“It happens to wise guys,” Farrell said. “But not often enough, unfortunately.” For an instant he regretted his tone; their judgment was probably worse than their intentions, he thought. “So let’s chalk it up to experience, eh?” he said.
“Experience, eh?” The boy in the red sweater dusted dirt from his trousers. There was an indulgent little smile on his lips. “Yeah, you learn from experience, come to think of it. Let’s roll, Jerry. Dad here is going to make smart boys out of us.”
Farrell watched them as they sauntered across the lot to the sidewalk. Jimmy ran over and caught his hand. “You showed ’em, Dad, you showed ’em,” he said.
“Sure,” Farrell said, and patted his head. He was still breathing hard.
“Boy, you knocked ’em over like a pair of dummies,” Jimmy said, as they crossed the street.
Farrell stopped at the sidewalk and looked after the two boys. It was almost dark, but he saw their shadowy figures entering the next block, swinging past the neat homes and graceful rows of young buttonwood trees, long legs flashing in the illumination from street lamps and windows. He looked down at his son. “They’re the ones who made you steal the twelve dollars, right?”
Jimmy sighed and said, “That’s right.”
“You said they were your size, your age.” Farrell squeezed his shoulder. “How come, Jimmy?”
“They told me to. I was afraid. They said if anybody asked about them to say they were just kids. I don’t know — I mean, I know why I lied to you. I was afraid, that’s all.”
“I understand, Jimmy. Don’t worry about that.”
“Are you going to do anything to them, Daddy?”
Farrell said, “Don’t worry about that either. I’ll take care of it.”
Chapter Three
After dinner Barbara tidied up in the kitchen while Farrell helped the children get ready for bed. He listened to Angey’s incredibly involved account of a feud with her “three very best friends,” then listened to her prayers which sounded more like injunctions than entreaties, and finally kissed her good night and went across the hall into Jimmy’s room.
Jimmy was wide awake. “What are you going to do to them, Dad?”
“The blond boy is Jerry, eh? And the thin dark one is called Duke. Is that right?”
“He’s the boss. They all do what he says.”
“And this gang. They call themselves the Chiefs?”
“Most of them wear sweaters with Indian heads on them.”
“Well, we’ll take care of them,” Farrell said. “Don’t you worry about it any more.” He kissed Jimmy on the cheek.
“Dad, you’re not afraid of them, are you?”
The boy’s soft skin smelled of soap, and there was the tang of a minty toothpaste on his breath. Farrell said easily, “No, I’m not afraid of them, Jimmy.” He realized with surprise that he was angry enough to kill the young hoodlums who had terrorized his son. “They’ve committed a crime, and the police will see that they’re punished for it,” he said. “That’s what we’ve got a police department for. Get to sleep now.”
Barbara had brought their coffee into the study. As she was pouring his the phone rang. It was Sam Ward. “John? I was just wondering if you’re doing anything in particular right now.”
“Nothing special.”
“I’d like to stop by for a few minutes. It’s important.”
“Sure, come on over.”
Barbara sighed as Farrell replaced the receiver. “Who was that?”
“Sam. He’s got something on his mind.”
“So have we. Couldn’t you have told him we were busy?”
“Well, he said it would only be for a few minutes.”
“I’ll put on some more coffee,” Barbara said. She glanced in the mirror above the bookcase and pushed a strand of hair back from her forehead. “If this turns out to be a long-winded complaint about people dropping cigarette butts on the putting green, I’m going to cut it short. I want to talk to you about Jimmy.”
“Sure, so do I. Don’t fuss. Put the coffee on.”
The doorbell rang a few minutes later. It was Sam Ward with the Detweillers. Ward said apologetically, “Look, I asked Chicky and Bill to come along because I phoned from their house and they’re involved in this in a way, too.”
“Sure, come on in,” Farrell said. “Barbara’s just getting some coffee. Or would anyone like a drink?”
Sam Ward shook his head with something like impatience, but Bill Detweiller, bulky and collegiate in a gray ski sweater, looked cheerfully toward the bar, and said, “Just a nip against the cold, eh, John?” He looked as if he had already had a few, Farrell thought; his solidly handsome face was a ruddy pink, and his bright blue eyes were alert and sharp with excitement.
“How about you, Chicky?”
Chicky Detweiller considered the matter with raised eyebrows and slanted eyes. “It’s a fattening thought,” she said, smiling. “Would you like to make me something special?”
“If I’ve got the raw materials, sure.”
“I’d like a stinger.”
Detweiller glanced irritably at her. “Boy, you like pampering, don’t you?”
“I’m a girl actually,” Chicky said, making a little face at him. “Remember? And the answer to your question is ‘yes.’ Any desperate objections?”
The Detweillers were the kind of people, Farrell thought, who were more exciting together than apart; there was always a little challenge between them, a smiling tension that charged the atmosphere with the ever-interesting potential of trouble. Also, they harmonized nicely in a pictorial sense; Chicky was a gold-rinsed blonde, with masked and indiscreet brown eyes, and a childishly spare body. She usually wore combinations of white and beige and gold; tightly fitted and pegged suits with wide leather belts about her flat, hard waist; pale gold evening gowns to match her hair; and blond swimming suits which at a distance were hardly distinguishable from the texture and color of her skin. At the moment she was wearing cocoa-brown slacks and a yellow sweater with a soft rolling collar that emphasized her slender throat and elegant little head. The Detweillers had inherited a certain amount of money, it was generally thought, for although Bill complained vigorously about his brokerage commissions, Chicky had her own car, a part-time maid and a large and expensive wardrobe, the most discussed feature of which was an assortment of thirty-odd pairs of shoes, featherweight and nonfunctional arrangements of slender straps and extreme heels designed more to be marvelled at than worn.
Now she smiled at Farrell and said, “Could you make me that stinger?”
“Sorry, Chicky, no brandy, no mint,” Farrell said.
“Nobody stocks all that stuff,” Detweiller said. “Have a beer, Chicky, and relax.”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you, were on an economy wave,” Chicky said, still smiling. “I’m going to turn the collars of Det’s shirts, put up preserves the way his grandmother did, use up all the left-overs, drink nothing but beer — doesn’t it all sound fascinating?”
“I’m glad I married a funny one,” Detweiller said, shaking his head. “Yaks all night long.”
“Well, we didn’t come over for drinks or laughs,” Sam Ward said irritably. “Det, supposing we get down to business.”
Farrell made two whiskeys with water and handed them to Detweiller and Chicky. “Close your eyes and you won’t know the difference,” he said to Chicky.
Detweiller took a long pull from his drink and lit a cigarette. “Well, John, Bobby came home tonight all steamed up over the trouble you had with those young punks. He told me they were the same ones who had knocked Ward’s kid around yesterday. So I called Sam right away because the whole thing was beginning to smell a little bit, if you know what I mean. And Sam found out...” He stopped and glanced at Ward. “Well, you’d better take it from there, eh, Sam?”