw a questioning look at his cousin and understood that this was what Herbie wanted. “Well, O.K.,” he said, reclining in the middle of the floor. “But no bets, Herbie. This guy was the best Indian leg wrestler in camp, pretty near.”

“Hey, Lennie, I'm gonna get a glass of water.” Herbie rose from his chair as Lennie eagerly dropped to the floor beside his erstwhile conqueror.

“Sure, go ahead,” said the athlete. As Herbie left the room the wrestlers were raising and dropping opposed legs in the traditional manner and counting, “One, two. …”

Herbie prowled through the apartment, looking under beds, and in closets, ransacking drawers, and climbing up to examine shelves. From the parlor came the noises and grunts of combat. He searched for perhaps five minutes, then all at once discontinued his quest and returned to the parlor. The two boys stood toe to toe, flushed and breathing hard, locked in a hand wrestle. As Herbie entered, Lennie pulled Cliff sharply to one side and threw him to the floor. He laughed triumphantly and said to Herbie, “How about that? Three outta three leg wrestle, an' three outta three hand wrestle!”

“I ain't no good at that stuff, I guess,” said Cliff good-naturedly, picking himself up.

“You're really great, Lennie,” said Herbie. “Hey, come on, Cliff, we better get goin'.”

“What's your hurry?” said Lennie, feeling extremely pleased with life. “Stick around. There's some jello in the icebox. We can have some fun.”

“Naw, thanks, they're waitin' for me at home,” said Herbie. “We were just passin' by.”

He took Cliff by the arm and walked out of the room. Lennie went with them to the door.

“Well, come around again. It's pretty dead here after camp.”

“We sure will, Lennie,” said Herbie. As the cousins walked down the stairs, Lennie shouted after them, “So long, Herb the millionaire!”

“So long, Speedboat Lennie!” Herbie called back. They heard the athlete laugh and close the door.

“Well, whadja find, Herbie?” exclaimed Cliff.

“
It's there, Cliff.
That box marked ‘J.B.’ is there in a closet.”

Cliff whistled. The boys went out to the street and walked in the direction of Herbie's home. The fat boy's face was pale and his brows knitted.

“Cliff, my father said if kids done the robbery they go to reform school for ten years. Reform school is a prison for kids.”

“Yeah, but if we
confess
we done it, do we still go to reform school?” said Cliff, looking as worried as his cousin.

“Why not? The police are lookin' for us, Cliff. They think we were two big guys. I dunno, maybe if we tell we only get five years.”

“Herb, I'll do whatever you say.”

They were approaching Mr. Borowsky's candy store. Herbie fished two dimes out of his pocket.

“I don't figure they got fraps in reform school,” he observed, with a laugh of theatrical bravado. “Wanna join me in a last frap?”

Cliff gasped, “You gonna tell?”

“I ain't gonna tell about you. All you done was help me, anyhow. I'm gonna say I done it myself.”

“O.K., Herb. That's swell of you.”

Herbie was slightly disappointed in Cliff's answer. He had expected some sort of argument, a heroic insistence on sharing the punishment, but none was forthcoming. Cliff believed that Herbie should own up, and also felt that the robbery was entirely his cousin's responsibility. So he approved gratefully of Herbie's decision.

The boys ate their fraps without a word. Herbie assumed an expression of magnificent mournfulness, in imitation of Robin Hood just prior to his hanging, as played by Douglas Fairbanks. Now that the resolve was taken he felt a martyr. He even looked forward to reform school with a little curiosity and excitement. A vision of vast barred steel gates closing on him, not to be opened for five years, came into his mind, pathetic and thrilling. It was a fall, but a tremendous, showy fall. He would write constantly to his family and to Lucille. She would wait for him. He would emerge in five years and proceed to become a great man: a general or a Senator. He would show the world how Herbie Bookbinder could rise above reform school!

“Ain't no use scrapin' that dish any more, Herb,” said Cliff. “It's dry.”

Herbie realized that his spoon had been rasping futilely in the shallow tin dish while he had been lost in dreams.

“O.K. Here we go.” He stood up and walked out of the candy store. His steps were not sprightly.

“Want me to come up with you?” said Cliff.

“It don't matter,” said the self-condemned boy. He felt the same sense of unreality creeping over him that he had experienced on the moonlit night when he and Cliff had mounted rickety old Clever Sam to start their journey to New York.

“Well, I won't come then,” said Cliff.

“Guess I'd rather be alone, at that,” Herbie remarked absently.

Cliff held out his hand. “Good luck, Herbie,” he said. “Maybe it'll all come out O.K.”

The fat boy clasped his cousin's palm. This was the first time the boys had shaken hands in the memory of either; they were too close for such a gesture, ordinarily. It made them both self-conscious.

“So long, pal,” said Herbie. “I ain't afraid. Whatever happens, I'll face it. Don't you worry about old Herbie. I can take my medicine. Thanks for helpin' me an' everything. So long, pal.”

He wanted to say “pard,” which seemed to belong with the rest of this speech, but he felt the word would sound odd amid the stones and bricks of Homer Avenue, so he compromised on “pal.” Cliff was not at all as good as Herbie at improvising dramatic dialogue. He answered, “Yeah. Well, g'bye,” dropped his cousin's hand, and walked down the avenue, hastening a little in embarrassment.

Aflame with virtue and determination, Herbie scampered up the stairs to the Bookbinder apartment. He came upon his father and mother in the parlor, deep in a financial discussion, with ledgers, notebooks, yellow bank statements, and impressive engraved certificates spread around them on the floor and furniture. His father was writing in a notebook propped on his knees. As the boy entered he looked up.

“Well?” he said. “We're busy.”

One glance at his parent's deep-lined, gray, unhappy face, and Herbie's resolution burned blue and flickered out. “Uh, sorry, Pa,” he said. “I was gonna bang around on the piano. 'Scuse me.” He sneaked from the room.

That night Cliff telephoned him to ascertain whether he was on his way to reform school. Herbie said with some shame that he “hadn't had a chance yet” to make his confession. The next night, and the next after that, he was forced to give the same report to his wondering cousin. It was not true, of course; he had dozens of chances. But the grim aspect of his father scared him off each time he nerved himself to approach.

Thursday came, and Thursday afternoon, and Herbie had not yet taken his medicine, and Jacob Bookbinder was still in the dark. The father, dressed in his best clothes, was pacing back and forth in the parlor, pausing now and again to thump miserable discords on the piano. His son stood in the dining room, contemplating a table spread for tea and laden with pastries and layer cakes. He was not hungry. His gaze was far away. He was, in fact, trying to persuade himself that perhaps it would be a good thing if the Place were sold for five million dollars, after all; that perhaps it would be wrong of him to interfere at this late hour. He was very nearly convinced, too.

His mother came in. She wore a big green apron over the black silk dress reserved for occasions of great pomp. Her face looked much less faded than usual, and the double string of amber beads, unmistakable sign of stirring events, dangled over the apron.

“All right, you can forget about helping yourself. We're having important company in a minute. Go on downstairs and play for an hour.”

“Ma, is the company comin' about buyin' the Place?”

A bark from Mr. Bookbinder in the parlor. “Tell that boy to get out of the house!” And a crash of a fist's breadth of notes on the piano.

Mrs. Bookbinder looked anxiously at Herbie. “You heard Papa. Run along.”

“Where's Felicia?” With the fateful moment at hand, Herbie suddenly wanted to spar for a few more seconds.

“She's at Emily's. Go, I say. This is no time for you to be in the house.”

Herbie slowly walked down the hallway to the outside door. He put his hand on the knob. Then he turned and just as slowly walked into the parlor.

“Pa.”

His father was looking out of the window. He whirled at the sound of Herbie's voice.

“
Will
you go downstairs, boy?”

“Pa, are you looking for a green tin box marked ‘JB.’?”

The father stared at him in stupefaction. Then he ran at the boy and gripped his shoulders brutally.

“What are you talking about? Yes, I'm looking for such a box. It was stolen.”

Herbie's shoulders were full of pain. He was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. But he caught his breath and said, “I saw it Monday in Mr. Krieger's house. In a bedroom closet. Under a pile of old shoes. I figured it would be there because I myself—”

“Are you crazy, boy? Do you know what you're saying?”

The doorbell rang. Father and son heard the door opened at once, and the voice of Mrs. Bookbinder in words of welcome, and several men's voices. The father seized Herbie's right hand and dragged him into the dining room. Mrs. Bookbinder came in with Powers, Krieger, and the lawyer Glass. There was also a tall, broad-shouldered, bald stranger. He had pouchy little eyes, and wore stiff dark clothes. Mr. Glass, who was holding a thick brief case under one arm, said as they entered, “Mr. Burlingame, I'd like you to meet Mr. Bookbinder, the manager of Bronx River.”

The stranger put out his hand and said with a cold smile, “Delighted. You have a reputation in the industry.”

Bookbinder took the extended hand and shook it. His eyes were on his partner. Krieger avoided the glance.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment, I'd like to have a word alone in the next room with Mr. Krieger.”

Powers, whose face was strained and lined, quickly said, “Mr. Bookbinder, I hope there's nothing to be said now that can't be said in front of all of us. We've made a deal with Mr. Burlingame, and it's impossible to go back on it. The present occasion is a formality. For all intents and purposes Bronx River is now the property of Mr. Burlingame, you know.”

“All right,” said Jacob Bookbinder calmly. But Herbie knew he was not calm, for he was crushing the boy's hand, and trembling a little.

“Krieger, have you got the box with the blue paper?”

Krieger looked at him agape. No words issued from the open mouth.

“What on earth do you mean by such a question?” Powers said hurriedly. “You know perfectly well the box was stolen.”

“My boy Herbie here says he saw the box in a closet in Krieger's home.”

There was a confusion of exclamations by everyone in the room.

MR. POWERS
:
“He's crazy. Let's get on with our business.”

MRS. BOOKBINDER
:
“Herbie, I told you to go downstairs.”

MR. KRIEGER
:
“Haybie mistake. I got a box, nothing like blue paper box.”

LAWYER GLASS
:
“What does this boy know about the whole business, anyway?”

HERBIE
:
“That's right I did see it.”

The above remarks came all at once in loud tones, and nobody understood anybody else.

Mr. Burlingame's voice emerged, deep and irritated, from the babble. “See here, gentlemen, I had the clear assurance of all of you yesterday that the matter of the so-called blue paper had been amicably settled, and that all of you wanted to sell. If there is still a shadow of doubt on this transaction, why, I—”