“I still say,” I said, “that Rory is a fake name.”
“You wanna go or not?”
I shrugged. “Guess there isn’t much else to do.”
So we killed two hours before going to the movies by riding our bikes all over town and seeing who was out and around. We saw Maynard the bully unloading peat moss at his uncle’s hardware store and just as we were passing him, Barney said, “I’ll give you a buck if you give him the finger.”
“I’ll give you two bucks if you give him the finger.”
But of course, wanting to live till sundown, neither one of us gave him the finger.
The Blackboard Jungle was still a pretty cool movie. The only problem was that I couldn’t see myself as any of those kids. They were really kind of whiny and immature. I mean I’d much rather be Glenn Ford than any of the kids. (For one thing, Glenn had made two movies with Rita Hayworth, who I still think is the most beautiful and sexy and in some strange way saddest woman I’ve ever seen, her sadness being a part of her beauty.)
And Rory Calhoun was pitiful as usual. He looks like a decent guy and I’m sure he is a decent guy but he sure can’t act. And when a fifteen-year-old kid from Somerton, Iowa, knows you can’t act then you really can’t act.
But it was air-conditioned and three rows ahead of us sat two really cute girls from Catholic school (Dad has never liked Catholics much but Mom says except for the Pope they’re very fine people) and there were some especially neat coming attractions for two new monster movies. (Later on, I’d learn that coming attractions are a lot like life — the buildup is usually better than the payoff.)
When we got out, the sunlight was blinding and my body felt like some invisible demon had taken this huge paint roller and covered me with glue.
We got on our bikes and started down the block. We stopped at the corner for a red light and that was when the black Plymouth sedan pulled up to the curb. The window was rolled down on the passenger side. Cushing had to lean way over. “Afternoon, ladies.”
Neither of us said anything.
“I want you to ride those bikes of yours over to the square and wait for me there. I’ll meet you by the drinking fountain.”
Even Cushing was fixated on the drinking fountain. “You girls understand me?”
We didn’t nod or anything but obviously we were going to do what he told us.
When he pulled away, Barney said, “I think we’re in trouble.”
“I think you’re right.”
“That jerk.”
We rode over to the square.
Since it was nearing suppertime, the square was pretty quiet, except for a couple of squirrels running around the edges of the wading pool where I used to go when I was five or so. But one day I saw some little kid’s turd floating in there and I got out of the water and I never got back in again. I mean never.
We sat on the bench next to the fountain. Cushing parked down by the railroad tracks so it took him a few minutes to get up here.
He had on a straw fedora and a baby blue — colored summer weight suit and his usual big mean grin.
He went over to the fountain and had himself a drink and then flicked some water from his hand (everybody gets wet at that fountain) and then he took out this long pack of Viceroys and knocked one out on the edge of his fist and then he put it in his mouth and lit it and said, “Where’d you girls get all that money?”
“Huh?” Barney said.
“Last night at Hamblin’s. Hamblin told me all about it.”
“Found it,” I said.
“Found it where?”
“Laying near the crick.”
“What crick?”
“Out by the fairgrounds.”
“It was just laying there?”
“In a sack.”
“What kind of sack?”
“Paper sack.”
“How much was in it?”
“About three hundred dollars.”
“Where is it now?”
“At my house. My dad made me make up the money I spent from this savings account he keeps for me. He’s gonna take it to the chief tonight.”
“You could be in a lot of trouble.”
“I know,” I said.
But I knew better than that and so did Cushing. The Chief and Dad are in Rotary and Lions and Odd Fellows and the Masons together and twice a year they go hunting and fishing and they’re real good friends and so I’d practically have to kill somebody before the chief did anything to me. I guess that’s what Roy meant when he said I was respectable.
Cushing dragged on his cigarette a few times and swatted flies with his big hand a few times and just kept staring at us.
“You know what I think?” he said.
“What?” I said.
“That there’s more money somewhere and that you’re just not telling your dad about it.”
The shadows were getting longer and a yellow passenger train was just pulling into the depot, furious with August heat and oil and power, and the people sat in the windows looking out at our little town, city people most likely, wondering how folks could live in such a small place. Once in a while I’d see really pretty girls in those windows and I’d have dreams about them for long days after the train had pulled out.
Cushing looked at Barney now. “How about you?”
“Huh?”
“You gonna tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“About the rest of the money.”
“About the rest of what money?”
“About the rest of the money by the crick.”
“He wasn’t lying, Tom wasn’t, Detective Cushing. We gave everything back except what we spent at Hamblin’s.”
“How about what you spent at Henry’s supermarket?”
“How’d you know about that?” Barney said.
“When old man Hamblin told me about you being in there with all that crisp, green cash I just naturally got curious. I went to every store in town that was open last night and asked if you girls had been in there.”
I guess that while he was one real big loud-mouthed showboat, Cushing was also a pretty good detective.
“So how about it?” Cushing said.
He was back to looking at me.
“How about what?” I said.
“How about telling me where the rest of the money is.”
I don’t know why but something about the way he said that — the words he chose, I mean — seemed odd to me but right then I didn’t have time to think about it. I just had time to say, “There isn’t any rest of the money. There’s nearly three hundred dollars in a sack at my house that my dad is taking over to the chief’s tonight.”
“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh, girls?”
“Honest, Detective Cushing,” Barney said, getting that kind of whiny tone in his voice. “Tom’s telling the truth.”
Cushing held his cigarette up high and then dropped it straight down to the wet ground around the drinking fountain. Like he was dropping a bomb or something. And then he ground it out with the toe of his snappy black-and-white wingtips.
And then he stared at us.
“This is gonna get real bad, girls. Real bad.”
“What is?” Barney said.
“This whole thing. With the money.”
“But—”
Cushing held up his hand. “The last time I had a run-in with you little girls, everything went your way. The chief wouldn’t press charges and the juvenile officers didn’t see your breaking into that place as any big deal. It’s going to be different this time. And I think you know what I’m talking about.”
And then he left. No more words. Just left.
When Cushing had vanished on the other side of the bandstand, Barney said, “You think he knows about Roy?”
“I don’t know. But I think he thinks there’s a lot more money and that we have it.”