Toadstool and the Dreamer, Chapter 10

Toadstool and the Dreamer, Chapter 9  (13+) In which the boys become rivals for the attention of Nettie Schallert. #1849523 by Ben Simon

10.

    After all that, we hadn't really lost all that much in the way of time because I'd planned on hiding out in the woods the rest of the afternoon, anyway, so spending the day at Nettie's place pretty much saved us from a whole lot of mosquito bites.  We headed back down the steep hill towards the creek, Toadstool tumbling most of the way, and from across the creek we could see the other end of town.  Problem was, the clouds we'd seen gathering were a lot darker now and we could feel a drop or two of rain coming down on us from time to time.  By the time we were across the creek bed there was a steady drizzle, and when we set foot on one of the town's streets it was coming down hard and heavy.  I had gotten pretty far ahead of Toadstool because of his bad leg and all, and he was yelling at me to slow down but all that wet was uncomfortable and I was pretty desperate to find someplace dry.  The thing was that it was a Sunday afternoon and back then almost no place stayed open on a Sunday afternoon, certainly not in a small town in southern Illinois.  I got to the main drag in town in pretty short order but I could see that none of the storefronts had any type of significant shelter in front of them.

    While I was looking around Toadstool caught up with me and, giving me a chuck on the arm, moved past me to a building on the other side of the street.  It was a two-story white building that looked like it might've been a bar or something with a cellar entrance in the rear of it and Toadstool hobbled himself down the stairs thinking that it might give him a little shelter from the rain.  I followed him down there and when I got down there I saw him fumbling with a hook latch on the doorway.

    "It's only held close with this latch," he said through the rain.  "I think we can get in there and get out of the rain."

    The latch was rusty and all that rain was making it hard for Toadstool to get a hold on it, but finally he was able to force the hook through the eye and we pushed on the heavy wood door, which felt like the hinges hadn't moved for years.  It was stubborn but eventually gave way and we tumbled in out of the rain.

    The cellar was smaller than the building was by about half, and it was all dirt and mud except for the ceiling, which was just the bottom of the building above it.  I had been wrong about the door not having been opened in a long time because there was a little meeting area in the middle of the cellar with buckets and crates that looked like they were used for seats surrounding a larger crate with an old plastic tablecloth over it and several old tin cans with candle wax in them on top of that.  There was a couple of small windows on each side and that let in the gray light from outside well enough so that we could see.  As hot as it had been all day that basement held in the cool pretty well, and as wet as we were from the rain we were both miserable.

    "Why'd you have to do that for anyway?" I said as I sat down on one of the buckets.

    "Why'd I have to do what?"

    "Why'd you have to shove that guy?  If you hadn't done that we might be headed home now."

    As I sat down on one of the buckets I folded my arms to warm myself up a little.  It was starting to sink in what kind of situation we were in and I was feeling frustrated and more than a little scared.  In my mind I started to blame Toadstool for everything in spite of the facts.  He stood there by one of the windows looking up at the rain, a big dumb useless lump who'd done nothing to get us out of our situation.

    "Stupid. . .," I muttered under my breath but loud enough so he could hear me.

    "Shut up."

    "I'd have been home already if it weren't for you. . ."

    "We wouldn't even be here if it weren't for you."

    "Yeah, whose fat butt couldn't make it home and had to get a ride from Gerd?"

    "Whose idea was it to get on that stupid train?  And if you hadn't lied back there in Guardian old Ella might've let us have that phone call.  Why do you have to lie all the time, anyway?  It's not like you're even good at it."

    "At least I'm not such a fat chunk of lard that I can't walk more than three feet without weezing."

    I was off the bucket now and standing in front of Toadstool, hating him just about as much as I'd hated anybody else.  For his part Toadstool wasn't backing down like he usually did but had moved away from the window and standing in front of me.

    "You're a moron," he said, moving towards me.

    "You're gay," I said while trying to figure out what I'd do if he jumped his fat all over me again.

    "Who's down here!"

    Whatever confrontation me and Toadstool were about to have ended right there because the door was wide open and a tall, slim figure in an army jacket was standing in it.

    "What're you doing down here?" the figure asked a little more quietly, but there was a threat in his voice.

    "We. . .we were just looking to get out of the rain. . . ," I said in a voice about as loud as a mouse's footsteps.

    "Plenty of places to get out of the rain around here.  You sure you weren't looking for something?"

    "No. . .no. . ."

    "Well, we'll see, won't we?"

    The figure moved past us towards the back of the cellar and I momentarily thought about taking off, but the guy must've been reading my mind because he stopped me without even turning around.

    "Don't even think about running," he said.  "I'd catch you before you knew and I'd make you sorry.  And I'd be back around to get tubby here before he thought about taking off."

    I didn't know whether this guy was that fast or not, but the tone of his voice told us that it was best not to try anything.  He had to be more than six feet tall, maybe closer to six-two, and he was thin as a rail but you could still tell there was some muscle on his bones.  He had long blond hair that came down to his collar, but it wasn't dirty like most hippie types and it looked like he kept it neat.  He had kind-of-a beard but it looked like he was one of those people who couldn't really grow one but went ahead and tried anyway.  He wore one of those old army jackets that John Lennon had made famous but with a lot more patches and buttons on it, the largest being one of those peace-fingers signs that was decorated like the American flag.  Other than that he just had an old pair of faded jeans on and some boots on his feet.  He went behind us to this mud ledge that was built into the back of the cellar and opened up a metel box that looked like it was an old meter box or something.  He fished around in there for a moment, then pulled a big key chain out of his right pocket and plunged it into something inside the box and when he was done he pulled up a mason jar that looked like it was full of oregano or some sort of green spice like that.  He looked at us for a second, seemingly just to make sure we knew that he knew that we were still there, then started pulling out some of the stuff from the jar.  It turned out that the green leafy stuff was actually held in a bunch of little plastic bags and he pulled several of those bags out of the jar.  He reached back in the box and pulled out several more vials and bags filled with what looked to be powders and pills, then looked towards the back of the box before being satisfied, putting everything back in and locking it up.

    "You're lucky," he said as he was putting the stuff away.  "I'd expected that somebody tipped you off where I kept my stash.  If anything was missing I'd have to hurt you some."

    He said that with a smile on his face and a kind of laugh in his voice, but something in his eyes told me that he was more than a little serious about the hurting part.

    "So, what are you punks doing down here anyway?" he asked, taking a pack of Marlboros out of his jacket and lighting it up with a big silver lighter that was decorated with a death's head.

    "We were just trying to get out of the rain," Toadstool said.  "We didn't mean anything by coming down here."

    "You usually break and enter somewhere to get out of the rain?"

    The guy looked directly at me and Toadstool with cold blue eyes which felt like they could cut through diamond and we stood there and awkwardly shuffled for a minute before the guy broke the silence again.

    "You guys have caused a pretty bad problem here.  You could be telling the truth and you just stumbled on the wrong place to hide from whatever you're hiding from.  Or you might've been sent here by somebody who'd like to get their hands on some freebies or would just like to take my entire stash.  Since I don't know you guys from Adam I don't know if I can trust you or not.  Either way, since you've seen it, I've got to find a new place for my stash, and this had been the perfect place for it for a lot of reasons.  Plus, no more socials down here, which is going to bum a lot of people out.  Or, I could get rid of you both and keep my perfect place down here."

    "No, you don't have to do that," I said, whining more than just a little bit.  "We don't even come from around here, we don't even know who you are.  All we want to do is get home."  For Toadstool's part I'm pretty sure I heard a wimper come from the back of his throat.

    The guy stared at us for a second while I pleaded, then a small grin gradually appeared on his face.  "Don't worry, I've been doing this for over ten years and never 'gotten rid' of anybody.  Beat the snot out of a few people, sure, but I've never had to take anybody out.  Something about you guys tells me you might be all right, but I'd be stupid to go by instincts alone.  So, who's your parents and how'd you wind up down here in the first place?"

    "We. . .we don't come from around here. . .," I said, and I'm pretty sure I was sniffling a little.

    "Oh, yeah.  Where do you come from?"

    "Garen, IL."

    "Garen?  Where's Garen?"

    "Well, we really don't know."

    "What d'you mean you don't know.  How do you not know where you came from?"

    "We stowed away aboard a train," Toadstool said, shortening the story a lot more than I would've.  "We both fell asleep and when we woke up we wound up here."

    "You were riding the rails?"

    "Well, yeah, I guess. . ."

    "Why?  Just for fun?"

    "It just seemed like the easiest way to get home."

    The guy laughed for a second, then said, "Man, I didn't think anybody rode the rails anymore.  My Uncle Ned used to do it all the time, back in the thirties during the Depression.  He used to tell me all kinds of stories about hopping trains."

    He walked over to the door and looked up at the sky.  It had stopped raining but a cool breeze was still blowing which we could feel even where we were standing down in the basement.

    "Well, there's an easy enough way to confirm what you're saying to me.  We'll just call your moms and dads."

    It took a moment for it to sink into my head what he'd just said, and from his silence I took it that Toadstool felt the same way.  This guy was pretty much offering us what we'd been trying all weekend to get somebody to do.

    Finally, I said, "Sure.  We can do that.  Do you have a phone?"

    "Do I have a phone?  What kind of question is that?  Of course I've got a phone.  It's in my apartment, but you're free to come up and use it.  Mind you, if you get ahold of someone who resembles a parent, you're off the hook.  But if I wind up with some junkie at my place looking to pick up a couple of kids.  . ."

    "You won't," Toadstool said.  "I promise, my mom's going to be waiting for this phone call.  It's just. . .it's going to take them a while to get here. . ."

    "I don't care.  The sooner I get you guys out of Jennings the better off my life is going to be.  i don't need anybody outside of my circle knowing anything about this place.  Come on, I'll take you to my place."

    The guy went through the door and walked up the stairs, and me and Toadstool looked at each other and shrugged because we weren't doing much better at this point.  In fact, no matter what this guy was into, he was the best chance we'd had of getting ourselves home since we'd fallen out of that train.  We really didn't have much of a choice, anyway, the guy would've had no problem catching either one of us if we tried to run.  But, to be truthful, I don't think either one of us saw a reason to run.

    The air had gotten cooler as we walked to wherever he was leading us, but there was plenty of moisture in the air and you could feel the humidity was going to kick in once everything started getting warmer again.  The guy took us around the corner of the front of the building and led us down the main drag towards the middle of town.  We walked about three blocks from the the building where the cellar was and the guy yakked some about how he'd wished he could trust people more and how he guessed he was in the wrong business to be trusting anybody and me and Toadstool pretty muched scooted behind him in silence. 

   

          We came up to a hardware store that had one of those side entrances that led to an apartment upstairs and he slowed down and grabbed that enormous keychain out of his jacket pocket.  A skinny gal was standing there like she was waiting for him and it was pretty apparent even by me that something was wrong with her.  For one thing, she’d obviously been waiting a long time for the guy because she was soaked to the bone, her hair flattened down by all that rainwater.  She was wearing a tank top that had to be kid’s sized, because it was tight even on her.  As soaked as she was and as much as her clothes were clinging to her body you could tell she had no figure whatsoever, like she hadn’t eaten for the last year or so.    She didn’t have a bad-looking face, but she looked really tired and something told me that she wasn’t as old as she looked.  She’d made an attempt at makeup but everything was kind of running which just made her look weird, like a she’d decided to get ready for a Halloween party at the last minute and never decided what she really wanted to be.  She kind of reminded me of Chelsea Fink if Chelsea’s had any looks at all, but she looked a lot sicker than Chelsea ever did.  I know that she had to be a little cool as wet as she was, but it was starting to get warmer and she was hugging herself like it was February.

    “Hey, Davis,” the girl said all of sudden, like we had just startled her out of a dream.

    “Hey, yourself, Shana,” the guy said without looking at her, and he moved towards the side door quickly, like he was racing to avoid a conversation.

    “Who’re the kids?” she asked suddenly, with the words exploding out of her mouth while she made quick, nervous movements in Davis’ direction.

    “Recruits,” Davis said as he opened the door, still not looking at her.

    “You’re getting them young,” she said, forcing a nervous laugh out of the back of her throat.

    “That’s the only way to train ‘em.”

    “Hey, Davis,” Shana’s voice got a little higher and it was obvious she was about to change the subject.  “You got any stuff?”

    Davis rolled his eyes and let go of the door, surrendering to the fact that he’d have to talk to her.  “Of course I have stuff.  I’ve always got stuff.  The thing is, do you have dough?”

    “C’mon, you know I’m good for it.  I just need a little advance ‘til I get paid. . .”

    She nervously put a hand on Davis’ upper arm and started moving it up and down, like she was trying to flirt and failing miserably.  For his part, Davis acted like he was being touched by a leper.

    “Shana, I’ve got a business going here, not a charity.  If I gave away my stuff I’d be both poor and dead in no time.  When you get paid come and see me.”

    “But you know when I get paid, and you know you’re the first person I come to see.  C’mon, baby, can’t you help a girl out a little, please?”

    Shana had moved her hand from his arm and up to his chest and was shakily moving it back and forth.  Davis wasn’t acting like he was getting any pleasure out of what she was doing, but he wasn’t exactly stopping her, either.

    “You get worse and worse about this every month, chick.  A couple of months back it was two days early, last month it was a week.  Now we’ve got more than a week and a half before your payday.  Pretty soon you’d be asking for twice the stuff at the beginning of the month. . .”

    “But, David, I need some now.  I don’t feel so good, it’s the only thing that’ll help me.  C’mon, Davis. . .please. . .”

    “Get to a doctor.  He can help you out ‘til you get a fix.”

    “Where am I gonna see a doctor on a Sunday?  And what they give me won’t help, anyway. . .”

    “Not my problem.  Go home and come back when you have some bucks.”

    She got closer to Davis, and this time he did seem somewhat disgusted by her.  “C’mon, man, I can help you out, you know I can.  You help me out, I help you out, give you something you need. . .”

    “I’ve got all I need upstairs, and you ain’t got more than what I’ve got going there.  What I need is some dough.  Bring me back some and then we’ll be in business.”

    “You kiddin’ me?  You’re gonna be like that, Davis?  How long have you known me.  I used to go to school with your sister, back when you were a little puke.  You’ve got no right to treat me like this, Davis, no way you got a right to treat me like this. . .”

    “Take it to court and see what happens.  Or go see a doctor.  Or do whatever you usually do until the end of the month.  I don’t care, right now I’ve got some chicken cacciatore upstairs that Cheri is going to ruin if I don’t get up there, so ‘bye for now.”

    Shanna’s entire manner had just done a 180, and all of a sudden she’d become so mad that she was red-faced and shaking way worse than she’d done before.  “I’m not done here, Davis, you know I’m not.  I’ve gotta have the stuff if I’m gonna get better. .  .”

    “Do what you have to.  I’m going upstairs now.  See you later.”

    “I’m going to tell Jason, that’s what I’m gonna do.  He’ll take care of you.”

    “I’m sure he will.  Going upstairs now.  C’mon, guys, let’s go.”

    “You’ll be sorry when Jason gets here, you know you will.  Just give me the stuff!”

    “When you or Jason’s got money.  Let me know.  I’ll have all the stuff you need then.”

    Davis finally went through the door, and me and Toadstool followed him fairly obediently, with the Shana girl wailing pretty loudly behind us, and after the door was shut something banged against the door pretty loudly which I’m pretty certain was her throwing something heavy and hard against the door.  It didn’t really bother Davis at all, but he went fairly quickly up the dark, narrow stairs that seemed to be much steeper than they needed to be.  I followed, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to after meeting Shana, but Toadstool was waddling up the stairs right on my heels so I had to go.

    Davis opened the door at the top of the stairs and I immediately got a whiff of garlic and peppers coming from the apartment.  There was this really small landing at the top of the stairs so you couldn’t see in the apartment until you were right up to the door.  So when Davis yelled out, “You spoil my dinner yet?” I couldn’t see the girl who yelled back, “Shut up!”

    I got up the stairs and that smell of garlic chicken and peppers increased a hundred times.  The apartment wasn’t anything spectacular to be sure, but it wasn’t something you’d expect from a junkie, either.  You came into a small living room, with a kitchenette to the right where a girl with a blond ponytail was quickly scurrying around obviously over her head with whatever she was trying to do.  There was a small, square couch against the far wall where another gal was sitting who was doing some sort of page in one of those puzzle magazines and completely uninterested in anything that was going on around her.  It was the one in the kitchen that noticed us first, and asked, “Who’d you bring over, Davis?  Hanging around the schools again?”

    “No, I’m not hanging around the schools,” Davis said as he threw his jacket on an easy chair that did not match the couch at all and moved into the kitchen.  He was wearing a read “Archie Bunker for President” t-shirt underneath.  “Caught these two in the basement.”

    “What?  What were they doing down there?”

    “Smoking some dope.  But it was from your stash, so they’re cool.”

    “What?  They better not have. . .”

    “Those two have never touched dope in their lives,” the girl on the couch said without looking up from her puzzle.  In fact, the entire time we were there she didn’t look up from that puzzle, not even when she was talking to Toadstool.

    “Lighten up, Cheri,” Davis said as he started to examine the blond chick’s work in the kitchen.  “They’re claiming that they got lost and were just looking for someplace to stay dry, ain’t that right, kids?”

    “Yeah. . .yeah, that’s right,” Toadstool said, standing as close to the door as he possibly could without walking out it.

    “Hey, close the door, will ya?  I don’t need the neighborhood walking in here.  What are you doing to my chicken, anyway?”

    “I’m doing what you told me to.  But it just don’t seem right. . .”

    “How about doing this?” Davis asked, and grabbed some shakers and started working over the sauce for a few seconds, then offered Cheri a spoon to taste the results of his work.

    “Okay, okay, that’s better,” Cheri admitted, then added, “jackass.”

    “Salt and pepper, chick.  Don’t be afraid of it.  This way, boys. . . what do I call you guys, anyway?”

    “I’m Joey,” Toadstool said, moving his way around me towards where Davis was standing.  “And he’s Phil.”

    “Okay, Joey and Phil, this is my phone,” Davis said, pointing to a rotary wall phone mounted beside his sink.  “Wherever you need to call.  Just don’t make it a junkie, that’s all I’m sayin’. . .”

    “Those kids don’t know any junkies,” the gal on the couch said loudly.

    “Thanks for the opinion, Jolene,” Davis said.  “Gage and DeSoto or Steve Austin tonight?”

    “Steve Austin is getting old,” Cheri said over the smoke on the stove.  “And Randolph Mantooth is a lot hotter than Lee Majors. “

    “Says you,” Jolene said.

    “C’mon, Lee Majors has to be 40 years old.”

    “So what?”

    “Whatever,” Davis said.  “All I know is I like a little action with my TV.”

    “You call watching a guy move in slow motion all the time ‘action?’” Cheri asked.  “By the way, how’d the Cardinals do today?”

    “They lost, 3-2.  They stink worse every week.”

    “Screw the Cardinals,” Davis said while he searched through the kitchen cabinets for something.

    “Football Cardinals look like they’re gonna be okay this year,” Jolene said.  “And they’ve got Jimmy Hart. . .”

    “Yes.  You’re in love with Jimmy Hart,” Cheri said.  “We all know this. . .”

    “Any St. Louis team called the Cardinals reek,” Davis said.  “There’s only one pro sports team worth watching in St. Louis.”

    “No, Davis,” Jolene said, emphatically.

    “No, what?”

    “No, you’re not dragging us to another soccer game.”

    “Whatever.  Your loss.  Hey, you kids want to go see the Stars play?”

    Toadstool was on the phone listening to a ring tone, leaving me as the one Davis was talking to.  I didn’t really know how to answer him, wasn’t really sure if he was serious or not, so I just shrugged my shoulders and mumbled, “Sure.”

    “Don’t let him do it,” Jolene said.  “He took us to a game last year and it was about as exciting as watching paint dry on a wet stick.”

    “It wasn’t so bad,” Cheri said, flipping a piece of chicken on the skillet.  “Some of the guys were kind of cute.”

    “Jolene just doesn’t understand the game.  We went to a playoff game, and the Stars had this English goalkeeper who was just flying all over the place stopping shots.  Then they had this thing called a shootout after the game, which is just like shooting gallery time on the goaltenders.  And, y’know, that goalie stopped everything that came after him.  I’d pay to see something like that again.”

    “Last time I checked, they stink worse than the Cardinals this year,” Jolene said.

    “Whatever.  Twenty years from now the Stars will be filling up Busch stadium and the Cardinals will be trying to give away tickets.  Saw Shana downstairs.”

    “Yeah?  What’d she want?”

    “What do you think she wanted?”  Davis had found what he wanted in the form of a bottle and he poured a little of whatever was in it in a glass of soda and started sipping it down.

    “Great,” Cheri said, taking a break from her chicken.  “Did you help her out at all?”

    “You know my policy.  No dough, no dope.  I don’t break that rule for nobody.”

    “Great.  That means we can expect a visit from Gunslinger Glen.”

    “I can’t get an answer,” Toadstool said, handing me the phone.  “Maybe your mom or brother will answer.”

    “My brother’s not home and we both know that Pill will be no help.  But, yeah, I’ll try mom.”

    I dialed mom’s number and waited three rings past the obligatory six-ring rule, but nobody was answering the phone.  Of course it had occurred to me that, at this point, mom wouldn’t just be sitting around waiting for us, especially with Toadstool missing too, but I thought that it was at least worth a try and, besides, I was worried about how Davis might react when he was told I couldn’t get an answer.

    While I was trying to ring up mom Toadstool had gone over to the couch and sat by Jolene, whether he did that on his own or was invited I don’t know.  I do know that Toadstool couldn’t just leave a word game or a logic game alone, he was addicted to them.  And there Jolene was, on the couch, immersed in one.  So there he was, looking over her shoulder while trying not to be noticed, when he muttered the word, “Volatile.”

    “What?” she asked, still without looking up.

    “Right here,” Toadstool mumbled, pointing at a spot in the puzzle where the word would work.

    “Hey, you’re right, that does work.  But what about this here?”

    With Toadstool occupied, I tried to stand by the sink without being noticed, but Davis knew where I was.  “So, your folks coming?” he asked while he looked over some kind of papers.

    Now, under normal circumstances I would’ve come up with some kind of lie here, if anything just to get Toadstool away from his new girlfriend.  But I still wasn’t sure about this Davis guy.  I mean, he seemed to be cool enough, but since then I’ve met all sorts of guys like him who could be cool at one moment and then tear your head off the next.  So for once I decided to use a little bit of wisdom and tell the truth.

    “I couldn’t get ahold of her,” I said.  “She must be out.”

    “How about you, Joey?”

    “No, sir.  My mom didn’t answer.”

    “Don’t call me sir.  Makes me sound like an ass.  Just wait an hour and you can try again.  I even think that Cheri here made enough bad cacciatore to feed you guys.”

    “Shut up,” Cheri said, once again standing over the stove.

    Not knowing what to do, I walked over to the couch where Toadstool and Jolene were sitting and sat down on the other side of Toadstool.  Toadstool wasn’t so tentative anymore, but was actively helping Jolene out with the puzzle, and they were both lost in their own world.  Davis had gone over to the phone and was talking to someone too quietly for me to hear and Cheri was finishing up on the cacciatore, so I was left with nothing to do buy stare at the Magnavox console TV that sat across the living room.  Nobody else was really watching it, and I was too nervous to get up and change channels, so I was stuck watching the Channel 4 news while I waited to use the phone again.

    It was weird because these guys weren’t like any stoners that I’d ever known.  I mean even in the eighth grade, and even though it was the seventies, I’d known a few potheads and pill poppers.  For the most part they’d have been degenerates, though, even without their dope.  Davis was helping us out, though, when he really didn’t have to, and I didn’t know any stoner who’d do that for someone else without getting something in return.  Plus, the girls didn’t seem like your typical stoner girls.  Macy Hammel was the best of the stoner girls at Garen High, and even in her case most of the guys didn’t want to date her, they just wanted to do her (and, if you had a bag of weed on the right weekend, you’d probably stand a pretty good chance of getting your wish).  But Cheri and Jolene didn’t seem like the type.  Cheri was a little plumper than Jolene but Jolene was skinny as a rail and Cheri would’ve been tiny by anybody else’s standards.  Cheri was wearing blue cutoffs and a white spaghetti-strap top and you could see her skin was clear and she took care of herself, plus she was working hard in the kitchen and I didn’t know any stoner anybody that worked hard at anything.  Jolene didn’t have the clear skin; she was sitting there in gym shorts and a t-shirt and, despite the fact that she was darker than Cheri, you could see zits all over her body.  The thing is, even with Toadstool’s help, she was sitting there doing complicated word and logic puzzles and I didn’t know any stoner chick who’d even be interested in doing something like that. 

    Davis finished on the phone and walked past Cheri, saying to no one in particular, “Robbie’s coming over.”

    “What?” Cheri asked.  “When?”

    “About ten minutes.  He called me from a payphone in Bartlesville.”

    “Is he bringing Raylene?”

    “I don’t know.  I didn’t ask him.  But this is important, so we need to be left alone.”

    “But I don’t have enough to feed everybody. . .”

    “Don’t worry about it.  I’m pretty sure they’ve eaten.  Jolene, I need you to do some numbers for me when he gets here.”

    “On it,” Jolene said, again without looking up.

    “Jolene,” Davis repeated emphatically, “I need you to do some numbers for me.  So get your head out of the puzzles.”

    “Got it.  Is it going to hurt anything if I do ‘em until he gets here?”

    Davis shook his head and looked at me.  “See what I’ve got to deal with?  It’s a wonder I make a buck here with these two.”

    “Hey,” Cheri exclaimed from over the skillet.

    “You don’t know what kind of trouble you kids have caused me,” he said to me, ignoring Cheri.  “We can’t have any more socials in the basement anymore.”

    “What?” squealed Cheri.  “Why?”

    “Even if these two are clean, you think we can trust them to keep their mouths shut.  Just one slip up and I’ll have Detective Denny all over that place confiscating my stuff.  And, even if there’s absolutely nothing down there to connect it to me, I’ve still lost my stuff.”

    “But, we don’t even come from around here.  We won’t. . .”

    “One of the keys to making a go of it selling dope is to be flexible, kid.  First, you don’t ever keep dope in your place.  It’s the first place the cop’s look.  Fortunately, this is Smallville, USA.  No sophisticated cop surveillance gadgets and only Andy Taylor and Barney Fife to worry about.  All you got to do is find a couple of good hiding spots and keep them to yourself and a few trusted friends who you can screw really good if they turn on you.”

    “Nice,” Jolene said.

    “Second, you make friends with at least one of the cops.  Junkies who are constantly giving the cops the finger are fools and deserve to go to the slammer.  Glenn Calloway thinks the world of me, he thinks he’s the father I never had.”

    “More ‘boyfriend’ than ‘father. . .,’” Jolene said, after which Davis grabbed a couch cushion and chucked it hard at her head.

    “Any more comments?” Davis asked.

    “Not if you’re gonna be a jerk about it. . .”

    “Anyway, he thinks he’s well on the way to rehabilitating me.  Not gonna happen, but it makes him happy to believe I am.  Anyway, the sad thing was that the basement had a special meaning to me.”

    “You once told me it’s not good business to hold vendettas,” Cheri said while pouring sauce over the chicken.

    “Bradley Wiltshire is not a vendetta.  He doesn’t know what we’re doing down there.  It just brings me a lot of pleasure to know that he’d pretty much jump out of his skin if he did know about it.”

    He then turned to me and explained, “When I was a kid after my dad ran out on me, old man Wiltshire had a thing for my mom.  Everyone thought she was a fool for not wanting to go out with him because he owned the Last Drop Bar and could take pretty good care of mom and me.  The thing is, besides being obese and smelling like he’d just jumped out of a keg of Falstaff, Wiltshire had refused to stop selling alcohol to my dad even after everybody else knew he had a problem.  I guess, in hindsight, it was pretty good business, but the old man got mad when my mom wouldn’t date her so he got the town board to condemn the house we were living in.  We had to spend four years living with my Uncle Jack and I don’t want to even tell you how bad that was.  Now, old man Wiltshire hates potheads, mainly cause they don’t make him any money because they don’t become drunks.  So the idea of smoking dope under his bar appeals to me a lot.  And now I can’t do it anymore.”

    “Sorry,” I mumbled because I didn’t know what else to say.

    Davis looked at me hard for a moment and I think even the girls didn’t know what kind of mood he was in, but finally he relaxed and said, “Don’t worry about it.  I’d have had to move it sometime soon, anyway, although that is probably the best spot we ever had.  Anyway, most of my worries will be over once we get your carcasses out of Jennings.  You gonna try the phone again?”

    Before I could answer somebody started tapping on the door, and a really hushed, low voice called out Davis’ name.  He immediately forgot about me and rushed over to the door, opening it to let the most ethnic-looking black man I’d ever met before then walk into the door.

    Now, I don’t want to say Garen is a prejudiced community, but there’s a lot of people there who don’t like it when people go to Florida because they come back too dark for their tastes.  Needless to say, when I was a kid I didn’t meet too many black people, usually when I did it was on trips out of town and we certainly didn’t speak to them for very long.  Not very many of them came through Garen and when they did they were made to feel unwelcome enough that they left fairly quickly.  I don’t really think my mom was the prejudice sort, we just didn’t talk about black people too much and, being that we never had to deal with them, it was kind of out of sight, out of mind.  We did watch every chapter of Roots, though, if that means anything to you.  It wasn’t until I was in my late twenties and was working as an over-the-road trucker for a while that I got teamed up with this black guy named Frankie and we spent the better part of seven months talking about politics, books, religion, family and sex enough to know that not all black people were how they were made out to be by the long-time citizens of Garen.  But, then, you probably already knew that.

    Anyway, this guy made me more nervous than I’d been before, though I’m pretty sure, being in lily-white Jennings, IL,  he had more reason to be nervous than I did.  Davis had no problems with him, though, opening the door and offering him one of those black handshakes that just make white people look awkward.

    “Ronnie, my man,” Davis said.  “How’re things shaking?”

    “Good enough, my man, good enough.  I keep forgetting how far out in the boonies you are.”

    “Best place on earth if you’re trying dealing dope.”

    “Not the best place for the black man.  There’s not three cops in this town and two of them had their eyes on me when I came into town.  Ain’t there anything better for them to do.”

    Right behind Ronnie was a black girl with a fro and wearing a button-up top that was tied at her waist and a pair of shorts that were all the way up her thighs and maybe a size too small.  “Hey, Davis,” she said as she came in the door, “you got any weed?  I need some real bad.”

    “No smoking dope here, Raylene.  You know my rules, I’ll get you weed wherever you want it, but nobody smokes it here.”

    “That he knows of,” Jolene said with a little bit of a smile on her face.

    “Nobody smokes it here,” Davis said emphatically while shooting a stare at her, though she wouldn’t see it because she was still staring down at that puzzle.

    For her part, Raylene didn’t seem too intimidated by Davis, either, as she actually started moving around Cheri looking through the kitchen cabinets.  “You sure you don’t have none here?  I can find some place to smoke it, I just need to get my hands on some.”

    “You ain’t gonna ‘find’ someplace here in Mayberry to smoke your dope,” Ronnie said.  “Are you crazy?  They catch a black girl smoking dope what do you think they’re gonna do to her?”

    “Besides, we don’t need any dope around here right now,” Cheri said, and she sounded more than a little annoyed.  “We’re probably going to get a visit from Gunslinger Glen.”

    “You gotta be kidding me,” Ronnie said.  “Gunslinger Glen’s coming here?”

    “No big deal,” Davis said.  “Shana needs some stuff but doesn’t have any dough.  Same old thing every month.”

    “Man, I don’t see why you don’t just cut her off?  Her business ain’t worth having.”

    “She gets that big check at the end of every month like clockwork, and guess who’s the first person she sees when she gets that thing cashed?  This may be a hassle, but it’s worth going through when the money comes in.  Anyway, come over into my office and let’s have a little talk.”

    Davis pulled Ronnie off into the kitchen and they stood there talking for a while really quietly, but occasionally Davis would get really excited about something and his whispers would be a little louder.  In the meantime, Raylene, who I guess was dejected because she didn’t have any dope to smoke, slumped down into the easy chair beside me.  “Who’re the kids?” she asked Jolene, though she really didn’t sound that interested.

    “I don’t know.  Some kids Davis found down in the basement.  I guess he’s trying to get his merit badge so he’s trying to help them go home.  This one’s really good at word games, though,” and just as she said that, Toadstool jotted down something over her shoulder that brought them both a lot of satisfaction.

    “What’s your name, hon?” Raylene asked towards me, I’m guessing because she didn’t have anybody else to talk to.

    “Phil,” I mumbled.

    “Hi, Phil.  I’m Raylene.  What are you watching?”

    “The news, I guess.”

    “Oh, yeah?  You into the news.”

    “He’s too scared to get up and turn the channel,” Jolene said.  “And I’m too lazy to.” 

    Raylene got up off the easy chair and started turning the channels until she came up on some sort of zoo show and she settled on that, though she didn’t seem too happy with it.

    “So, how long until we see Gunslinger Glen?” Raylene asked, slumping back down in the chair.

    “Who knows,” Jolene said.  “Depends on how long it takes Shana to annoy him bad enough to come over.  Davis talked to her, I didn’t.”

    “Great, because all we need after the long drive into the middle of whitey land is some fool with a gun looking to shoot someone.”

    I’m not sure how I reacted to what Raylene said, but it must’ve been pretty visible because Raylene looked at me like she was suddenly worried about my health.  It wasn’t just me, though, because Toadstool stopped helping Jolene out and looked up like he was a fox who’d suddenly heard the hounds.

    “He doesn’t ever really shoot anybody,” Raylene said laughing and putting a hand on my knee.  “I don’t think he even knows where the trigger is on that gun of his.”

    “All it takes is once,” Jolene said, not really helping me or Toadstool’s disposition any.

    Raylene gave Jolene one of those disapproving school teacher looks and turned back to me.  “Glen ain’t even his real name, his name’s Jake or John or something. . .”

    “Jason,” Jolene corrected her.

    “Yeah, okay.  Anyway, Shana’s a useless dopehead who can’t make it through a day without shooting herself up.  I swear to God, if I ever get that way I hope Ronnie shoots me.”

    “He probably will.”

    “Shut up.  Anyway, being that Davis over there is the only supplier around here for about a hundred miles and she only gets a limited amount of money from  some sort of government check every month, Shana comes to bug Davis at least once a month and when he throws her out, she goes to get John or Jake. . .”

    “Jason,” Jolene repeated emphatically.

    “Glen,” Raylene said, rolling her eyes.  “They call him Gunslinger Glen because he brings that gun around so they named him after some western movie star. . .”

    “Glen Ford.”

    “Yeah, Glen Ford.  Anyway, because old Gunslinger Glen is such a wuss, whenever Shana convinces him that he’s got no manhood if he doesn’t stand up for her, and because there ain’t no way he’s beating on Davis, Glen comes around with this old revolver that I’m pretty sure was made before World War II.  I don’t think he can even afford the bullets for the stupid thing, but he figures if he points it at enough people they’ll all give him anything he wants.  But he ain’t nothing to worry about.  Davis lets him go for a while then beats up on him a little before throwing him out, though maybe it’d be better if he’d just kick old Gunslinger Glen out for good.”

    Raylene said this last part a little louder in hopes of getting Davis to notice, and he and Ronnie did look up from whatever they were talking about for a second, but then went right back to whispering at one another.

    “Dinner’s ready,” Cheri said as she finished dishing up the chicken cacciatore on mismatched plates.  She took a plate and offered it to Davis, who ignored her, so she put it on the kitchen counter beside him.  The plate she brought over to Jolene was also ignored, as she and Toadstool were in the middle of some really difficult part of one of the puzzles, so she put the plate on the lamp stand beside the couch.  Finally she looked down at me, since I was the only person in the room who was half paying attention to her, and asked, “Do you kids want some?”

    Now, my stomach had finally calmed down from that breakfast that Brother Mendenhall had fed us and I was a little hungry but I was also more than a little nervous about taking food from a bunch of potheads.  Still, I didn’t want to be rude, especially since they were helping us out, so I mumbled, “Sure,” and Toadstool just nodded at her.

    While Cheri was dealing out some of the chicken on a couple of plates Davis had jotted down some stuff on a piece of paper and walked out of his little huddle with Ronnie towards Jolene.  He threw the paper on top of the puzzle that she and Toadstool were working on, which annoyed her more than a little bit.

    “Run these numbers for me,” Davis said.

    “Please.”

    “Please run these numbers for me before I kick your cute butt around the room.”

    “You’re scaring me,” she said, though her voice didn’t sound very scared.

    “Just do it.  Now.”

    She wasn’t very happy about it, but she started looking over the numbers and working her pencil over the sheet of paper.  After a few moments she seemed finished with it and was about to hand the paper back to Davis when Toadstool said, “Hey, you missed this.”

    “Missed what?” Jolene seemed both surprised and annoyed at Toadstool, but he took the paper and started working the numbers himself for a second before handing it back to her.

    “You’re right,” she said, less annoyed and more impressed.  “I did miss that.  Pretty obvious, too.  Here you go, Davis.”

    Davis looked down at her like she was stupid.  “You mean the kid is better at this than you are?”

    Jolene shrugged her shoulders and returned to her puzzle, but Davis continued, “Maybe I should keep him around and send you home.”

    “Yeah, have fun snuggling with him in the bedroom.”

    This time Davis ignored her, but instead let out a low whistle when he looked down at the paper, then looked back at Ronnie.  “Are you sure this is right?”

    “I’ll let you talk to Maxie yourself.  Basically, he told me he wants you to be his connection between St. Louis and Chicago, being where you are and all.  But you gotta be willing to play ball with him, see?”

    “I’ll play all nine innings for this kind of dough.  This’ll pretty much make me the king of midwestern weed.”

    “Settle down, “ Ronnie said, laughing.  “He’s expecting a call from you, though, and there ain’t no way he’s taking that call at his place.  In about fifteen minutes one of his guys are gonna be at a payphone and you gotta make the call or you lose it all, y’dig?”

    “Phone’s right over there and we ain’t got no problems with wiretaps in this town.  Just give me the signal and I’ll make the call.”

    I had started picking at my chicken, which was actually a lot better than I thought it would’ve been, and wondering if this was another dead end when Cheri, who was eating by herself at the kitchen table, said, “Hey, don’t forget about the kids.  They still need to call their folks.”

    “Tell you what, give me fifteen minutes to call this guy and I’ll drive them home myself.  Don’t worry, kids, we’ll get you home before you know it.”

    Cheri shot a smile my way and I figured that as long as she was there I’d get my phone call, though I still wasn’t nuts about my mom coming to a pothead’s apartment to pick me up.  Anyway, I was encouraged enough to start digging into my chicken in earnest.

    “You gals are lucky you hooked up with me,” Davis said as he took a spot over by the kitchen sink.  “We’re about to get more money through this place than even you girls can spend, all the weed too.  I’m giving you all this, plus you gals get to screw me, I’m telling you, you’ve got it made.”

    Cheri shot a look at Davis like he was weird, and from her place on the couch, Jolene said, “Keep believing yourself.”

    “You gonna touch that chicken?” Cheri asked pointing towards Davis’ plate.

    “Why d’you want to ruin my mood with really bad chicken?”

    Cheri took a chunk of potato off of her plate and threw it at him.  “Chicken cacciatore was your idea.”

    “They all can’t be winners.  Hey, Ronnie, want some really bad chicken?”

    “Hey, Raylene, want some really bad chicken?” Cheri asked, making a move towards Davis’ plate.

    Davis held up a fork like it was a knife and pointed towards Cheri.  “Touch it and you’ll lose a hand.”

    “So you like my chicken.”

    Davis didn’t get a chance to answer because suddenly there was a loud knock at the door, the type of thumping you’d expect from a cop, and a voice came from behind door, yelling, “Davis, you in there?”

    “Great,” Jolene said, “Gunslinger Glen’s here.”

    “Nobody’s home,” Davis yelled towards the door.

    This only made the thumping louder.  “Davis, I know you’re in there.  I’ve gotta talk to you.”

    “Jesus, Davis,” Ronnie said.  “If he pounds any louder the cops’ll be here.”

    “I don’t care, I got nothing here.  If anything they’ll take the problem away.”

    “Black dude, small honkey white town.  See any problems there?”

    Davis rolled his eyes and started walking towards the door.  “If you keep thumping I’m going to do some thumping of my own.”

    He opened up the door quickly and behind it there was this skinny thing in a blue Mott the Hoople t-shirt and patched up flare-legged jeans.  He had this long, dirty black hair that was plastered to his head and eyes that looked like they were seeing the scariest ghost in the world.

    “What can you possibly want?” Davis asked as he opened the door.

    “I need to talk to you.  About Shana.”

    “Yeah?  What’s Shana’s problem?”

    “She ain’t doing too well, man, she needs some help.”

    “We all need help, Jason.  The only way I give out your kind of help is if I get paid.  Now, you got any dough?”

    “Man, you don’t get it.  I don’t think Shana’s going to make it if she don’t get something soon.  You know I’m good for it. . .”

    “You’re good for what, Jason?”

    “I’m gonna get the money and you’re gonna get paid.”

    “Do you have any dough now?”

    “No, man. . .”

    “No dough no dope.  That’s the rule and everyone knows it.”

    “Hey, Davis,” Ronnie said, pointing towards his watch.  “We gotta do this.”

    “Sorry, Jason, I’ve got business to take care of.  If you ain’t got any money you might want to take her to a doctor.  Or the hospital, I don’t care.  But she ain’t my problem.”

    “Come on, Davis, don’t be like this. . .”

    “You got that number for me?”  Davis asked Ronnie, ignoring the dopehead’s whining.

    “Here you go, my man,” Ronnie said, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket.

    “Don’t forget about the kids,” Cheri said, poking Davis as she’d begun to pick up the dishes.

    “Don’t worry about it,” Davis said in an exaggerated way as he dialed the numbers.

    “Hey, I ain’t done talking to you,” Jason started walking toward the kitchen.

    “Go home,” Davis said at Jason, then into the phone.  “Hello.  Hello, is this, uh,. . .”

    “Malcolm,” Ronnie whispered to him.

    “Malcolm?” Davis repeated into the phone, and then listened.

    “I can’t believe you’re gonna make me do this again,” and pulled the gun that Raylene has promised out of his pocket.  It wasn’t as old as what she’d said, but it certainly wasn’t a new one.  From where I was sitting it looked like an old Colt Python that had seen better days.  For his part, old Gunslinger Glen didn’t seem too sure of the thing himself, because I could see him shaking as he pointed the gun at Davis.

    “Oh, for God’s sake.  Are you stupid or something?” Raylene asked, laughing just a little bit, but I could sense Jolene tensing up.

    “Get out of here,” Ronnie said towards Jason.  “If you screw this up we’ll both kick your butt.”

    “Shana needs help. . .”

    “Get Shana to a doctor, just get out of here.”

    “Yeah, all of that is right,” Davis was saying into the phone, getting visibly angrier by the second.

    “Do you know what they’re gonna do to her if she goes to a hospital?”

    “I don’t care.  Just get out of here.”

    “Where would you want a face-to-face?”

    “Honkey’s gonna get himself hurt,” Raylene said, leaning forward in her chair.

    “He needs to get that gun out of here,” Jolene said, and she was finally looking up from the puzzle book.

    Instead of retreating, Jason held the gun a little closer to Davis’ face.  “I ain’t leaving until I get something to help Shana out.”

    “You’re gonna leave here in a body bag.  Listen, this dude doesn’t even have any junk here, he couldn’t give you anything if he would.”

    “But he’s got some somewhere around here and I’ll follow him wherever I have to, Shana needs the junk.”

    Davis held one finger in his ear and continued to try to talk into the phone.  “Yeah, I know where the market is.  How far are you away from there?  What?”

    “Dude, if I’ve gotta come over there and take that gun from you you ain’t gonna like where I put it.”

    “Just give me what I want and I’ll leave.”

    “Hold it,” Davis said into the phone, then putting a hand over the speaker, he said, “will you get out of here?  If I’ve gotta get off this phone you’ll be in the hospital with Shana.”

    “Shana ain’t going to the hospital.”

    “Then you’ll be there all by yourself.”

    “I ain’t leaving.”

    “Sorry,” Davis said into the phone and started mumbling about whatever it was he was talking about.

    “I need some ice cream,” Raylene said suddenly, obviously having gotten bored with Gunslinger Glen.  “You got any ice cream around here, Cheri.”

    “I think Davis bought some butter pecan a couple of days ago.  But don’t eat it all, he loves his butter pecan.”

    “I ain’t gonna eat it all.  I just need a little ice cream.  How about you, hon, you want some butter pecan ice cream?”

    She was talking towards me, but I was still sitting there with half-eaten chicken on the plate on my lap.  Besides, I wasn’t as comfortable with the guy waving the gun around the room as everybody else but Toadstool and maybe Jolene seemed to be.  Still, I mumbled, “Okay.”

    “Okay, that’s good, I’ll wait,” Davis was saying into the phone.

    “What’s he saying?” Ronnie asked.

    “We’re just trying to set up a face-to-face so he can talk to me about my setup.  It’s good, I guess.  The guy’s not really giving me any idea whether he likes me or not.”

    “That’s how they are, man.  Trust me, we’ve got everything set up.  All he’s got to do is see if you’re somebody he can trust, but he trusts me and I can vouch for you.”

    “Hey,” Jason said, waving the gun a little closer to Davis’ face.

    “Yeah, but it’s me by myself here,” Davis said to Ronnie.  “I don’t know how good I feel about going downtown to meet an entire goon squad.”

    “It ain’t gonna be like that.  Besides, you got people.  Bring some of your hayseed boys down to the city to back you up, they’ll respect that.”

    “Yeah, but on their turf.  And I’m about as out of place there as you are here.  I like it, I just need some guarantees. . .”

    “Hey,” Jason said, moving the gun a little closer to Davis’ face and shaking worse than before.  “I’m still here! I need that stuff!”

    Davis made a motion to swat the gun out of face.  “Get that damned thing out of my face.”

    “Here, I used about half of what you got for me and the kid,” Raylene was saying to Cheri.  “Is that okay?”

    Pop!



    I read somewhere not too long ago about how the eyes basically act like cameras for the brain, that the eyes take pictures and the brain acts like a big photo album.  It’s why, when you’re watching TV late at night in a dark room and you shut your eyes you can still see the image for a second, because the light is so intense against the dark that it stays with the receptive part of the eyes.  I know that it works with light, but I’ve always wondered whether that works with the intensity of the moment as well.  Because in all the years since I was in that small apartment in Jennings, IL, I can still remember that moment in exact detail, where everybody was, what they were doing and what their reaction was.  I know that there’s no way things took as long as what my mind tells me they did, in fact I don’t think it could’ve lasted any longer than an instant and I know I didn’t have 360 degree vision.  Yet, in my mind I see everything happening for that instant, but the most important thing I remember is seeing the stuff that held the thoughts and personality of the guy I knew as Davis splattered all over the kitchen wall like an overripe tomato thrown off a skyscraper rooftop.  And, of all the people who were standing in the room in that moment, nobody was more surprised than the guy they called Gunslinger Glen.

    As much as that moment is chiseled into my memory, and maybe because it was so intense, everything that happened immediately afterwards is nothing but a blur.  Somehow everybody wound up running down the stairs, and I don’t know if I started running on my own or if somebody grabbed me and I started running with them, I just don’t know.  All I know was that I was on the stairs and all of a sudden I was outside and everybody was running every which direction.

    Did I mention that I could run fast?  Not so much anymore, I honestly don’t think I have any cartilage left in my knees.  But back in the day, back when I weighed about as much as a hummingbird, I could fly.  I would’ve done pretty good on the track team if there weren’t so many basketball goons on it.  I didn’t really want to join if I’d be spending the entire season constantly being thrown into a locker.  Anyway, as fast as I could run normally, I don’t think there was a time in my life that I ran faster than I did that night.  I didn’t have a direction or a plan or any inkling as to where I might be headed, I just ran by instinct in a straight line down the main drag in Jennings.  It was early evening and there was still a little moisture in the air left over from the rain, add to that the fact that the temperature had cooled down a bit and the streets were nearly empty of people on a Sunday night and, under normal circumstances, the run might’ve felt pretty good.  Instead, all I could think of was keeping my feet moving while watching the main drag of Jennings move past me until my lungs were bursting and I had stitches in my side so bad it felt like I’d been stabbed by a machete.

    Obviously, I didn’t know where I was when I stumbled to a stop.  I think I was headed back in the way of the church but there’s no way I’d ever know.  All I know is that when I stopped I’d never been more scared in my life and I thought I could hear myself sobbing a little over my ragged breathing.  I don’t know what I was blubbering about, whether it was the fact that I’d run so fast that there’s was no way that Toadstool could catch up with me (and I was beginning to realize that, between the two of us, he had two-thirds of the brainpower) or that I’d gotten that much closer to getting mom on the phone just to watch it all go to pieces again.  But it was probably the dead body lying on the kitchen floor of that upstairs apartment in the midst of town.  I don’t think I’d ever seen a dead body before, at least not that I remember.  Even when dad died the casket had been closed so I couldn’t see him.  But this was a guy who was living and talking and doing all the things most humans do one moment and then in one crazy moment. . .

    Anyway, like I said, I’m not sure how far I’d run, but my legs were rubber by this point and my lungs felt like they’d blown up.  My throat was dry and raspy and I darned near drank some water from one of the puddles that was still in the street before thinking better of it.  I leaned against a tree and tried to compose myself and think straight.  That entire weekend I hadn’t really been that scared, not as long as I was with Toadstool, I guess because I had somebody with me I knew and I could talk to, even though we were screwing up most of the time.  But now, with Toadstool nowhere in sight, my brain was running a hundred miles a minute as I tried to figure out what I could do next.  Somewhere in the jumbled-up mess that were my thoughts at the time I remembered the church at the end of town and remembered that those holy-roller-type churches usually had some type of service on Sunday night.  I wouldn’t have Brother Mendenhall to introduce who I was or anything but I’d always known holy rollers to be the helpful type if you just told them you loved Jesus, and I certainly would if I could get a trip home.

    Part of me was worried about Toadstool, of course.  As slow as he was I’m pretty sure he was the last one out the door, so if the cops got wind of anything they’d probably have him by now.  What kept gnawing at the back of my mind, though, was the question of whether he had been taken away as insurance by one of the people in the apartment.  There’d be nothing to worry about from any of those girls, I figured, but Ronnie seemed to be pretty fidgety about being in small-town Illinois and that Gunslinger Glen guy was this shy of being crazy and would be looking at murder charges if enough people (namely the girls) talked.  As much as this worried me, I realized there was nothing I could do about it at the moment, so I decided to start making my way in what I thought was the direction of the church.

    I finally mustered enough strength to get off of that tree and started towards the church.  I was still in those ugly, hot clothes and I was sweating badly from all that running so, despite the cooler air, I still felt uncomfortable.  I couldn’t get the thought of Toadstool maybe being in a car headed towards St. Louis at that moment and, if that were true, I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again or how I’d explain things to his mom.  I also started thinking about what I might do if there was no Sunday night service at the Solid Rock Pentecostal Church of Jennings, IL.  I thought about hitchhiking but I’d heard horror stories about it and I’d never known anybody who’d actually hitchhiked, at least not that far and especially at night and besides which, I still didn’t actually know which way Garen was from Jennings.  I was so deep in thought about all this stuff that I barely heard somebody shouting “Hey, kid!” behind me, which is why I was so shocked when I turned around and saw that big police car parked behind me with the officer getting out of it.

    I didn’t want to answer any questions about Davis’ murder, I didn’t want to explain why that Volkswagen had been wrecked into a tree and for all I knew Nettie’s dad had decided to file some sort of charges against me and Toadstool for assault or something.  I’m not sure any of these things went through my head when I saw that cop; I just knew I didn’t want to speak to him, so I took off running again away from the main drag.  Now under normal circumstances I’d have left that cop in the dust and found a decent place to hide until the cop gave up just like I did with those farmboys but I’d already ran God knows how far and my side was still hurting and I found that I was still sobbing a little bit, which wasn’t’ helping with my breathing at all.  Worse, I was headed towards a dead end on and as my eyes were all teared-up, I couldn’t see the ditch at the end of the street that I stumbled into.  I made a few desperate attempts to get up and out of it, but the cop was on me pretty quickly and I was in such a state of panic that I didn’t notice that he called me by my full name.  Finally I just allowed myself to fall back into the ditch and I think I yelled out a confession of all my crimes to the officer but because I was pretty much hysterical there was no way he could understand me, which was probably a good thing.

    “Phil, son, it’s okay,” the officer was saying.  “You can go home now.

    I looked at him for a moment, not really comprehending what he was telling me, and I stopped yelling and tried to control my breathing, which is when he extended his hand down to lift me out of the ditch.

    “Your mom and sister are at the police station waiting for you.  I take it you’ve been through a pretty rough ordeal but you’ll be headed home soon.”

Toadstool and the Dreamer, Chapter 11  (13+) In which the boys find their way safely home. #1911301 by Ben Simon