CHAPTER THREE
The drive home was a bitter experience. Jimmy was sullen, and very quiet.He refused to answer any question and he made no reply to any statement.Paul Brennan kept up a running chatter of pleasantries, of promises andplans for their future, and just enough grief to make it sound honest.Had Paul Brennan actually been as honest as his honeyed tones said hewas, no one could have continued to accuse him. But no one is moredifficult to fool than a child--even a normal child. Paul Brennan'sprotestations simply made Jimmy Holden bitter.
He sat silent and unhappy in the far corner of the front seat all the wayhome. In his mind was a nameless threat, a dread of what would come oncethey were inside--either inside of Paul Brennan's apartment or inside ofhis own home--with the door locked against the outside world.
But when they arrived, Paul Brennan continued his sympathetic attitude.To Jimmy it was sheer hypocrisy; he was not experienced enough to knowthat a person can commit an act and then convince himself that he hadn't.
"Jimmy," said Brennan softly, "I have not the faintest notion ofpunishment. None whatsoever. You ruined your father's great invention.You did that because you thought it was right. Someday when you changeyour mind and come to believe in me, I'll ask you to replace it because Iknow you can. But understand me, young man, I shall not ask you until youmake the first suggestion yourself!"
Jimmy remained silent.
"One more thing," said Brennan firmly. "Don't try that stunt with theletter to the station agent again. It won't work twice. Not in this townnor any other for a long, long time. I've made a sort of family-news itemout of it which hit a lot of daily papers. It'll also be in the companypapers of all the railroads and buslines, how Mr. What's-his-name at theMidland Railroad got suckered by a five-year-old running away from home.Understand?"
Jimmy understood but made no sign.
"Then in September we'll start you in school," said Brennan.
This statement made no impression upon young James Holden whatsoever. Hehad no intention of enduring this smothering by overkindness any longerthan it took him to figure out how to run away, and where to run to. Itwas going to be a difficult thing. Cruel treatment, torture, physicalharm were one thing; this act of being a deeply-concerned guardian wassomething else. A twisted arm he could complain about, a bruise he couldshow, the scars of lashing would give credence to his tale. But who wouldlisten to any complaint about too much kindness?
Six months of this sort of treatment and Jimmy Holden himself would beginto believe that his parents were monsters, coldly stuffing information inthe head of an infant instead of letting him grow through a normalchildhood. A year, and Jimmy Holden would be re-creating his father'sreverberation circuit out of sheer gratitude. He'd be cajoled intosigning his own death-warrant.
But where can a five-year-old hide? There was no appeal to the forces oflaw and order. They would merely pop him into a squad car and deliver himto his guardian.
Law and order were out. His only chance was to lose himself in some grayhinterland where there were so many of his own age that no one could keeptrack of them all. Whether he would succeed was questionable. But untilhe tried, he wouldn't know, and Jimmy was desperate enough to tryanything.
He attended the funeral services with Paul Brennan. But while the pastorwas invoking Our Heavenly Father to accept the loving parents of orphanedJames, James the son left the side of his "Uncle" Paul Brennan, who kneltin false piety with his eyes closed.
Jimmy Holden had with him only his clothing and what was left of the wadof paper money from his father's cashbox still pinned to the inside ofhis shirt.
This time Jimmy did not ride in style. Burlap sacks covered him whennight fell; they dirtied his clothing and the bottom of the freight carscuffed his shoes. For eighteen hours he hid in the jolting darkness, notknowing and caring less where he was going, so long as it was away!
He was hungry and thirsty by the time the train first began to slow down.It was morning--somewhere. Jimmy looked furtively out of the slit at theedge of the door to see that the train was passing through a region ofcottages dusted black by smoke, through areas of warehouse and factory,through squalor and filth and slum; and vacant lots where the spread ofthe blight area had been so fast that the outward improvement had nottime to build. Eventually the scene changed to solid areas of railroadtrack, and the trains parked there thickened until he could no longersee the city through them.
Ultimately the train stopped long enough for Jimmy to squeeze out throughthe slit at the edge of the door.
The train went on and Jimmy was alone in the middle of some huge city.He walked the noisome sidewalk trying to decide what he should do next.Food was of high importance, but how could he get it without attractingattention to himself? He did not know. But finally he reasoned that ahot dog wagon would probably take cash from a youngster without askingembarrassing questions, so long as the cash wasn't anything larger thana five-dollar bill.
He entered the next one he came to. It was dirty; the windows heldseveral years' accumulation of cooking grease, but the aroma was terrificto a young animal who'd been without food since yesterday afternoon.
The counterman did not like kids, but he put away his dislike at thesight of Jimmy's money. He grunted when Jimmy requested a dog, tossed oneon the grill and went back to reading his newspaper until some innersense told him it was cooked. Jimmy finished it still hungry and askedfor another. He finished a third and washed down the whole mass with atall glass of highly watered orange juice. The counterman took his moneyand was very careful about making the right change; if this dirty kid hadswiped the five-spot, it could be the counterman's problem of explainingto someone why he had overcharged. Jimmy's intelligence told him thatcountermen in a joint like this didn't expect tips, so he saved himselfthat hurdle. He left the place with a stomach full of food that only theindestructible stomach of a five-year-old could handle and now, fed andreasonably content, Jimmy began to seek his next point of contact.
He had never been in a big city before. The sheer number of human beingsthat crowded the streets surpassed his expectations. The traffic was notpersonally terrifying, but it was so thick that Jimmy Holden wondered howpeople drove without colliding. He knew about traffic lights and walkedwith the green, staying out of trouble. He saw groups of small childrenplaying in the streets and in the empty lots. Those not much older thanhimself were attending school.
He paused to watch a group of children his own age trying to playbaseball with a ragged tennis ball and the handle from a broom. It was ahelter-skelter game that made no pattern but provided a lot of fun andscreaming. He was quite bothered by a quarrel that came up; two of hisown age went at one another with tiny fists flying, using words thatJimmy hadn't learned from his father's machine.
He wondered how he might join them in their game. But they paid him noattention, so he didn't try.
At lunchtime Jimmy consumed another collection of hot dogs. He continuedto meander aimlessly through the city until schooltime ended, then he sawthe streets and vacant lots fill with older children playing games withmore pattern to them. It was a new world he watched, a world that had notbeen a part of his education. The information he owned was that of theschool curriculum; it held nothing of the daily business of growing up.He knew the general rules of big-league baseball, but the kid-business ofstickball did not register.
He was at a complete loss. It was sheer chance and his own tremendouscuriosity that led him to the edge of a small group that were busilyengaged in the odd process of trying to jack up the front of a car.
It wasn't a very good jack; it should have had the weight of a full adultagainst the handle. The kids strained and put their weight on the jack,but the handle wouldn't budge though their feet were off the ground.
Here was the place where academic information would be useful--and thechance for an "in." Jimmy shoved himself into the small group and said,"Get a longer handle."
They turned on him suspiciously.
"Whatcha
know about it?" demanded one, shoving his chin out.
"Get a longer handle," repeated Jimmy. "Go ahead, get one."
"G'wan--"
"Wait, Moe. Maybe--"
"Who's he?"
"I'm Jimmy."
"Jimmy who?"
"Jimmy--James." Academic information came up again. "Jimmy. Like thejimmy you use on a window."
"Jimmy James. Any relation to Jesse James?"
James Quincy Holden now told his first whopper. "I," he said, "am hisgrandson."
The one called Moe turned to one of the younger ones. "Get a longerhandle," he said.
While the younger one went for something to use as a longer handle, Moeinvited Jimmy to sit on the curb. "Cigarette?" invited Moe.
"I don't smoke," said Jimmy.
"Sissy?"
Adolescent-age information looking out through five-year-old eyes assayedMoe. Moe was about eight, maybe even nine; taller than Jimmy but noheavier. He had a longer reach, which was an advantage that Jimmy did notcare to hazard. There was no sure way to establish physical superiority;Jimmy was uncertain whether any show of intellect would be welcome.
"No," he said. "I'm no sissy. I don't like 'em."
Moe lit a cigarette and smoked with much gesturing and flickings of ashesand spitting at a spot on the pavement. He was finished when the youngerone came back with a length of water pipe that would fit over the handleof the jack.
The car went up with ease. Then came the business of removing the hubcapand the struggle to loose the lugbolts. Jimmy again suggested theapplication of the length of pipe. The wheel came off.
"C'mon, Jimmy," said Moe. "We'll cut you in."
"Sure," nodded Jimmy Holden, willing to see what came next so long as itdid not have anything to do with Paul Brennan. Moe trundled the car wheeldown the street, steering it with practiced hands. A block down and ablock around that corner, a man with a three-day growth of whiskersstopped a truck with a very dirty license plate. Moe stopped and theman jumped out of the truck long enough to heave the tire and wheel intothe back.
The man gave Moe a handful of change which Moe distributed among thelittle gang. Then he got in the truck beside the driver and waved forJimmy to come along.
"What's that for?" demanded the driver.
"He's a smarty pants," said Moe. "A real good one."
"Who're you?"
"Jimmy--James."
"What'cha do, kid?"
"What?"
"Moe, what did this kid sell you?"
"You and your rusty jacks," grunted Moe. "Jimmy James here told us how toput a long hunk of pipe on the handle."
"Jimmy James, who taught you about leverage?" demanded the driversuspiciously.
Jimmy Holden believed that he was in the presence of an educated man."Archimedes," he said solemnly, giving it the proper pronunciation.
The driver said to Moe, "Think he's all right?"
"He's smart enough."
"Who're your parents, kid?"
Jimmy Holden realized that this was a fine time to tell the truth, butproperly diluted to taste. "My folks are dead," he said.
"Who you staying with?"
"No one."
The driver of the truck eyed him cautiously for a moment. "You escapedfrom an orphan asylum?"
"Uh-huh," lied Jimmy.
"Where?"
"Ain't saying."
"Wise, huh?"
"Don't want to get sent back," said Jimmy.
"Got a flop?"
"Flop?"
"Place to sleep for the night."
"No."
"Where'd you sleep last night?"
"Boxcar."
"Bindlestiff, huh?" roared the man with laughter.
"No, sir," said Jimmy. "I've no bindle."
The man's roar of laughter stopped abruptly. "You're a pretty wise kid,"he said thoughtfully.
"I told y' so," said Moe.
"Shut up," snapped the man. "Kid, do you want a flop for the night?"
"Sure."
"Okay. You're in."
"What's your name?" asked Jimmy.
"You call me Jake. Short for Jacob. Er--here's the place."
The "Place" had no other name. It was a junkyard. In it were car parts,wrecks with parts undamaged, whole motors rusting in the air, axles,wheels, differential assemblies and transmissions from a thousand cars ofa thousand different parentages. Hubcaps abounded in piles sorted to sizeand shape. Jake drove the little pickup truck into an open shed. The tireand wheel came from the back and went immediately into place on acomplicated gadget. In a couple of minutes, the tire was off the wheeland the inner tube was out of the casing. Wheel, casing, and inner tubeall went into three separate storage piles.
Not only a junkyard, but a stripper's paradise. Bring a hot car in hereand in a few hours no one could find it. Its separated parts would besold piece by piece and week by week as second-hand replacements.
Jake said, "Dollar-fifty."
"Two," said Moe.
"One seventy-five."
"Two."
"Go find it and put it back."
"Gimme the buck-six," grunted Moe. "Pretty cheap for a good shoe, awheel, and a sausage."
"Bring it in alone next time, and I'll slip you two-fifty. That gang youuse costs, too. Now scram, Jimmy James and I got business to talk over."
"He taking over?"
"Don't talk stupid. I need a spotter. You're too old, Moe. And if he'sany good, you gotta promotion coming."
"And if he ain't?"
"Don't come back!"
Moe eyed Jimmy Holden. "Make it good--Jimmy." There was malice in Moe'sface.
Jake looked down at Jimmy Holden. With precisely the same experiencedtechnique he used to estimate the value of a car loaded with road dirt,rust, and collision-smashed fenders, Jake stripped the child of thedirty clothing, the scuffed shoes, the mussed hair, and saw through tothe value beneath. Its price was one thousand dollars, offered with noquestions asked for information that would lead to the return of oneJames Quincy Holden to his legal guardian.
It wasn't magic on Jake's part. Paul Brennan had instantly offered areward. And Jake made it his business to keep aware of such matters.
How soon, wondered Jake, might the ante be raised to two Gee? Five? Andin the meantime, if things panned, Jimmy could be useful as a spotter.
"You afraid of that Moe punk, Jimmy?"
"No sir."
"Good, but keep an eye on him. He'd sell his mother for fifty cents clearprofit--seventy-five if he had to split the deal. Now, kid, do you knowanything about spotting?"
"No sir."
"Hungry?"
"Yes sir."
"All right. Come on in and we'll eat. Do you like Mulligan?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. You and me are going to get along."
Inside of the squalid shack, Jake had a cozy set-up. The filth that heencouraged out in the junkyard was not tolerated inside his shack. Thedividing line was halfway across the edge of the door; the inside was asclean, neat, and shining as the outside was squalid.
"You'll sleep here," said Jake, waving towards a small bedroom with asingle twin bunk. "You'll make yer own bed and take a shower everynight--or out! Understand?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. Now, let's have chow, and I'll tell you about this spottingbusiness. You help me, and I'll help you. One blab and back you go towhere you came from. Get it?"
"Yes sir."
And so, while the police of a dozen cities were scouring their beats fora homeless, frightened five-year-old, Jimmy Holden slept in a comfortablebed in a clean room, absolutely disguised by an exterior that looked likean abandoned manure shed.