NO GAME FOR CHILDREN
Herbert Mestman was forty-one years old. He was six feet two inches tall and had suffered from one of the innumerable children’s diseases at the age of seven, leaving him with a build that was decidedly sink-chested and just barely slim to the point of emaciation. He had steel-gray hair and wore bifocals. It was his avocation, however, that most distinguished him from all other men: Herbert Mestman knew more about Elizabethan drama than anyone else in the country. Perhaps even in the world.
He knew the prototypes and finest examples of that genre of drama known as the ‘chronicle history.’ He knew Marlowe and Shakespeare (and believed firmly the original spelling had been Shexpeer), he was on recitation terms with Dekker and Massinger. His familiarity with Philaster and Jonson’s The Alchemist bordered on mania. He was, in essence, the perfect scholar of the drama of Elizabeth’s period. No slightest scrap of vague biographical or bibliographical data escaped him; he had written the most complete biography—of what little was known—on the life of John Webster, with a lucid and fantastically brilliant erratum handling all early versions of The Duchess of Malfi.
Herbert Mestman lived in a handsome residential section in an inexpensive but functional split-level he owned without mortgage. There are cases where erudition pays handsomely. His position with the University was such a case, coupled with his tie-up on the Britannica’s staff.
He was married, and Margaret was his absolute soulmate. She was slim, with small breasts, naturally curly brown hair, and an accent only vaguely reminiscent of her native Kent. Her legs were long and her wit warmly dry. Her eyes were a moist brown and her mouth small. She was in every way a handsome and desirable woman.
Herbert Mestman led a sedentary life, a placid life, a life filled with the good things: Marlowe, Scarlatti, aquavit, Paul McCobb, Peter Van Bleeck, and Margaret.
He was a peaceful man. He had served as a desk adjutant to the Staff Judge Advocate of a small southern Army post during the Second World War, and had barely managed to put the Korean Conflict from his notice by burying himself in historical tomes. He abhorred violence in any form, despised the lurid moments of television and Walt Disney, and saved his money scrupulously, but not miserly.
He was well-liked in the neighborhood.
And—
Frenchie Murrow was seventeen years old. He was five feet eight inches tall and liked premium beer. He didn’t know the diff, but he dug premium. He was broad in the shoulders and wasped at the waist. The broads dug him neat. He had brown hair that he wore duck-ass, with a little spit erupting from the front pompadour to fall Tony Curtis-lackadaisical over his forehead. He hit school when there wasn’t any scene better to make, and his ’51 Stude had a full-race cam coupled to a ’55 Caddy engine. He had had to move back the fire wall to do the soup job, and every chromed part was kept free of dust and grease with fanatical care. The dual muffs sounded like a pair of mastiffs clearing their throats when he burned rubber scudding away from the Dairy Mart.
Frenchie dug Paul Anka and Ricky Nelson, Frankie Avalon and Bill Haley. His idols were Mickey Mantle, Burt Lancaster (and he firmly believed that was the way to treat women), Tom McCahill, and his big brother Ernie who was a specialist third class in Germany with the Third Infantry Division.
Frenchie Murrow lived in a handsome residential section in an inexpensive but functional split-level his old man had a double mortgage on. His old man had been a fullback for Duke many years before, and more green had been shelled out on the glass case in the den—to hold the trophies—than had been put into securities and the bank account.
Frenchie played it cool. He occasionally ran with a clique of rodders known as the Throttle-Boppers, and his slacks were pegged at a fantastic six inches, so that he had difficulty removing them at night.
He handled a switch with ease, because, like man, he knew he could do with it.
He was despised and feared in the neighborhood.
Herbert Mestman lived next door to Frenchie Murrow.
HERBERT MESTMAN
He caught the boy peering between the slats of the venetian blind late one Saturday night, and it was only the start of it.
‘You, there! What are you doing there?’
The boy had bolted at the sound of his voice, and as his head had come up, Mestman had shone the big flashlight directly into the face. It was that Bruce Murrow, the kid from next door, with his roaring hot rod all the time.
Then Murrow had disappeared around the corner of the house, and Herb Mestman stood on the damp grass peculiarly puzzled and angry.
‘Why, the snippy little Peeping Tom,’ he heard himself exclaim. And, brandishing the big eight-cell battery, he strode around the hedge, into Arthur Murrow’s front yard.
Margaret had been right there in the bedroom. She had been undressing slowly, after a wonderful evening at the University’s organ recital, and had paused nervously, calling to him softly: ‘Oh there, Herb.’
He had come in from the bathroom, where the water still ran into the sink; he carried a toothbrush spread with paste. ‘Yes, dear?’
‘Herb, you’re going to think I’m barmy, but I could swear someone is looking through the window.’ She stood in the center of the bedroom, her slip in her hand, and made an infinitesimal head movement toward the venetian blind. She made no move to cover herself.
‘Out there, Margaret? Someone out there?’ A ring of fascinated annoyance sounded in his voice. It was a new conception; who would be peering through his bedroom window? Correction: his and his wife’s bedroom window. ‘Stay here a moment, dear. Put on your robe, but don’t leave the room.’
He went back into the hall, slipped into the guest room and found an old pair of paint-spattered pants in the spare closet. He slipped them on, and made his way through the house to the basement steps. He descended and quickly found the long flashlight.
Upstairs once more, he opened the front door gingerly, and stepped into the darkness. He had made his way through the dew-lipped grass around the house till he had seen the dark, dim form crouched there, face close to the pane of glass, peeking between the blind’s slats.
Then he had called, flashed the light, and seen it was Arthur Murrow’s boy, the one they called Frenchie.
Now he stood rapping conservatively but brusquely on the front door that was identical to his own. From within he could hear the sounds of someone moving about. Murrow’s house showed black, dead windows. They’ve either got that television going in the den, or they’re in bed, he thought ruefully. Which is where I should be. Then he added mentally, That disgusting adolescent!
A light went on in the living room, and Mestman saw a shape glide behind the draperies drawn across the picture window. Then there was a fumbling at the latch, and Arthur Murrow threw open the door.
He was a big man; big in the shoulders, and big in the hips, with the telltale pot-belly of the ex-football star who has not done his seventy sit-ups every day since he graduated.
Murrow looked out blearily, and focused with some difficulty in the dark. Finally, ‘Uh? Yeah, what’s up, Mestman?’
‘I caught your son looking into my bedroom window a few minutes ago, Murrow. I’d like to talk to him if he’s around.’
‘What’s that? What are you talking about, your bedroom window? Bruce has been in bed for over an hour.’
‘I’d like to speak to him, Murrow.’
‘Well, goddammit, you’re not going to speak to him! You know what time it is, Mestman? We don’t all keep crazy hours like you professors. Some of us hold down nine-to-five jobs that make us beat! This whole thing is stupid. I saw Bruce go up to bed.’
‘Now listen to me, Mr Murrow, I saw—’
Murrow’s face grew beefy red. ‘Get the hell out of here, Mestman. I’m sick up to here,’ he slashed at his throat with a finger, ‘with you lousy intellectuals bothering us. I don’t know what you’re after, but we don’t want any part of it. Now scram, before I deck you!’
The door slamme
d anticlimactically in Herbert Mestman’s face. He stood there just long enough to see the shape retreat past the window, and the living-room light go off. As he made his way back to his own house, he saw another light go on in Murrow’s house.
In the room occupied by Bruce.
The window, at jumping-height, was wide open.
FRENCHIE MURROW
Bruce Murrow tooled the Studelac into the curb, revved the engine twice to announce his arrival, and cut the ignition. He slid out of the car, pulling down at the too-tight crotch of his chinos, and walked across the sidewalk into the malt shop. The place was a bedlam of noise and moving bodies.
‘Hey, Monkey!’ he called to a slack-jawed boy in a stud-encrusted black leather jacket. The boy looked up from the comic book. ‘Like cool it, man. My ears, y’know? Sit.’ Frenchie slid into the booth opposite Monkey, and reached for the deck of butts lying beside the empty milk-shake glass.
Without looking up from the comic book Monkey reached out and slapped the other’s hand from the cigarettes. ‘You’re old enough to smoke, you’re old enough to buy yer own,’ he commented, thrusting the pack into his shirt pocket.
He went back to the comic.
Frenchie’s face clouded, then cleared. This wasn’t some stud punky from uptown. This was Monkey, and he was prez of the Laughing Princes. He had to play it cool with Monkey.
Besides, there was a reason to be nice to this creep. He needed him.
To get that Mestman cat next door.
Frenchie’s thoughts returned to this morning, when the old man had accosted him on the way to the breakfast table:
‘Were you outside last night?’
‘Like when last night, Pop?’
‘Don’t play cute with me, Bruce. Were you over to Mestman’s house, looking in his windows?’
‘Man, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’
‘Don’t call me “man”! I’m your father!’
‘Okay, so okay. Don’t panic. I don’t know nothin’ about Mr Mestman.’
‘You were in bed?’
‘Like I was in bed. Right.’
And that had been that. But can you imagine! That bastard Mestman, coming over and squeaking on him. Making trouble in the brood, just when the old man was forgetting the dough he’d had to lay out for that crack-up and the Dodge’s busted grille. Well, nobody played the game with Frenchie Murrow and got away with it. He’d show that creep Mestman. So here he was, and there Monkey was, and—
‘Hey, man, you wanna fall down on some laughs?’
Monkey did not look up. He turned the page slowly, and his brow furrowed at the challenge of the new set of pictures. ‘Like what kinda laughs?’
‘How’d you like to heist a short?’
‘Whose?’
‘Does it matter? I mean, like a car’s a car, man.’
Monkey dropped the comic book. His mongoloid face came up, and his intense little black eyes dug into Frenchie’s blue ones. ‘What’s with you, kid? You tryin’ ta bust the scene? You want in the Princes, that it?’
‘Hell, I—’
‘Well, blow, Jack. We told ya couple times; you don’t fit, man. We got our own bunch, we don’t dig no cats from the other end of town. Blow, will ya? Ya bother me.’
Frenchie got up and stared down at Monkey. This was part of it; these slobs. They ran the damned town, and they wouldn’t take him in. He was as good as any of them. In fact, he was better.
Didn’t he live in a bigger house? Didn’t he have his own souped short? Didn’t he always have bread to spread around on the chicks? He felt like slipping his switch out of his high boot-top and sliding it into Monkey.
But the Laughing Princes were around, and they’d cream him good if he tried.
He left the malt shop. He’d show those slobs. He’d get old busybody Mestman himself. He wouldn’t bother with just swiping Mestman’s crate either. He’d really give him trouble.
Frenchie coasted around town for an hour, letting the fury build in him.
It was four thirty by the car’s clock, and he knew he couldn’t do anything in broad daylight. So he drove across town to Joannie’s house. Her old lady was working the late shift at the pants factory, and she was minding the kid brother. He made sure the blinds were drawn.
Joannie thought it was the greatest thing ever came down the Pike. And only sixteen, too.
HERBERT MESTMAN
There was something about orange sherbet that made an evening festive. Despite the fact that no one these days ate real ice cream, that everyone was willing to settle for the imitation Dairy Squish stuff that was too sweet and had no real body, Herbert and his wife had found one small grocery that stocked orange sherbet—in plastic containers—especially for them. They devoured a pint of it every other night. It had become a very important thing to them.
Every other night at seven thirty, Herbert Mestman left his house and drove the sixteen blocks to the little grocery, just before it closed. There he bought his orange sherbet, and returned in time to catch the evening modern classics program pulled in on their FM, from New York City.
It was a constant pleasure to them.
This night was no different. He pulled the door closed behind him, walked to the carport, and climbed into the dusty Plymouth. He was not one for washing the car too often. It was to be driven, not to make an impression. He backed out of the drive and headed down the street.
Behind him, at the curb, two powerful headlamps cut on, and a car moved out of the darkness, following him.
It was not till he had started up the hill leading to that section of town called ‘The Bluffs’ that Herbert realized he was being tailed. Even then he would have disbelieved any such possibility had he not glanced down at his speedometer and realized he was going ten miles over the legal limit on the narrow road. Was the car behind a police vehicle, pacing him? He slowed.
The other car slowed.
He grew worried. A twenty dollar fine was nothing to look forward to. He pulled over, to allow the other car to pass. The other car stopped also. Then it was that he knew he was being followed.
The other car started up first however. And as he ground away from the shoulder, the town spreading out beneath the road on the right-hand slope, he sensed something terribly wrong.
The other car was gaining.
He speeded up himself, but it seemed as though he was standing still. The other car came up fast in his mirror, and, the next thing he knew, the left-hand lane was blocked by a dark shape. He threw a fast glance across, and in the dim lights of the other car’s dash, he could see the adolescently devilish face of Frenchie Murrow.
So that was it! He could not fathom why the boy was doing this, but for whatever reason, he was endangering both their lives. As they sped up the road, around the blind curves, their headlight shafts shooting out into emptiness as they rounded each turn, Mestman felt the worm of terror begin its journey. They would crash. They would lock fenders and plummet over the side, through the flimsy guard railing…and it was hundreds of feet into the bowl below.
The town’s lights winked dimly from black depths.
Or, and he knew it was going to be that, finally, a car would come down the—
Two spots of brightness merged with their own lights. A car was on its way down. He tried to speed up. The boy kept alongside.
And then the Studebaker was edging nearer. Coming closer, till he was sure they would scrape. But they did not touch. Mestman threw a glance across and it was as though hell shone out of Frenchie Murrow’s young eyes. Then the road was illuminated by the car coming down, and Frenchie Murrow cut his car hard into Mestman’s lane.
Herb Mestman slammed at the brake pedal. The Plymouth heaved and bucked like a live thing, screeched in the lane, and slowed.
Frenchie Murrow cut into the lane, and sped out of sight around the curve.
The bakery truck came down the hill and passed Mestman where he was stalled, with a gigantic whoosh!
FRENCHIE
MURROW
This wasn’t no game for kids, and at least old man Mestman realized that. He hadn’t spilled the beans to Pop about that drag on the Bluffs Road. He had kept it under his lid, and if Frenchie had not hated Mestman so much—already identifying him as a symbol of authority and adult obnoxiousness—he would have respected him.
Frenchie held the cat aloft, and withdrew the switchblade from his boot-top.
The cat shrieked at the first slash, and writhed maniacally in the boy’s grasp. But the third stroke did it, severing the head almost completely from the body.
Frenchie threw the dead cat on to Mestman’s breezeway, where he had found it sleeping.
Let the old sonofabitch play with that for a while.
He cut out, and wound up downtown.
For a long moment he thought he was being watched, thought he recognized the old green Plymouth that had turned the corner as he paused before the entrance to the malt shop. But he put it from his mind, and went inside. The place was quite empty, except for the jerk. He climbed on to a stool and ordered a chocolate coke. Just enough to establish an alibi for the time; time enough to let Mestman find his scuddy cat.