Rock Island Line David Rhodes (ereader iphone .txt) 📖

them down into the round center of the other bills already in the jar. They unraveled partway and expanded. Again, almost as badly as a week ago, he wanted to take all the money out and count it, but he held himself back and quickly resealed and reburied the jar for fear he might lose control. He didn’t want to know for sure how much was there. He’d barely had enough time to forgetsince the last time he counted, and that was, let’s see . . . He fixed his mind away from figuring and relaid the tarp and blankets. He really didn’t have any idea what the money would be used for—if it would be used at all—but felt sure it would buy something—something big—something that, once he had it, would completely change his life. He went back to reading and daydreaming.

SEVEN

In the world of selling newspapers, a roamer is not universally well liked. Many times each day he will—by virtue of necessity sometimes—step on a part of the city which belongs to another paper barker, thus automatically drawing down that person’s economic potential by one half. Even if his intentions are to do nothing more than walk across the block in order to get to another, he’ll attract the malicious suspicions of the person who paid money for the sole privilege of working that part of the street. In most cases, it’s not even necessary to step on it. It is usually enough for most paper boys with stands, or spots on corners, just to see a roamer in order to flush up immediate thoughts of murder. After all, they figure, I’ve paid good money for this spot and it isn’t fair that someone like that should be allowed to go just anywhere he has a mind to. Though basically individualistic and tough-minded by nature, in this matter they were as uniform as a row of clean soldiers: they didn’t like roamers.

Because July Montgomery was aware such feelings existed, he went out of his way to keep from making his presence felt, though in complete honesty it was also true that he was guilty—on one or two occasions—of going out of his way to catch an opulent group of bus riders before a certain particularly unpleasant fellow would be able to get to his stand, thus completely gutting his early-morning market and leaving him stranded in his barren zone, his customers reading the sports page and munching doughnuts.

Earl Schmidt had a corner on 21st and Market, having bought it from Gary Snider who’d had it before him and paid $200 for it. It was a good corner, on several bus routes, near a quick order restaurant, and had a lot of traffic down both sides, and on Sundays he could make $20 shoving papers into the windowsof the cars. He was a year older than July, but short for his age, his hair chopped off in a fashion that his father, a labor leader, called a crew. He wasn’t allowed to have it any other way.

Earl didn’t like July. When July’d come that first day, his face as pale as a sheet, looking frightenedly, stupidly, around at all of them, wondering if there was work—from the first moment Earl’d thought, Now there’s a farmer if I ever saw one. Farthead. How’d you like somebody to kick your ass?

His first impressions of most people were not too good, but in July’s case they never improved. They actually got worse. And after July began working 21st and Market and once sold out a half-bundle there before Earl arrived, the mere sight of him made Earl seethe with rage. Twice, in front of the other boys who picked up their papers at the 24th Street pickup, he’d called him out, threatening and ridiculing him, but both times July’d backed down so graciously and with such humor that for the sake of his own good name Earl couldn’t press him further. This salted his private anger.

I’ll grind him up. Earl thought things like that to himself when he was alone. His hatred was so perfect, so single-minded, so completely pure hot, that it was almost a pleasure, and sometimes he would sip at it all morning. I’ll eat him alive and tear out his heart. Then after the cat began following July wherever he went, and even the others who didn’t like him because he was a roamer thought it was so cute, Earl could hardly keep from fainting at the sweetness of his loathing. Those days he couldn’t work, when his father had him enrolled in a once-a-week course offered by the Army called Command Tactics, most of all he missed that first glimpse of July when they all came together to get their papers off the truck.

He decided on an ambush. Every day for a month he thought to himself: Now, how is this going to be? What will I do? What will I say just before I flatten his face? Who do I want to be with me to watch? He set the stage for it many times, in many different places and would think it through, sweet, all the way up until hisfriends were dragging him away from the bloody mass of jelly, saying, OK, Earl, the little fucker got what he deserved, better not kill him. Jesus, your fists are like lightning. Then he’d begin it again, this time in a warehouse full of coffins, rain on the metal roof, July hearing his name called and freezing in fear.

“What I’m thinking is an ambush. We’ll get him just as he comes by that alley in back of Jack’s Place, and take him off down in there and . . .”

Al Decker and Marty Spinner looked at each other without any obvious expression, keeping away from Earl’s livid eyes. “Come on,” Al began, very cautiously, “just tell him to keep off your corner. Get as tough as you want to, but,