After a moment the door rose an inch or so. I stood facing out, with my back against the house, waiting and watching, as it closed. I bent and tapped on it again. Stepped back and hoisted the bat this time, cocked and ready.
The cellar door rose, opening wider and wider, revealing a male arm and then a blond head as Jimmy Herndon ventured up the stairs, back to me. He’d just uttered the first syllable of Libby’s name when the fat of my Louisville ball bat thonked him squarely above his right ear.
He collapsed as if switched off, splattering down onto the stairs. I dropped the bat, bent and took him under the damp armpits of his T-shirt and began to drag him out. He weighed a ton, but I didn’t have far to haul him, and I was feeling too proud of myself to care. I’d done it. I’d taken out the villain, like Richard Diamond, Sundance, Roger and Smith, Peter Gunn — guys like that.
Finally the gagging and retching stopped. I had both big windows of my ’51 Ford open to the cool night air pouring in as I drove down the silent desertion of Grand River, but even that wasn’t enough to dull the stench from the back seat.
“You had to do that, huh,” I growled. “Ya had to puke in my brand-new second-hand car. Thanks a whole lot.”
“You were the one who hit me, kid,” Herndon said hoarsely. “You get slugged in the head, you puke.”
All I knew was, it certainly wasn’t something that happened to Richard Diamond, Sundance, Roger and Smith, Peter Gunn — guys like that. “Should of told me,” I said. “I’d have stopped so you could do it on the street like everybody else.”
“Sorry,” he said, tone wholly sincere. “Mind if I come up there?”
“I don’t care.”
“You’re not going to hit me any more?”
“As long as you’re peaceable I won’t.”
Jimmy Herndon stuffed himself over the seat into the front and arranged himself as far from me as he could get. I followed the night-blanketed street as it lanced toward the heart of Detroit, doing about sixty, catching the synchronized lights perfectly. After a moment Herndon asked, “Where you taking me?”
“The train station. You promised to leave town,” I said sourly. “I’m holding you to it.”
“That’s just fine, Ben. I really appreciate it—”
“Just shut the hell up!” I shouted. “Quit acting like you’re anything but a crooked, devious, sleazy son of a bitch, okay?”
“I’m not all that bad.”
“Aren’t, huh? You been sneaking around with my sister. You been sleeping in the basement of my house every night. You had a whole bag of our clothes ready to take with you. And you’re wanted for knifing a guy. If that ain’t bad, what is it?”
“Survival.” His smile was not kind. “Maybe when you’re older, you’ll understand what I mean.”
I swung right on 14th Street. It was foggier down here, the street lights misty on the fronts of darkened houses and stores. “Well,” I said, “this-here punk kid done took you out, pal. And I could make things even worse, as in turning you over to the cops. But I don’t need the cops to fix you. It’d be too easy, somehow. There’s a lot more satisfaction in running your ass out of town personally.”
He absently rubbed his head where I’d hit him. “You’re giving me a real break, kid. Thanks.”
“No thanks needed. It ain’t Christian charity. I just don’t want my sister drug through the mud with you, hear?”
He was smiling at me. “You really are a pretty four-square guy, Ben. If there’s something I can do for you before I leave, to make amends, just name it.”
“Yeah. Right,” I snorted. “At one thirty on a Friday morning.” We were driving through a neighborhood of streets all named after trees. Nothing was open but the occasional bar. That gave me an idea. Yeah, right. Perfect!
As we reached Temple Street, I swerved the Ford over to the curb by a small building at the corner that said Temple Tavern. I put the brake on and dug in my pants pocket. “You want to make some kind of amends, go on inside there and buy me a case of Stroh’s tall boys. Got it?”
I reached a five at him. He shook his head and came out of his pocket with a large wad of soft, often-folded currency. “Nope,” he said firmly, “I’m covering it. Least I can do.” He hopped out and strode into the tavern. Presently he appeared on the sidewalk again, embracing the case. I got out and opened the trunk; he put the clinking beer bottles inside.
Ten minutes later I delivered Jimmy Herndon to the Michigan Central Train Station, walked him inside, and watched him purchase a ticket to Chicago with several bills from his fat wad of soft currency.
When he completed the transaction, he turned to me, grinning. “Train leaves at six,” he said. “Gonna wait around and wave a hankie as I depart?”
“Maybe I should. To make sure you go.”
“Oh, I’ll go. I promise.” He looked around the cavernous train station lobby. ‘This town’s too hot for me. I’m gone and I’ll stay gone. You whipped me, Ben. I’m out of here.”
I was exhausted. I was scheduled to do a twelve hour shift at the grocery, starting at six A.M. I had to get home and rescue what sleep I could. “Okay. Just don’t let me see your face in these parts ever again.”
Back behind the wheel of my ’51, beating gears headed northwest for home through the misty night, I felt pretty damned good. I’d won. Libby had been smack in the middle of big trouble, and I’d sorted it out. It hadn’t been pretty. I’d made mistakes. But I’d overcome every obstacle that appeared, and in the end I prevailed.
All for no reward — aside from the satisfaction of feeling like maybe I wasn’t just a punk kid any more...
The siren made me swerve and I nearly took out a lamppost at the Outer Drive intersection. A cop car hung to my bumper, red bubblelight and headlights flashing angrily, punctuated by the whooping siren. Heart hammering, I hauled the Ford to a stop in front of the Christian Science church. Damn it to hell! I thought. Nailed. Speeding. My first ticket.
The officer sauntered up to my door and peered down. “Benjy Perkins?” he asked, in what had to be one of the last Irish accents left on the force.
“Yessir.” How the hell did he know my name?
“Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle, young feller?”
I did so, shaking. The cop took my upper arm and led me to the rear of the car. “Got anything special in the trunk, son?”
My homecoming was not pretty.
Daddy, who didn’t bother to bail me out of the 16th Precinct till eight thirty the next morning, nearly ripped my head off. Mama met me at the door to inform me that I was the first member of the Perkins family ever to go to jail. My brother Bill, just leaving for work, shook his head ominously when he saw me. And Libby, my sweet little sister Libby, all angelic in her summer school clothes, tossed her head at my appearance and greeted me with “Morning, jailbird!”
I could handle Daddy and Mama and Bill. Time would take care of my problems with them. But I had to settle accounts with Libby. When she got home, late that evening, I barged into her bedroom and slammed the door. “We got to talk, Libby,” I growled.
She was sitting at her dressing table, brushing her short brown hair. “What do you want, jailbird?”
“First off, cut out the name-calling. This jam I’m in is all on account of you.”
Brush, brush. “Really? Did I put the beer in your car?”
“No.” I stepped closer, about to lower the boom and grimly enjoying it. “I caught Herndon last night. Dragged him to the train station and ran him out of town. He knew about the beer and he called the cops on me, to pay me back.”
The smile went. The brush stopped. Libby looked at it, turning it over and over. Then tears sprang into her eyes and she tossed the thing hard onto the dressing table. “You hoodlum!” she shouted, eyes hurt and angry. “How could you do that to him?”