Authors: Matt Christopher
What surprised him was the look on his fathers face when he saw the items. There was despair and pain in it, not anger, not
hate.
Handing the items back to Jim, he said compassionately, “It’s a sick person who’s doing that to you, Jim. Try not to get upset
about it. The problem is his, not yours.”
“Maybe it is, Dad,” agreed Jim, stuffing the folded pages back into his shirt pocket. “But I intend to find out who’s doing
it. Sick or not, he’s driving me up a wall.”
“You don’t have a single idea who it is?” Peg asked, placing a steaming hot dish of bean casserole on the table.
“Not exactly. But it’s somebody on our football team. It’s got to be.”
She focused her attention on him. “I hope you don’t suspect Chuck.”
“You’re right. I don’t. But have you noticed how many plays I’ve been involved in in the last two games?”
“I know. Not many,” she said. “But maybe that’s because you —” She paused, and looked away from him. “I’m sorry. Let’s drop
it.”
“Fine by me,” said Jim.
His father and mother, he noticed, gave each other a long, speculative look. They said nothing, though, as if they, too, didn’t
care to pursue the subject any further.
After dinner, Jim telephoned Margo and asked her if she could meet him in fifteen minutes at the public library.
“Sure,” she answered. “But why the library?”
“’Cause it’s nice and quiet there,” he told her.
I
t was five after seven and already growing dark. The Port Lee Public Library, on Chickamaw Street, had all its lights turned
on.
Jim and Margo sat alone at a large mahogany table near the rack holding a variety of magazines. Jim had shown her the contents
of the envelope he had received, had put the sheet with YOU SMELL! on it back into his pocket, and left the other, with the
stock advertisements face up, in front of him.
“What I think we ought to do,” he said as quietly as he could and still be sure she heard him, “is find out which magazine
this page was cut out of.”
“And then?”
“Find out who subscribes to it.”
Margos eyebrows arched. “You make it sound so simple.”
“Okay. You got a better idea?”
“No.”
“Okay. Let’s grab up the magazines dealing with stocks and bonds and check them to see which one has the same size page as
this.”
They got up, approached the magazine rack, and selected three magazines dealing with stocks and bonds. All three resembled
each other in size, but only one of them had the pages the exact size as the one showing the picture of the thief. It was
Stocks in Review.
“One down, three to go,” said Jim, tingling with his success.
Margo looked at him. “How do you figure?”
“On the next down we find out which issue the picture was cut out of,” Jim replied, the order of progress clear in his head.
“On the third down we find out whom we know who subscribes to it.”
“And on the fourth?”
“We score a touchdown.”
Margo laughed. “Okay, quarterback! You’ve got the ball!”
Jim saw that the magazine he was holding was the September issue. He flipped its pages and found, to
his disappointment, that the page, 55–56, was not the same as the one mailed to him.
“Rats,” he said, and returned the three magazines to the rack. He looked at the others carefully, and a glimmer of hope fanned
in him as he saw that there was at least one more copy of each magazine. The August issue of
Stocks in Review
was one of them.
He removed it, flipped its pages, and came to 55–56. It was the same page as the one mailed to him!
“Margo!” he exclaimed. “I’ve found it! It came out of the August issue!”
“Fine! Now what?”
“Now comes the hard part,” he said, his voice becoming softer. “You have to make some phone calls.”
“Oh, I do, do I? To whom?”
“The suspects.”
She frowned and pushed back her chair. “You mean Chick and Steve?”
“Chick, Steve, and even Chuck,” said Jim. “Let’s go. Tell them you’re Ms. So-an’-so and want to know if they would like to
subscribe to
Stocks in Review
magazine.”
He picked up a short yellow pencil and a sheet of
paper from the top of an index file, then he and Margo went outside. A phone booth was just past the exit door. He found the
phone numbers of the Bensons, the Newtons, and the DeVals in the directory and wrote them down.
Margo dialed the Benson number first. Her suddenly nervous-looking eyes told Jim that someone was answering her ring.
“Hello? Mrs. Benson?” Margo said sweetly. “How do you do? I’m Ms. Bailey. Are you, or your husband, already subscribers to
Stocks in Review
magazine?”
There was a moment of silence as Jim watched Margo listening to the reply.
Then Margo, cracking a faint smile, said, “Thank you, Mrs. Benson. Have a nice day.”
She hung up and stared at Jim. “Mr. Benson’s already a subscriber!”
“Hey! Good!” Jim wrote yes after the Benson name. “Now try the Newtons.”
She dialed again, got an answer, and apparently an abrupt reply, because she placed the receiver back on the cradle fast and
looked at Jim with soft, hurt eyes. “Wow! Was she snippy!”
“Subscriber or not?”
“Not.”
Jim wrote no after the Newton name. “DeVal next,” he said.
Margo dialed the DeVals’ number and almost immediately started her spiel. When she hung up, Jim felt sure they had scored
again.
But Margo said, “Mr. DeVal gets the magazine now and then from a friend. She, Mrs. DeVal, is quite sure he wouldn’t care to
subscribe to it.”
“Can’t blame him,” said Jim. He sighed. “Well, one out of three.” He held up a finger. “We’ve got to get that August issue
from the Bensons and see if page fifty-five and fifty-six is intact or ripped out.”
“How do you expect to accomplish that?”
He grinned mischievously, grabbed her small chin, and gently squeezed it. “You did so well telephoning, you should do well
with that assignment, too, Detective Anderson.”
“Aren’t you sweet,” she said impishly.
He took his wallet out of his pocket, counted the money in it, and put it back. “Just enough for a couple of root beer floats,”
he said. “What do you say?”
She grabbed his arm. “I say sure!” She beamed delightedly.
With long, happy strides they walked out of the library into the lighted street.
“Jim,” Margo said as they headed down the sidewalk toward the Burger Queen two blocks away, “if Chick’s the guilty party,
what are you going to say to him?”
“I don’t know,” replied Jim. “But I’ll figure out something. When are you going to see Mrs. Benson about that August issue?”
“Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow night. I don’t know.”
“The sooner the better,” said Jim.
He felt cool, calm, and collected. They were making progress. It wouldn’t be much longer before they would know who had made
those malicious phone calls, drawn the obscene picture, and mailed him the picture torn out of a
Stocks in Review
magazine.
Football practice went on as usual on Thursday afternoon, except for one thing: Jim wasn’t able to function without thinking
that Chick Benson might be the culprit who was trying to undermine his playing ability. Jim forgot defensive plays. Twice
he
blocked the wrong man. Once he grabbed a guy’s face guard. Another time he threw a block on a guard, then saw the ballcarrier
sweep around him for a clean twenty-yard run before Chick and Pat Simmons nailed him.
“Where have you got your head, Cort?” Pat snapped at him. “You haven’t done a thing right yet.”
Jim said nothing. He had an excuse, but it wouldn’t be accepted. Not here. Not yet.
“Jim!” a deep voice shouted from the sideline. “Come here!”
Jim yanked off his helmet and trotted off the field. Coach Butler stood in front of the bench, players standing on both sides
of him. Perched on top of the bench almost directly behind him was Jerry Watkins, his ever-present camera hung from a strap
around his neck. Jim saw he had the camera focused on him.
Waste an exposure, Jerry, Jim wanted to tell him. Waste a couple. What have you got? A scrapbook of failures, too?
He came up alongside the coach.
“Jim, I can’t believe you’re doing all those crazy
things out there,” Coach Butler declared. “You’re playing like a kid just starting small-fry football.”
Jim looked for a towel on the bench, saw one, picked it up and wiped his face.
“I’m sorry, Coach. But I’ll get over it. I promise.”
“I can’t depend on promises,” the coach retorted. He spat and yanked on his baseball cap. His other hand was deep inside the
breast pocket of his blue nylon jacket. “Grabbing the face mask was just plain dumbness. But letting a flanker sweep by you
and you don’t even know he’s going — for pete’s sake, man, that could mean seven points in a game. Know what I’m saying?
“Have you forgotten the block and attack?” he went on. “Hit your guard, yes, but then rush on after that guy with the ball
if he comes around your end. And what have you been doing on the second down and seven- or eight-to-go plays? Or on the third
down and six-to-go plays? You’re rushing hard, but you’re not dropping back for the pass. You’re playing according to your
own logic, Jim, not signal. Know what I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” he echoed, mockingly. “Don’t just say yes to say yes. Are you sure?”
Jim nodded. “I’m sure.”
The coach stared at him. Then his voice lowered. “Your Dad get a job yet?”
“Not yet.”
“He will. He’s a good guy. And he’s doing fine in that accounting course.”
Jim stared at him. “How —”
“One of our teachers is teaching it,” the coach cut in. “Okay. Get out there. And keep your mind on the game. All right?”
Jim nodded. He put his helmet back on and ran out on the field, much faster than he had run off.
The coach was a real man, he thought. Through and through he was fourteen carat.
Jim tried to get himself together, and on signal he charged forward on the pass plays, then rushed back to cover his man in
case he was the intended receiver. Once — and once was a lot right now — he pulled down an interception.
“Nice going, Jim,” said Chick.
A compliment from Chick? Jim was confused. Would a guy who wanted him off the team compliment
him on a play? Did he do it to throw Jim off his track if he suspected that Jim was trying to find out who the culprit was?
Jim had no way of knowing — yet.
He grabbed two receptions after a run of some twenty yards, one of which he had to leap up for in front of Chick Benson. Chick
went down and rolled over before coming back up on his feet, unhurt. That he felt disgusted with himself for failing to intercept
the pass was clear on his face.
Jim’s smile came and vanished as quickly. He’d save it for a later time.
The tiger roll, then five laps around the field, completed the practice session. On their way to the school and the showers,
Jim found himself walking beside Pat. He remained quiet, not caring to be intimidated by Pat, but it was Pat who broke the
silence between them.
“Hey, you find out who drew that picture?”
Jim looked at him, surprised that he should mention it. “Not yet.”
“You trying?”
“Yup.”
“No idea who did it?”
“Not yet.” Jim frowned. “You wouldn’t have any suggestions, would you?”
“Me? Heck, no.”
Jim hesitated. “Would you tell me if you did?”
Their eyes met. A faint smile came over Pat’s mouth. “Yes, I would. You know, I’ve been thinking. I carried a grudge against
you, and your father, earlier. I couldn’t help it. But I heard what your father’s doing and I think it’s great. And I know
you’re having it tough, with the team and all.”
Jim smiled back. “Thanks, Pat. You’re okay.”
“It’s very easy to be a jerk,” Pat said. “Guess that’s what I was.”
They entered the locker room, stripped, and took their showers.
J
im was in his fathers den, typing up some of the play patterns the team would be using during tomorrow nights game against
the Floralview Bucs. The door was open and he heard the front bell ring.
He paused, wondering who it was. Then he heard the door close, and the muffled sound of footsteps on the rug. The footsteps
seemed to be approaching the den.
He looked toward the door and saw Peg. She had her hand raised, ready to knock on the door casing.
“Hi, brother,” she said. “Someone to see you.”
Then he saw Margo.
“Hi, Margo. Come in.”
“Thank you.”
Peg smiled and left, and Margo entered the den. She had her hair tied in a ponytail, and her hands
stuck inside the pockets of her maroon imitation-leather jacket.
“Want to sit?” Jim invited.
“Thanks.”
She chose the black leather lounging chair his father had often used when he took his nap, the days when he had a steady job
and came home hungry and bone tired. Since his release from prison, he hadn’t sat or slept on the chair more than half a dozen
times.
“I hope I’m not too late,” she said. She reached back and pulled her hair out from behind her jacket collar.
Jim looked at the electric clock on top of his father’s desk. It was twenty after seven.
“It’s early,” he said. “What do you think we do, go to bed with the chickens?”
She laughed. “Hey, what a lovely room,” she exclaimed, looking at the wall plaques, the pictures of birds and animals, and
the wood carvings of pelicans on a shelf. “Yours?”
“My father’s. This is his room. Well, did you get the magazine from the Bensons?”
She turned to him. “I had a girl friend get it for me,” she answered. “But it was all intact.”
He frowned, disappointed.
“I’m afraid we were barking up the wrong tree,” she said.
“Rats!” Jim shook his head. “We’re back to square one!”
“Jim, how about Barry?”
He stared at her. “Barry Delaney? You crazy? He’s a good friend of mine. He wouldn’t do things like that.”