Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(85)

You might wonder why Sam, who’d been sitting there for hours hadn’t called the diner, to ask if his daddy had left and when he’d be arriving; but Sam knew Scooter wasn’t a man to question. He got there when he got there! Argue the point and you’d wait twice as long.





Olivia

If a year ago somebody had told me I’d be loving an eleven year old boy, I’d have figured them downright crazy. Me? I’d have said—me? A woman with a deathly fear of anything eleven and no use whatsoever for children?

Now here I sit with Ethan Allen Doyle tucked under my wing like a newborn chick; which just goes to show how little folks actually know about themselves. I suppose Charlie would be pretty surprised at this turn of events—I sure am.

Of course, I’m also frightened about what could happen. Ethan Allen’s right when he says the Cobbs are worth worrying about. I don’t know the father, but the son sure is a mean one. God only knows where I got the courage to take a swing at a man that big and bad-tempered. I guess when I saw him coming after Ethan Allen, I didn’t stop to think; I just started swinging. Well, swinging and praying that I’d be able to get my boy inside before I fainted dead away.

My boy—it’s pretty ironic to hear me saying such a thing, after a lifetime of running away from the very thought. I should telephone Francine Burnam and tell her about this; she of all people would get the biggest kick out of it.





The Greater Power

On the way to Wyattsville Scooter Cobb drove through three red lights without so much as slowing down. “There’s no way,” he mumbled, “…no way I’m gonna let that little shit send me to jail!” He sifted several plans through his head, but it seemed the best was to catch the boy playing in the street, then go straight at the kid with the gas pedal pushed flat to the floor. Hit and run accidents were simply things that happened, not a crime likely to be traced back to him. Scooter Cobb pictured how he’d drive off and leave Ethan Allen lying in the street with tire tracks emblazoned across the small of his back.

Of course by the time he arrived in Wyattsville it was almost nine o’clock and pitch dark; so dark, that he failed to see Sam’s car parked in front of the apartment building and drove clear to the center of town before realizing the mistake. Having to turn around and backtrack caused his disposition to grow fouler. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he grumbled over and over again. By then it was so late, he doubted he’d find the boy outside in the street, which meant he’d have to go to the woman’s apartment.

His best bet was to get the kid outside Scooter reasoned, get him outside, and then figure how to get rid of him. That way, he could claim he was simply having a talk with Ethan Allen when the kid up and ran off. Kids like him ran off all the time. Nobody was gonna worry about it. Without the kid, he reasoned, Mahoney had nothing.



By nine o’clock, most residents of the Wyattsville Arms apartment building had settled down to watch their favorite television show or thumb through the daily newspaper. No one expected trouble—why should they? Trouble was not a thing that came calling on folks once they were snug in their own living room, with the windows locked and the door bolted for the night.

Ethan Allen did not feel the same way; he knew trouble was most likely to show itself in the dark of night. It came when you least expected it. It came crashing through the door and grabbed you by the throat—then you were good as dead. He tried not to dwell on such a possibility as he lay across his bed listening to the Orioles lose the last game of the season. He couldn’t help wishing he’d been able to slip away long enough to buy cartridges for the Winchester. Okay, he still had the Browning under his bed, but having a loaded Winchester would have made him feel a lot better. Ethan tried to focus his concern on the fact that the Orioles had the worst batting average in the entire American League, but it simply didn’t seem to matter all that much. In the top of the ninth, with the Yankees leading nine to three, he snapped off the radio and turned to a Superman comic book he’d already read so many times the cover was torn loose.

Olivia was not reading nor was she watching television; she was busy at work preparing her favorite pineapple upside down cake. The Bingo Club was having their annual bake sale and she had volunteered to provide, not one, but two cakes; which seemed only right seeing as how everyone had been so forgiving about Ethan Allen living at the Wyattsville Arms. The first of these creations was already in the oven when she discovered she’d run short of brown sugar. Had it been an hour earlier, she could have dashed down to the market and purchased a box, but now, with everything closed, she would have to try and borrow some. The first person she called was Clara. “Brown sugar?” Clara replied, “Why, I’ve not used that in years.” She suggested Olivia try white sugar mixed in with a cup or two of maple syrup. “Now, I’ve got plenty of maple syrup,” Clara said.

“No thanks,” Olivia answered and then she set about calling a number of other people. As it turned out Barbara Conklin had a brand new box of brown sugar, one that was not yet opened. “Oh, would you mind?” Olivia asked.

“Not at all,” Barbara answered, “but I was just about to step into the tub. Soon as I finish my bath and dry off, I’ll bring it up.”

Olivia would have happily run downstairs to fetch the sugar herself, or sent Ethan Allen for it, but knowing Barbara Conklin to be a person insistent upon doing things in her own good time, she decided to wait. She’ll be here soon enough, Olivia reasoned, as she set about mixing the batter. When the doorbell rang fifteen minutes later, she of course figured it to be Barbara and flung the door open without inquiring as to who was on the other side.