by Ward, Robert
I should have gone right away. After all, they’d be coming soon, but I stood outside for a while, just down the street, watching as the flames from the cellar started to catch the first floor.
It was going to be a good blaze, a perfect blaze. There would be nothing left. No jacks, no jokers, no princess or prince, and no merry olde king.
I walked three blocks to Winston to where I’d parked my father’s car and started the engine, just as I heard the first sirens wail.
As I drove out past the blinking, flashing bar signs on the York Road, two more fire engines came streaming by me, their sirens screaming. I sucked in my breath and kept on driving, and suddenly, he was there riding shotgun beside me, Mad Jeremy Raines, his wild cowlick sitting straight up like some silent movie comedian, and I could almost hear him say, “Looks like it’s going to be a very hot night, my boy, wouldn’t you say?” And I laughed out loud and shook my head as we headed off together for one last wild adventure in the dark Baltimore night.
If you liked The King of Cards check out:
Shedding Skin
I.
In Which I Begin by Digging My Hole
I have my blue jeans rolled up to reveal the plaid underside and my Tom Corbett Space Cadet T-shirt clings tight to my stomach. Yes, and my white high-topped Keds surround my dancing feet, my red bandanna is tied around my neck, the point tickling my throat. Behind me, in the row house, Freda and Father sit beneath the Norman Rockwell kitchen calendar arguing about budgets. Ahead of me is Craig Avenue. That’s where the Hill is, where Baba Looie might be. It is where Gene Autry and Roy Rogers move inside our bodies, take over our speech, stop stuttering in Walter, make Kirk forget his scraped-up knees, turn Shirley Steinberg—who will later get gunned down for real in a tavern fight—into the traveling minstrel girl, charm a man out of his snake ring like it or not. Running down Craig Avenue, I’m no fat kid who will have trouble with braces acne marriage. I will not step on a crack. I am Lash LaRue; the bushes shrink from my touch. Me and my silver gun, my jewel-studded holster. Even though I cannot breathe with this scarf strangling my neck. I can still dodge Walter’s bullet.
“Gotcha!”
“Missed.”
“Didn’t. Can’t dodge two feet.”
“Can, Walter. Jump the exact moment you pull the trigger. Before the bullet comes out of the gun, I’m free.”
“Sure.”
A punch in the gut for Walt. See him lying on the chalked hopscotch, his head resting in sevensies. Kirk from the mulberry tree:
“Krehhh, krehhhh, you’re all dead.”
No chance to dodge. Call in the rulebook.
“Fix fix new man.”
“No new men. No new men. Awwww no.”
I may as well die, change the game to Best Death.
No one wants to play. It doesn’t matter. We go to the Hill. Dust all over Tom Corbett’s shirt. Standing on the Hill, should we go get the Seckel pears? No, Greenleaf will call the cops. What’s a penny made of? Dirty copper. So funny I forgot to laugh. Later we will say Funny as a fart in a space suit.
“Let’s dig.”
Run over to Walter’s for the shovel. Little Eddie, who has painted valentines on the backs of his box turtles, wants to dig. We push him out of the way. No one likes him because he has a cleft palate. Dig dig dig, working good here in the sunshine, dirt all over Kirk like moondust, digging further into that soft orange clay, stop, wipe off your head with the bandanna, go over to Eddie’s—yes, you can play, we love you, bring us the water bottle, bring us the ruler with the King Syrup picture on it; we’ve got a nice hole here now, three feet deep. Sweat all over us, as we sit in the hole, lob grenades at Japs, slitty-eyed midgets never stop Combat Kelly or the Blackhawks. Shoot marbles against the wall, get all the way down, we could store apples in here, Greenleaf comes looking, we spread a dark army blanket overtop and he breaks his leg. Dust all over everything, it’s four o’clock, time for Kate Smith, do you wanna go? No, nah, forget it, she’s a horse, never wears anything but long dresses because her calves are burned, nothing but scars. You wanna dig? Yeah yeah yeah. Let’s get this hole deeper, all the way to China. I wanna buy some chop suey, digging digging, our hands coated with the dust, our shovels cracking into rock, digging digging digging our hole….
Read more of Shedding Skin
Tyrus Books, a division of F+W Media, publishes crime and dark literary fiction—offering books from exciting new voices and established, well-loved authors. Centering on deeply provocative and universal human experiences, Tyrus Books is a leader in its genre.
tyrusbooks.com
Published in Electronic Format by
TYRUS BOOKS
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
4700 East Galbraith Road
Cincinnati, Ohio 45236
www.tyrusbooks.com
Copyright © 1993 by Robert Ward
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction.
Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-3397-0
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3397-6
“YAKETY YAK” (Jerry Leiber, Mike Stoller) © 1958 (Renewed) CHAPPPELL & CO., JERRY LEIBER MUSIC & MIKE STOLLER MUSIC. All Rights Reserved. Used By Permission.
“YOUNG BLOOD” (Jerry Leiber, Mike Stoller, Doc Pomus) © 1957 JERRY LEIBER MUSIC, MIKE STOLLER MUSIC, CHAPPELL & CO., UNIICHAPPELL MUSIC, INC. (Renewed). All Rights Reserved. Used By Permission.
This work has been previously published in print format by:
Pocket Books,
a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Print ISBN: 0-671-79568-6