self-defining systems, full of TWO PEWTIE HITS TAKE LAWTON HIGH P, He'd almost missed it. But there it was, the name Pewtie, big as life.
There couldn't be two of them.
“Sophomore Jeff Pewtie continued his hitting rampage,” the breathless copy read, "with a single in the first and a bases-loaded double in the fifth. Since being promoted to Lawton varsity in mid-May, the 15-year-old sophomore has hit an amazing .457.”
Richard rushed through the pages in search of this young Hercules' labors and found them nearly every week. When Jeff didn't deliver mighty clouts, his superb outfielding astonished the fans. Finally, yes, a picture: the boy being clapped on the back after delivering a game-winning hit, this just from last week! He looked carefully. The face was young and square and handsome, on a compact, muscular body, brimming with health and confidence. He looked hard into the bone structure and tried to match it with the sergeant's photo from the papers earlier that week, after the shooting. After a bit, he came to see it: It was the shape of the nose and the distribution of flesh between the eyes, the subtle architecture of a face or, rather, of a genetic pattern reiterated, though in a slight variant mutation, father to son.
“That's him,” he said.
“
“Bout time,” said Ruta Beth.
“That's the kid.”
Richard looked at the boy; a shiver came across him.
What a perfect gladiator, how confident of his place in the world and expectant of the future. And what woe awaited him.
In the parking lot, they showed Lamar a page they'd ripped from the newspaper, with Jeff's picture.
“You were right, Lamar. You were dead right. Now all's we have to do is go to the school like you said, and do what you said, and in a day or so, we'll—”
“Richard, goddamn, sometimes I don't think you got a brain in that head of yours. Not a one. How careful you look at this?”
Richard hung his head in shame.
“Not very,” he said.
“Didn't think so, Richard. Tell me, Richard, you ever looked at a sports page in your life? Or you only look at books with pictures of naked women in ’em?”
“I-I-I don't like games,” Richard said sullenly, punching out his lower lip.
“Well, on most sports pages; they got what they call a schedule. Yes, indeedy, and all you need to do is lookiesee and there it is.”
“There what is?”
“The schedule. Of the games. Don't you think this old hero cop Bud Pewtie going to want to see his kid play ball?
I mean, really, don't you think?”
“He would. Daddy,” said Ruta Beth.
“You damned betcha,” said Lamar.
“And according to this here schedule… there's a goddamn game tonight."” He looked at the two of them.
“Better git your mitts, boys and girls. We's going to a ball game.”
CHAPTER 27
Bud got to the downtown police station—a two-story brick box on Fourth Street that only had a gaudy flower bed out front to break up its blankness—fast, made his inquiries, and was directed to Juvenile. He raced up the steps and down a bright green hall to discover the department, opened an opaque glassed door to find the same vision of a thousand American police stations: the cluttered bullpen room, the green walls, the bulletin boards littered with circulars that nobody ever looked at. And, in one corner, there was Jen standing next to an old friend, a police lieutenant named Howard, who had done ten years on the highway patrol with Bud before he'd missed out on a promotion and left the state agency with bitterness.
He walked up to them.
“Jen, my God, what the hell is going on? Is he all right?”
Jen just looked at him, something long and hurting in her eyes. Then she looked away.
“Now Bud, you'd best take it easy for now,” said Howard.
“I wouldn't let them put him in the tank with the scum. He's in a solitary cell and nobody's going to hurt him, that I guarantee. We got two detectives working on statements and witnesses and I've talked to both the other boys' mothers and I know the Juvenile Justice, and I think we can get everybody to agree to accept misdemeanor charges. Them boys was a part of it, too. Everyone's trying to behave well under the circumstances.”
“Just tell me what happened, Howard. Jeff isn't the kind of boy to assault strangers anywhere, much less in school.
We didn't raise him like that and he never been in fights or had any JD records or nothing.”
- "Bud, he did attack those boys. In front of others. In class, actually. He's a strong kid, you know. He punched the Jennings boy in the ribs and broke two and he broke the Chastain boy's nose.”
Bud just looked at Howard in disbelief. He couldn't begin to understand it.
“I just don't—”
“They were the spray painters, Bud,” said Howard.
“They were the ones painting "Long Live Lamar' and "O’Dell Was a Martyr' and "Go Lamar' on the walls. Two real smart boys, one going to Norman, the other going East like your son Russell. You know, smart-asses, showoffs.
Well, it seems they have that angry edge all the young people have these days. Wanted to "Question Authority,” they called it. Mischief, I suppose. Most everybody knew it was them, maybe even Russell. But Jeff found out today in the locker room. He just walked from classroom to classroom till he found them, and started pounding on them. I'll say this: They ain't going to paint no more signs on no more school walls.”
“If you ask me, Jeff deserves a medal,” said Jen bitterly.
“No,” said Bud, "you can't think like that. What he did was wrong, no matter the reason. He has to take his punishment like a man and not let it wreck his life. We need a lawyer, a good lawyer. My record sure as hell won't hurt.
The main thing is to avoid the felony conviction. Hell, he's only fifteen. You don't want a felony conviction on your record; it'll dog you for your whole life.”
Bud felt an immense melancholy settle over him. Poor Jeff: He saw in a flash how his mind had worked and how he'd set out to avenge the family honor. Frankly, what those two boys did made him sick. He gritted his teeth and swore to himself that he'd fight like hell to see that his boy got every damn break he could. But he hated it: the troubles of his life, that he himself had invented, dumped square in his poor youngest son's lap.
He put his hand on Jen's shoulder and she recoiled.
So he found a phone and called an assistant prosecutor he knew and got the name of the best defense lawyer in town, a name he recognized as a man who was known for a good deal of flamboyance and charisma—and publicity.
Quickly he called, and when he was told that Mr. O’Neill was in conference, he said, "Now listen here, young lady.
This is Sergeant Bud Pewtie of the Oklahoma Highway Patrol, the cop that shot it out with the Pyes. I think Mr. O’Neill would appreciate the fact that an officer as famous as I am chose him to call in an hour of need and he'd want me to be put through right away.”
It worked; in a minute the lawyer was on the phone, and in five, he'd promised to be down there before four.
“Got him a lawyer,” said Bud.
“Believe me, getting a good lawyer is nine tenths the battle. All the scum has the best legal talent around—no reason we shouldn't.”
But Jen didn't respond and just looked out the window.
Bud walked up to her.
“What the hell is wrong?” he said.
“You are treating me like a piece of shit.”
“Where were you?” she finally said.
“Just what the hell is going on?”
“I was—” He came up dry.
“I was seeing—” And then he realized his mistake.
He couldn't say he'd driven out to see C. D. Henderson in his bitter retirement because he'd already lied and told her he was going to see C.D. to get the guns back.