Читать книгу Billy and the Bearman - David A. Poulsen - Страница 5

He wouldn’t look at her. Billy Gavin rubbed his hand back and forth over the cold, plastic surface of the menu and concentrated on not allowing his eyes to glance up at the waitress who was standing right in front of him.

She was dark-haired and pretty — he’d noticed that when she’d been gathering up dishes at the far end of the counter. He’d have to talk to her, there was no way around that, no matter how hard it was for him to talk to people. But, no, he wouldn’t look at her.

“Could I have . . . uh . . . some french fries, please, with gravy and a glass of orange pop?”

“Sure can.” The waitress sounded friendly enough as she dabbed a cloth at the counter in front of Billy and turned away.

When she was gone, Billy counted out enough money to pay for the food; one dollar and eighty-five cents. He checked the menu again to make sure he had it right and set six quarters, three dimes, and a nickel on the counter. He moved the coins so that none of them was resting on any of the brown-yellow cigarette burns that dotted the counter’s surface.

Billy looked around. You had to be careful in these places. Some stranger could try to take your money. There were three other people in the café. Near the door a man and woman sat across a table from one another, talking quietly and eating spaghetti. For a few seconds Billy watched them spin their forks on large spoons to roll the long strands of noodles into neat bites. Billy had never seen that before. In his family, noodles were sort of slurped. You started at one end of a long noodle and sucked on it until the last of it had slipped noisily into your mouth. Then you wiped your lips. It seemed simpler, though maybe not as polite, as what these people were doing.

Over his right shoulder, Billy could see the café’s only other patron, another boy, older than himself, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Billy watched him, careful not to let himself be caught doing it. Watching people was something he did a lot. That and trying to imagine what kind of people they were and what they did.

This boy, the older boy, was hard to figure out. He was very dark, both his hair, which was uncombed, and his skin. In fact, he looked like he needed a shave. He was wearing a heavy, well-worn, almost shabby coat that was very nearly the same colour as the cigarette burns on the counter. From the darker stains that blotched the coat here and there, Billy guessed it might smell of grease and oil, the way his dad’s work overalls used to.

The other boy seemed interested only in the soup that sat before him, steam rising from the plain white bowl. Billy decided the money on the counter was safe for now. The waitress returned and set the soft drink and french fries on the counter in front of him.

“Thank you,” he said, shoving the coins toward her. “Here.”

“You don’t have to pay yet,” she told him. “You might want something else, pie or something. You can pay later.”

“I won’t be having pie,” Billy replied with a shake of his head. He didn’t tell her that, after paying for his food, he had only forty-five cents left.

“Well, that’s okay,” she said. “You can still pay when you’re finished eating.”

He nodded and stared at the french fries, uncomfortably aware that the waitress was still standing in front of him and looking at him.

“What’s your name?” She had a soft voice.

“Billy.”

“Billy . . .” the waitress said.

He knew from the way she repeated it that she expected to hear the last name too. He thought about that. Should be okay. It was too soon for the name alone to give him away. Later, when they were looking for him, he wouldn’t be able to tell people his name, at least not his real name.

“Gavin.” He still hadn’t looked up from the food. “Billy Gavin.”

“Miss?” A voice intervened. It was the man who was eating spaghetti. “Could we have a little more coffee, please?”

“You bet,” the waitress replied and moved away.

Billy ate his french fries slowly. It had been a long time since he had eaten, and he knew it might be longer still until he ate again. While he chewed on a crispy fry — the crispy ones were his favourites — he looked to his left and saw his reflection in the big window, where moths were dancing up and down on the outside of the glass. The familiar image showed a round face with serious blue eyes that peered out from under thick reddish-brown hair that fell over the forehead. The nose and cheeks were dotted with freckles, not many, although they seemed like a lot; maybe it was because of the whiteness of the skin. Billy wished he looked healthy like some of the kids at school who were good at sports, but he didn’t. Instead, he was thin and not very tall, and that made him look even younger than his twelve years.

Billy didn’t like looking at himself. He turned away from the window and continued eating until the waitress came back. He hoped she wouldn’t stay and talk this time. She was nice enough, but talk sometimes led to questions and he knew that answering questions could lead to trouble.

“How about it . . . piece of apple pie? Got cherry too but the apple’s better.” The waitress bent down and said it like it was their secret.

“No, thanks.” He let his eyes flick upwards for a fraction of a second to the smiling face.

“Okay,” she said pleasantly, then turned and disappeared through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

Billy drenched his last two french fries in the gravy floating on the bottom of his plate and washed them down with the remainder of the orange pop. He stood up then, not sure whether to leave the money on the counter or to let the waitress know he was leaving and wanted to pay. He looked around again and, seeing that none of the other customers was paying any attention to him, decided to leave the money and go.

Once outside the café, he realized he had no idea what he was going to do next. He was angry with himself for not coming up with a plan while he’d been in the café. That had been his reason for going in there in the first place. That and to ease the hunger pain that had been building for several hours prior to the french fries.

Now here he was on the sidewalk, not hungry any more, but with no more idea of what he was going to do than he’d had an hour before. He thought about going back inside and ordering something else while he planned his next move, but he remembered that forty-five cents wouldn’t even buy him another orange pop, and besides, the people in there, especially the pretty waitress, would think he was a total geek if he went back in so soon after leaving.

The door of the café opened and Billy turned to watch as the boy in the worn coat came out and walked toward a pick-up truck that was parked on the street, its nose angled in to the curb. Seeing him reminded Billy that he’d left his own windbreaker in the café. That meant he’d have to go back in — geek or no geek.

But he didn’t go right away. He hesitated, watching, he wasn’t sure why, maybe to see where a person in a ragged coat went, what he did. Before the older boy got to his truck, two others of about the same age came out of the combination pool hall and arcade that sat next to the café.

“Well, lookit here, would you,” the taller of the two said in a loud voice. “If it isn’t the of Bearman hisself, all gussied up and lookin’ pretty to come to town.”

“Hey Bearman, what’s your hurry?” the second said, as two more boys came out of the pool hall.

One of them pinched his nostrils together. “Ooh, Bearman, you have GOT to do something about that stink. Shit don’t stink as bad as you do, Bearman. Maybe that’s from bein’ up there in the hills with all them animals.”

“What exactly is it you do up there with them animals, them bears and everything?” the first speaker said. Billy saw that the first boy had put himself between the one they called Bearman and the pick-up truck. The fourth member of the group joined in now and Billy realized that what he was hearing and seeing wasn’t like the kidding around he heard every day at school. He shivered, only partly because he had no jacket and the night was cool. There was something ugly, something scary about what was happening.

The four boys had Bearman surrounded. So far Bearman hadn’t said anything, and it was impossible in the darkness of the street for Billy to know what the dark face was showing.

“Hey, Bearman, nice truck, yeah, real nice truck.” The fourth boy’s voice was nasal and irritating. “I sure wish you wouldn’t park it next to my car, though, Bearman. I’d hate for that shit stink of yours to get all over my car.”

Billy looked at the car that was parked next to the pick-up truck. It was red, a sports car of some kind, and for a second he wondered how four people could fit inside. His attention came back to the scene on the street as Bearman tried to push his way through the ring that encircled him. One boy stepped aside as if to allow him to pass, then stuck the pool cue he was holding between Bearman’s legs. Bearman fell hard on the pavement and the four boys laughed and closed the circle back in on him.

“Now, I don’t want to have to tell you again,” the tall one said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to bring your shit truck and your shit stink to town, so I don’t wanna see you here anymore, you understand me, Bearman?”

Bearman had got up on one knee. Billy still hadn’t heard him say anything. As Bearman struggled to rise, one of the boys, Billy couldn’t tell which one, raised a pool cue over his head.

“Hey!” Billy stepped out from the shadow of the café.

All four of them turned to face him.

“What do you want, you little puke?” One started toward Billy.

“There’s . . . there’s a cop in the restaurant and he’s coming out.” Billy looked over his shoulder as if he were watching someone through the window of the café.

“All right, let’s go.” The tall boy jerked his thumb in the direction of the pool hall and he and his companions disappeared noisily inside.

Billy shrank back into the shadows and watched. Bearman struggled slowly to his feet, not looking at the pool hall or at Billy. He climbed into the truck, started it and backed out into the street. But instead of driving off down the darkened road, he manoeuvred the truck into a position right behind the sports car, inching ahead until his front bumper rested against the back of the car, which gleamed even in the dark of the street.

Billy watched spellbound as Bearman revved the motor of the pick-up truck, then suddenly roared ahead, forcing the sports car up onto the sidewalk. He didn’t stop there. The pick-up’s engine screamed still louder and the sports car shot ahead again.

What followed was like a scene from a war movie. The sports car hit the front wall of the pool hall hard enough that it didn’t stop. The noise was almost as spectacular as the sight of the car disappearing, some of it into the pool hall, the rest beneath the crumbling wall and broken glass of the building. The roar of the pickup’s engine, the shattering of wood and glass and the yelling of the pool players inside turned what had been a sleepy small-town night into a scene of deafening confusion.

Billy yelled “Yes!” as loud as he could yell. He wasn’t sure why he’d done it, but it had felt good to holler, even if no one could possibly have heard him over the noise that seemed to be everywhere.

Bearman backed the truck into the street again, and with his arm resting lightly on the window ledge of the door, looked in the direction of Billy, who still hadn’t come out of the shadow of the building. The street was quieter now, though Billy could still hear enraged voices coming from behind the rubble that had been the front wall of the pool hall.

“Hey, Kid,” Bearman called, “I never saw no cop in that restaurant.”

“Yeah, I know,” Billy said.

“Well, thanks.” Bearman turned as if to drive away, then seemed to change his mind. He looked again at Billy.

“Need a ride some place?” The voice was low, and though angry shouts were still coming from behind what used to be a pool room, Bearman spoke as if he were asking about the weather.

Billy made up his mind instantly.

“Yeah!” He dashed out of the shadows to the passenger side of the pick-up.

As he climbed in, he saw the owner of the sports car stumble through the debris and out onto the sidewalk. He was looking from the buried car to Bearman and back to the car.

Bearman leaned his head out of the pick-up’s window. “Nothing to worry about,” he said. “I was real careful not to get any stink on it.”

Billy was still trying to make up his mind whether to laugh or not when Bearman slammed the gas pedal to the floor and the pick-up roared away with so much force that Billy felt himself thrown back against the hard seat.