Last Summer Boys(64)

Crash Callahan and his motorcycle riders have come.

We wrecked their bikes.

Sam fired his rifle at them.

Now, they’ve come for revenge. And right when we were least expecting it, and at just the worst time.





I realize I am running then, running after Ma, running at those riders, following my brothers. Frankie alongside me. All of us going down together. Last charge of the Elliot boys. We’ll fight till there’s no breath left in us, and who knows, we might take one or two with us.

Hard to see them now through all that dust, but their sound is everywhere around me. I see Butch ahead, a fuzzy shape in the swirling dust, but I can no longer hear him over the engines.

Lane’s never seemed so long. I’ve been running for ages. All my life, it seems.

I’ll kill Crash first.

Makes sense, taking out the leader. I know Pete and Will are thinking the same thing. They’ve pulled ahead of me, angling right for old Crash, who’s out in front and who seems to be slowing himself down, coming to a stop.

The roar of motorbikes dies in a sudden avalanche of silence.

Ma stands like a statue. Tall. Proud. A cyclone of settling dust swirls around her.

Crash Callahan climbs off his glistening steel beast. He comes toward her, arms swinging easy at his sides. He wears a toothy grin along with his denim jacket and blue jeans. Long blond hair streams like fire off his scalp, held back from his sunburned face by a greasy red bandana.

“Why good afternoon, Mrs. Elliot,” Crash says. “I do hope we ain’t too late.”





Chapter 20


THE WORM SQUISHERS





At two minutes past two in the afternoon, we leave Stairways—my family in front, riding with Sam; then Pastor Fenton and everyone from church and from town; and surrounding us all, like escorts for a convoy at sea, Crash Callahan’s motorcycle men.

Twisting in my seat, I look behind us and find the line of cars stretches as far as I can see.

Will fiddles with the radio until he finds music. Bob Dylan, singing about his landlord.

Pete leans toward Ma in the front seat. “How’d you get Crash to come along?”

Ma looks out her window at one of the riders. “Crash and his men like to fish, hunt, ride, and drink. If the valley is flooded, they’ll have no place to do any of those things.” Ma pauses. “And your father promised they could do all of that on our land anytime they want. So long as we own it.”

I can tell by her words that Ma ain’t too pleased.

“Dad told them that?” Will asks. “When?”

“Three days ago,” Sam says. “We tracked the Hoodlums down at a pool hall in Adams County.”

Still watching the rider outside her window, Ma says, “I understand it was . . . tense at first.”

“It was,” Sam agrees.

“Sam, you went too?” I ask in disbelief. “But those riders hate you! And you hate them! They wrecked Myrtle’s mailbox, and we ruined their motorbikes!”

Sam grunts. “Hate is a strong word, son. I don’t much care for those young fellers. And I will never forget their offense to Myrtle’s mailbox. They needed their asses kicked for that. But there’s a value to them, as people, I guess.”

I chew on that in silence.

Frankie: “But how’d you get them to hear you out?”

Sam shifts in his seat, glances uncomfortably at Ma, and chuckles. “You buy a man a few rounds, he ends up coming around.”

Will sits back. “You got them drunk and then made a deal?”

Sam grunts. “Something like that.”

And now I remember Mr. Halleck’s words the other night.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.





The council building sits right smack dab in the middle of town: a castle of dull red stone with fake battlements and a blocky tower that holds an enormous clock. There’s not room enough in the parking lot, so we scatter to find what space we can along Main Street, then hurry our way up to the main doors.

Dad is somewhere inside, alone, waiting for us, keeping an eye out and making sure council doesn’t vote before everybody can speak their piece.

Ma asks Crash to join us, and he signals his men to wait outside as we slip through a pair of glass doors and head down a hallway with walls the color of old vomit. Ma’s high heels echo off the marble floors as we pass closed office doors with stenciled names like SANITATION and FINANCE. A giant corkboard tacked full with yellow notices and bulletins suddenly flutters at us as we pass, as if we’ve tripped some sort of secret alarm, and a pair of double doors opens at the end of the hall and a man in shirtsleeves steps out. His bushy black eyebrows go up at the sight of us boys and Ma, Pastor Fenton and Anna May, and all the church ladies in their floral dresses. Then he spies Crash and his bushy eyebrows climb even higher.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he says to Ma. “There’s no more room left in chambers. Full house, I’m afraid.”

“We’re glad to stand,” Ma tells him and without stopping walks right on by, through the double doors and into the council hall. Anger clouds the man’s face, and he seems about to say something when Pastor Fenton touches his arm and tells him in a firm but gentle voice that he’s glad to stand too. “Be cool, man,” Crash says, and he strides past.