The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 05

by Anthology

  "Too risky."

  "Risky?"

  Jake nodded. "Spotting isn't risky, Jimmy. But picking the car up is. There is a very dangerous time when the driver is a sitting duck. From the moment he opens the car door he is in danger. Sitting in the chance of getting caught, he must start the car, move it out of the parking space into traffic, and get under way and gone before he is safe."

  "But the sea-green Ford was sitting there with its engine running!"

  "Meaning," nodded Jake, "that the driver pulled in and made a fast dash into the store for a newspaper or a pack of cigarettes."

  "I understand. Your man could get caught. Or," added Jimmy thoughtfully, "the owner might even take his car away before we got there."

  Jake nodded. This one was going to make it easy for him.

  As the days wore on, Jimmy became more selective. He saw no point in reporting a car that wasn't going to be used. An easy mark wedged between two other cars couldn't be removed with ease. A car parked in front of a parking meter with a red flag was dangerous, it meant that the time was up and the driver should be getting nervous about it. A man who came shopping along the street to find a meter with some time left by the former driver was obviously looking for a quick-stop place--whereas the man who fed the meter to its limit was a much better bet.

  Jake, thankful for what Fate had brought him, now added refinements of education. Cars parked in front of supermarkets weren't safe; the owner might be standing just inside the big plate glass window. The car parked hurriedly just before the opening of business was likely to be a good bet because people are careless about details when they are hurrying to punch the old time clock.

  Jake even closed down his operations during the calculated danger periods, but he made sure to tell Jimmy Holden why.

  From school-closing to dinnertime Jimmy was allowed to do as he pleased. He found it hard to enjoy playing with his contemporaries, and Jake's explanation about dangerous times warned Jimmy against joining Moe and his little crew of thieves. Jimmy would have enjoyed helping in the stripping yard, but he had not the heft for it. They gave him little messy jobs to do that grimed his hands and made Jake's stern rule of cleanliness hard to achieve. Jimmy found it easier to avoid such jobs than to scrub his skin raw.

  One activity he found to his ability was the cooking business.

  Jake was a stew-man, a soup-man, a slum-gullion man. The fellows who roamed in and out of Jake's Place dipped their plate of slum from the pot and their chunk of bread from the loaf and talked all through this never-started and never-ended lunch. With the delicacy of his "inside" life, Jake knew the value of herbs and spices and he was a hard taskmaster. But inevitably, Jimmy learned the routine of brewing a bucket of slum that suited Jake's taste, after which Jimmy was now and then permitted to take on the more demanding job of cooking the steaks and chops that made their final evening meal.

  Jimmy applied himself well, for the knowledge was going to be handy. More important, it kept him from the jobs that grimed his hands.

  He sought other pursuits, but Jake had never had a resident spotter before and the play-facilities provided were few. Jimmy took to reading--necessarily, the books that Jake read, that is, approximately equal parts of science fiction and girlie-girlie books. The science fiction he enjoyed; but he was not able to understand why he wasn't interested in the girlie books. So Jimmy read. Jake even went out of his way to find more science fiction for the lad.

  Ultimately, Jimmy located a potential source of pleasure.

  He spotted a car with a portable typewriter on the back seat. The car was locked and therefore no target, but it stirred his fancy. Thereafter he added a contingent requirement to his spotting. A car with a typewriter was more desirable than one without.

  Jimmy went on to further astound Jake by making a list of what the customers were buying. After that he concentrated on spotting those cars that would provide the fastest sale for their parts.

  It was only a matter of time; Jimmy spotted a car with a portable typewriter. It was not as safe a take as his others, but he reported it. Jake's driver picked it up and got it out in a squeak; the car itself turned up to be no great find.

  Jimmy claimed the typewriter at once.

  Jake objected: "No dice, Jimmy."

  "I want it, Jake."

  "Look, kid, I can sell it for twenty."

  "But I want it."

  Jake eyed Jimmy thoughtfully, and he saw two things. One was a thousand-dollar reward standing before him. The other was a row of prison bars.

  Jake could only collect one and avoid the other by being very sure that Jimmy Holden remained grateful to Jake for Jake's shelter and protection.

  He laughed roughly. "All right, Jimmy," he said. "You lift it and you can have it."

  Jimmy struggled with the typewriter, and succeeded only because it was a new one made of the titanium-magnesium-aluminum alloys. It hung between his little knees, almost--but not quite--touching the ground.

  "You have it," said Jake. He lifted it lightly and carried it into the boy's little bedroom.

  Jimmy started after dinner. He picked out the letters with the same painful search he'd used in typing his getaway letter. He made the same mistakes he'd made before. It had taken him almost an hour and nearly fifty sheets of paper to compose that first note without an error; that was no way to run a railroad; now Jimmy was determined to learn the proper operation of this machine. But finally the jagged tack-tack--pause--tack-tack got on Jake's nerves.

  Jake came in angrily. "You're wasting paper," he snapped. He eyed Jimmy thoughtfully. "How come with your education you don't know how to type?"

  "My father wouldn't let me."

  "Seems your father wouldn't let you do anything."

  "He said that I couldn't learn until I was old enough to learn properly. He said I must not get into the habit of using the hunt-and-peck system, or I'd never get out of it."

  "So what are you doing now?"

  "My father is dead."

  "And anything he said before doesn't count any more?"

  "He promised me that he'd start teaching me as soon as my hands were big enough," said Jimmy soberly. "But he isn't here any more. So I've got to learn my own way."

  Jake reflected. Jimmy was a superior spotter. He was also a potential danger; the other kids played it as a game and didn't really realize what they were doing. This one knew precisely what he was doing, knew that it was wrong, and had the lucidity of speech to explain in full detail. It was a good idea to keep him content.

  "If you'll stop that tap-tapping for tonight," promised Jake, "I'll get you a book tomorrow. Is it a deal?"

  "You will?"

  "I will if you'll follow it."

  "Sure thing."

  "And," said Jake, pushing his advantage, "you'll do it with the door closed so's I can hear this TV set."

  "Yes sir."

  Jake kept his word.

  On the following afternoon, not only was Jimmy presented with one of the standard learn-it-yourself books on touch-typing, but Jake also contrived a sturdy desk out of one old packing case and a miniature chair out of another. Both articles of home-brewed furniture Jake insisted upon having painted before he permitted them inside his odd dwelling, and that delayed Jimmy one more day.

  But it was only one more day; and then a new era of experience began for Jimmy.

  It would be nice to report that he went at it with determination, self-discipline, and system, following instructions to the letter and emerging a first-rate typist.

  Sorry. Jimmy hated every minute of it. He galled at the pages and pages of juj juj juj frf frf frf. He cried with frustration because he could not perform the simple exercise to perfection. He skipped through the book so close to complete failure that he hurled it across the room, and cried in anger because he had not the strength to throw the typewriter after it. Throw the machine? He had not the strength in his pinky to press the carriage-shift key!

  Part of his difficulty was the si
ze of his hands, of course. But most of his trouble lay deep-seated in his recollection of his parents' fabulous machine. It would have made a typist of him in a single half-hour session, or so he thought.

  He had yet to learn about the vast gulf that lies between theory and practice.

  It took Jimmy several weeks of aimless fiddling before he realized that there was no easy short-cut. Then he went back to the juj juj juj frf frf frf routine and hated it just as much, but went on.

  He invented a kind of home-study "hooky" to break the monotony. He would run off a couple of pages of regular exercise, and then turn back to the hunt-and-peck system of typing to work on a story. He took a furtive glee in this; he felt that he was getting away with something. In mid-July, Jake caught him at it.

  "What's going on?" demanded Jake, waving the pages of manuscript copy.

  "Typing," said Jimmy.

  Jake picked up the typing guidebook and waved it under Jimmy's nose. "Show me where it says you gotta type anything like, 'Captain Brandon struggled against his chains when he heard Lady Hamilton scream. The pirate's evil laugh rang through the ship. "Curse you--"'"

  Jake snorted.

  "But--" said Jimmy faintly.

  "But nothing!" snapped Jake. "Stop the drivel and learn that thing! You think I let you keep the machine just to play games? We gotta find a way to make it pay off. Learn it good!"

  He stamped out, taking the manuscript with him. From that moment on, Jimmy's furtive career as an author went on only when Jake was either out for the evening or entertaining. In any case, he did not bother Jimmy further, evidently content to wait until Jimmy had "learned it good" before putting this new accomplishment to use. Nor did Jimmy bother him. It was a satisfactory arrangement for the time being. Jimmy hid his "work" under a pile of raw paper and completed it in late August. Then, with the brash assurance of youth, he packed and mailed his first finished manuscript to the editor of Boy's Magazine.

  His typing progressed more satisfactorily than he realized, even though he was still running off page after page of repetitious exercise, leavened now and then by a page of idiotic sentences the letters of which were restricted to the center of the typewriter keyboard. The practice, even the hunt-and-peck relaxation from discipline, exercised the small muscles. Increased strength brought increased accuracy.

  September rolled in, the streets emptied of school-aged children and the out-of-state car licenses diminished to a trickle. With the end of the carefree vacation days went the careless motorist.

  Jake, whose motives were no more altruistic than his intentions were legal, began to look for a means of disposing of Jimmy Holden at the greatest profit to himself. Jake stalled only because he hoped that the reward might be stepped up.

  But it was Jimmy's own operations that closed this chapter of his life.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jimmy had less scout work to do and no school to attend; he was too small to help in the sorting of car parts and too valuable to be tossed out. He was in the way.

  So he was in Jake's office when the mail came. He brought the bundle to Jake's desk and sat on a box, sorting the circulars and catalogs from the first class. Halfway down the pile was a long envelope addressed to Jimmy James.

  He dropped the rest with a little yelp. Jake eyed him quickly and snatched the letter out of Jimmy's hands.

  "Hey! That's mine!" said Jimmy. Jake shoved him away.

  "Who's writing you?" demanded Jake.

  "It's mine!" cried Jimmy.

  "Shut up!" snapped Jake, unfolding the letter. "I read all the mail that comes here first."

  "But--"

  "Shut your mouth and your teeth'll stay in," said Jake flatly. He separated a green slip from the letter and held the two covered while he read. "Well, well," he said. "Our little Shakespeare!" With a disdainful grunt Jake tossed the letter to Jimmy.

  Eagerly, Jimmy took the letter and read:

  Dear Mr. James:

  We regret the unconscionable length of time between your submission and this reply. However, the fact that this reply is favorable may be its own apology. We are enclosing a check for $20.00 with the following explanation:

  Our policy is to reject all work written in dialect. At the best we request the author to rewrite the piece in proper English and frame his effect by other means. Your little story is not dialect, nor is it bad literarily, the framework's being (as it is) a fairly good example of a small boy's relating in the first person one of his adventures, using for the first time his father's typewriter. But you went too far. I doubt that even a five-year-old would actually make as many typographical errors.

  However, we found the idea amusing, therefore our payment. One of our editors will work your manuscript into less-erratic typescript for eventual publication.

  Please continue to think of us in the future, but don't corn up your script with so many studied blunders.

  Sincerely, Joseph Brandon, editor, Boy's Magazine.

  "Gee," breathed Jimmy, "a check!"

  Jake laughed roughly. "Shakespeare," he roared. "Don't corn up your stuff! You put too many errors in! Wow!"

  Jimmy's eyes began to burn. He had no defense against this sarcasm. He wanted praise for having accomplished something, instead of raucous laughter.

  "I wrote it," he said lamely.

  "Oh, go away!" roared Jake.

  Jimmy reached for the check.

  "Scram," said Jake, shutting his laughter off instantly.

  "It's mine!" cried Jimmy.

  Jake paused, then laughed again. "Okay, smart kid. Take it and spend it!" He handed the check to Jimmy Holden.

  Jimmy took it quickly and left.

  He wanted to eye it happily, to gloat over it, to turn it over and over and to read it again and again; but he wanted to do it in private.

  He took it with him to the nearest bank, feeling its folded bulk and running a fingernail along the serrated edge.

  He re-read it in the bank, then went to a teller's window. "Can you cash this, please?" he asked.

  The teller turned it over. "It isn't endorsed."

  "I can't reach the desk to sign it," complained Jimmy.

  "Have you an account here?" asked the teller politely.

  "Well, no sir."

  "Any identification?"

  "No--no sir," said Jimmy thoughtfully. Not a shred of anything did he have to show who he was under either name.

  "Who is this Jimmy James?" asked the teller.

  "Me. I am."

  The teller smiled. "And you wrote a short story that sold to Boy's Magazine?" he asked with a lifted eyebrow. "That's pretty good for a little guy like you."

  "Yes sir."

  The teller looked over Jimmy's head; Jimmy turned to look up at one of the bank's policemen. "Tom, what do you make of this?"

  The policeman shrugged. He stooped down to Jimmy's level. "Where did you get this check, young fellow?" he asked gently.

  "It came in the mail this morning."

  "You're Jimmy James?"

  "Yes sir." Jimmy Holden had been called that for more than half a year; his assent was automatic.

  "How old are you, young man?" asked the policeman kindly.

  "Five and a half."

  "Isn't that a bit young to be writing stories?"

  Jimmy bit his lip. "I wrote it, though."

  The policeman looked up at the teller with a wink. "He can tell a good yarn," chuckled the policeman. "Shouldn't wonder if he could write one."

  The teller laughed and Jimmy's eyes burned again. "It's mine," he insisted.

  "If it's yours," said the policeman quietly, "we can settle it fast enough. Do your folks have an account here?"

  "No sir."

  "Hmmm. That makes it tough."

  Brightly, Jimmy asked, "Can I open an account here?"

  "Why, sure you can," said the policeman. "All you have to do is to bring your parents in."

  "But I want the money," wailed Jimmy.

  "Jimmy James," explained the
policeman with a slight frown to the teller, "we can't cash a check without positive identification. Do you know what positive identification means?"

  "Yes sir. It means that you've got to be sure that this is me."

  "Right! Now, those are the rules. Now, of course, you don't look like the sort of young man who would tell a lie. I'll even bet your real name is Jimmy James, Jr. But you see, we have no proof, and our boss will be awful mad at us if we break the rules and cash this check without following the rules. The rules, Jimmy James, aren't to delay nice, honest people, but to stop people from making mistakes. Mistakes such as taking a little letter out of their father's mailbox. If we cashed that check, then it couldn't be put back in father's mailbox without anybody knowing about it. And that would be real bad."