Gram chuckled. “Brought home a special merit star on his report card, didn’t he? And I met his teacher on the street, and she say, says she: ‘Mrs. Garvin, that there grandson of yours — ‘ ”
Ma sighed and turned to go back to the kitchen to finish the dishes. Gram was back in the past again. It was eight years ago, when he was nine, that Eddie’d brought home that report card with the special merit star on it. That was when she’d hoped Eddie would—“Elsie, you take a big spoonful of that sulphur ‘n’ molasses. Over the sink there. I took mine for today a’ready.”
“All right, Gram.” Ma’s steps lagged. Maybe she’d failed Eddie; she didn’t know. What else could she do? How could she make Butch Everard let him alone? What did Butch want with him?
There was a dull ache in her head and a heavy weight in her chest. She glanced up at the clock over the door of the kitchen, and her feet moved faster. Eight-forty, and she wasn’t through with the supper dishes.
Eddie Murdock awoke with a start as the kitchen door closed. It was dark. Golly, he hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He lifted his wrist quick to look at the luminous dial of his watch, and then felt a quick sense of relief. It was only eight-forty.
He had time. Then he grinned in the darkness, a bit proud that he had been able to take a nap. Tonight of all nights, and he’d been able to fall asleep.
Why, tonight was the night. Lucky he’d waked up. Butch sure wouldn’t have liked it if he’d been late or hadn’t showed up. But if it was only eight-forty he had lots of time to meet the boys. Nine-thirty they met, and ten o’clock was it.
Suppose his wrist watch was wrong, though. It was a cheap one. With a sudden fear he jumped off the bed and ran to the window to look at the big clock across the way. Whew!
Eight-forty it was — on the dot.
Everything was ducky then. Golly, if he’d overslept or anything, Butch would have thought he was yellow. And —why, he wasn’t even worried. Hell, he was one of the gang now, a regular, and this was his first crack at something big.
Real money.
Well, not big money, maybe, but that box office ought to have enough dough to give them a couple hundred apiece.
And that wasn’t peanuts.
Butch had all those angles figured. He’d picked the best night, the night the most dough came in that window, and he’d timed the best hour — ten o’clock — just before the box office closed. Sure, they were being smart, waiting until all the money had come in that was coming in. And the getaway was a cinch, the way Butch had planned it.
Eddie turned on the light and then crossed over to the mirror and examined himself critically as he straightened his necktie and ran the comb through his hair. He rubbed his chin carefully, but he didn’t seem to need a shave.
He winked at his reflection in the glass. That was a smart guy in there looking back at him. A guy that was going places. If a guy proved to Butch that he was a right guy and had the nerve, he could get in on all kinds of easy money.
He pulled out the shoe box from under his dresser and gave his already shiny shoes another lick with the polisher to make them shinier. The leather was a little cracked on one side. Well, after tonight he’d get new shoes and a couple of new suits. A few more jobs, and he’d get a new car like Butch’s and scrap the old jalopy.
Then — although the door of his room was closed — he looked around carefully before he reached down into the very bottom of the shoe box and took out something which was carefully concealed by being wrapped in the old polishing cloth, the one that wasn’t used any more.
It was a little nickel-plated thirty-two revolver, and he looked at it proudly. It didn’t matter that the plating was worn off in a few spots. It was loaded and it would shoot all right.
Just yesterday Butch had given it to him. “ ‘Sall right, kid,” Butch had said. “It’ll do for this here job. There ain’t gonna be no shootin’ anyway. Just one bozo in the box office that’ll fold up the minute he sees guns. He’ll shell out without a squawk. And outa your share get yourself something good.
A thirty-eight automatic like mine maybe, and a shoulder holster.”
The gun in his hand felt comfortingly heavy. Good little gun, he told himself. And his. He’d sure keep it even after he’d got himself a better one.
He dropped it into his coat pocket before he went out into the living room. As he walked through the door, the revolver in his pocket hit the wooden door frame with a metallic clunk that the cloth of his coat muffled. He straightened up and buttoned his coat shut. He’d have to watch that. Good thing it happened the first time where it didn’t matter.
Ma came in out of the kitchen. She smiled at him and he grinned back. “Hiya, Ma. Didn’t think I’d drop off. Should have told you to wake me, but ‘sall right. I got time.”
Ma’s smile faded. “Time for what, Eddie?”
He grinned at her. “Heavy date.” The grin faded a bit.
“What’s the matter, Ma?”
“Must you go out, Eddie? I — I just got through the dishes and I thought maybe you’d play some double solitaire with me when you woke up.”
It was her tone of voice that made him notice her face. It came to him, quite suddenly, that Ma looked old. He said, “Gee, Ma, I wish I could, but—” Gram’s rocker creaked across the silence.
“Johnny was here, Eddie,” said Gram’s voice. “He said—”
Ma cut in quickly. She’d seen the puzzled look on Eddie’s face at the name “Johnny.” He didn’t know who Johnny was; and Gram thought Butch Everard was still little Johnny, who’d played out front in a red wagon—
“Johnny Murphy,” said Ma, blanketing out whatever Gram was going to say. “He’s — you don’t know him, I guess.
Just here on an errand.” She tried to make it sound casual. She managed a smile again. “How about that double solitaire, Eddie boy? Just a game or two.”
He shook his head. “Heavy date, Ma,” he said again.
He really felt sorry he couldn’t. Well, maybe from now on he’d be able to make it up to Ma. He could buy her things, and — well, if he really got up there he could buy a place out at the edge of town and put her and Gram in it, in style.
Bigshots did things like that for their folks, didn’t they?
Gram was walking out to the kitchen. Eddie’s eyes followed her because they didn’t quite want to meet Ma’s eyes, and then Eddie remembered what Gram had started to say about some Johnny.
“Say,” he said, “Johnny — Gram didn’t mean Butch, did she? Was Butch here for me?”
Ma’s eyes were on him squarely now, and he forced himself to meet them. She said, “Is your ‘heavy date’ with Butch, Eddie? Oh, Eddie, he’s—” Her voice sounded a little choked.
“Butch is all right, Ma,” he said with a touch of defiance.
“He’s a good guy, Butch is. He’s—”
He broke off. Damn. He hated scenes.
“Eddie boy,” Gram spoke from the kitchen doorway.
It was a welcome interruption. But she had a tablespoon of that awful sulphur and molasses of hers. Oh, well, good old Gram’s goofy ideas were saving him from a scene this time.
He crossed over and took the vile stuff off the spoon.
“Thanks, Gram. ‘Night, Ma. Don’t wait up.” He started for the door. But it wasn’t that easy. She caught at his sleeve. “Eddie, please. Listen—”
Hell, it would be worse if he hung around and argued. He jerked his sleeve free and was out of the door before she could stop him again. He could have hung around for half an hour almost, but not if Ma was going to take on like that. He could sit in the jalop’ till it was time to go meet the bunch.