Catch You Later, Traitor

by Avi

  “I don’t want you to! You’ll make things worse.”

  No one spoke for a few moments.

  “Well,” said Ma, “the suspension is only for one day. Let’s see what happens.” Then she said, “Pete, I don’t approve of your punching that boy. But I think you were provoked. And that shirt is ruined. Promise us that if Mr. Donavan continues to treat you unfairly, you’ll tell us.”

  “Fine,” I said, but made up my mind not to tell them any more. The thought of Dad going to Donavan with the FBI still sniffing around was too upsetting.

  Before I went to sleep that night, I listened to the radio. After winning the opening game of the season, the Giants kept losing. They even lost their home opener to the Dodgers. The Giants were in last place. Like me.

  As I lay there, Bobby called from the other side of our partition, “Hey, Pete.”

  “What?”

  “It stinks the way you were treated in school. You’re doing the right thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Not making a fuss about it. It’d only make things worse.”

  “For who?”

  “The family.”

  “What do you care?” I said. “You said you’re the only one who cares about the future.”

  When he didn’t say anything, I got off my bed and I stood by the partition. He was at his desk, a textbook in his hand. He looked up at me.

  I said, “What were you doing in Dad’s office?”

  My question must have taken him by surprise, because he just stared at me. Then he said, “What are you talking about?”

  “When I came home, you were in his office.”

  He turned back to his book. “Getting paper,” he muttered.

  “You didn’t have paper in your hand.”

  “Couldn’t find it.”

  “It’s always on his typewriter stand.”

  He stared at his book.

  I said, “You were going through his file cabinet, weren’t you?”

  No response.

  I pushed. “What were you looking for?”

  “Buzz off,” he said, and shifted so his back was toward me.

  I got into bed still thinking about Bobby in Dad’s office. Then Bobby walked out of the room. I got up again and followed him partway to the kitchen, where I heard him pick up the phone. I tried to hear what he said but I couldn’t. When he hung up, I scurried back to bed. As he passed through the room, I asked, “Who were you calling?”

  He said, “One of my friends you don’t know.”

  “Some stupid girlfriend?”

  “If I had a girlfriend she wouldn’t be stupid like yours is.”

  Certain he was up to something, I put him on my list of puzzles. Then I grabbed my Black Mask and read the last story: “Death of a Witness.” At least Detective Roscoe Carter would solve everything before I turned out the lights.

  On Friday, I woke up at my regular seven o’clock only to remember I wasn’t going to school. I stayed in bed and heard Bobby move around but shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep as he passed through the room so I wouldn’t have to talk to him. I heard Ma going to the kitchen. Dad walking up the hall. Bobby leaving. “Enjoy school,” Ma called to him. The door slammed.

  Dad stopped in my doorway. “Pete?” he whispered. When I still faked sleeping, he retreated. The front door clicked. A little later Ma left, too.

  There he was, private eye Pete Collison, alone in bed. From somewhere down on the street a car horn dented the stillness. His window rattled slightly. His bed frame creaked. He slept and dreamed he was walking down a long alley, which led to another long alley and then another. When he woke up, he looked around. He hadn’t budged. A beam of sunlight had slipped through his window and was pointing to the floor as if accusing it of something. It didn’t say what.

  I went into the kitchen where my cereal bowl sat on the table, along with spoon, paper napkin, and a box of Grape Nuts. Ma’s paper from yesterday was also there. On the bowl was a note.

  Call me when you get up xxx Mom

  Looking for the sports section in the paper, I came upon a story:

  Senator Joseph R. McCarthy of Wisconsin described Secretary of State Acheson today as an “extremely clever” witness. Mr. McCarthy, one of the secretary’s sharpest critics, added that Mr. Acheson is “awfully bad for America and awfully good for Communism at home and abroad.”

  It felt strange reading that. Sure, there had been plenty of talk and newspaper stories about Communism before. Now, all of a sudden, I was connected to it. It didn’t matter that I didn’t want to be a part of the story. I was.

  I ate breakfast. Read the sports. The Giants had lost six in a row. Disgusted, I pushed the paper away and tried to imagine what was going on in school. Maybe history. Or math. I wondered if Donavan had said anything about me.

  Back in my room, I grabbed my Black Mask, only to realize I’d read all the stories. With nothing better to do, I decided to go to Ritman’s and get something new, something with stories about the FBI. That made me remember the missing FBI card.

  Certain I’d put the card in Black Mask, I went through it one more time, page by page. The card wasn’t there.

  I searched under my desk and my bed again. Nothing. I opened the little drawer in my desk. Pencils. Erasers. A few baseball cards. Nothing else. I glanced toward the partition and Bobby’s side of the room. If Bobby could snoop around Dad’s office, I could do the same to Bobby.

  I went to his side. He had the same bed and desk as I did. No baseball posters on his wall, just pictures of rockets and jet planes. His acceptance certificate for that summer camp was on the wall, too.

  Bobby’s desktop was clean and neat, with only a pile of Popular Science magazines. It took one glance to see the FBI card wasn’t there. I pulled his desk drawer open. Some pencils, a pencil sharpener, protractor, and a slide rule. Under the slide rule was the FBI card.

  Questions tumbled in my head like a clown in the circus. Why did he have it? How did he even know I had the cards? Was it from listening in when I talked to Ma and Dad? Had he looked for them? What did he want with it, anyway?

  Intending to challenge him directly that afternoon after school, I left the card there so he couldn’t deny he had it.

  By the time Pete got dressed, it was almost ten. He took two bits from his money can, told himself to stop thinking about Bobby, and headed out. He checked the sky and the street. The sun was bright. The people looked less so. A biplane trailing a Coca-Cola streamer buzzed above like a summer fly.

  Pete walked into Ritman’s Books and found Ritman behind the counter, smoking and reading a new Adventures into the Unknown. Ritman looked up, blew a slip of smoke from his nose like a burned-out dragon, and said, “No school, kid?”

  “Had a stomachache. My mother said I could stay home.”

  “Reading is good for bellyaches.” Ritman pointed with his chin. “You know where they are.”

  “Thanks.”

  I stepped into the back room, and poked around until I found an Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Its cover showed a dead lady mostly concealed by a white sheet. It had a true FBI story, called “Tapped Out.” It was about how, during the war, an FBI agent caught a Nazi spy by fixing a tap on the telephone junction box in an apartment basement and listening to conversations day after day.

  I read the story and was about to leave the store when I glanced at the supermarket across the street. Bobby and Uncle Chris were coming out the doors.

  How come Bobby wasn’t in school? Why was he with Dad’s uncle? I backed into Ritman’s, turned on my detective brain, and watched.

  Uncle Chris was a plumber with his own business somewhere in Brooklyn, out near Coney Island. He was an old guy, maybe seventy-five, barrel-chested, with muscled arms and a big mouth to match. He was the kind of guy who kept a fence all around him. If anyone got near, he’d slap you away with sarcastic remarks, or with his fists if words didn’t finish the job. He had as much sparkle as a wad of old ch
ewing gum. Pete didn’t like him.

  I hoped Bobby wasn’t telling Uncle Chris about my suspension. Chris would scatter it around the whole family.

  The two of them talked awhile, then went different ways.

  Behind me, Ritman called, “Hey, Pete, what you staring at?”

  I wished I knew.

  I got home, my mind full of suspicions about Bobby. My detective mind tried to figure it out but it seemed as if I were walking down endless alleys. I was so lost in my thoughts that when the doorbell rang, I jumped. Right away, I thought of the FBI.

  I ran to my parents’ bedroom, lifted a Venetian-blind slat, and peeked out. Sure enough, parked across the street was a small black Ford with New York license plate PED459. The FBI had come back.

  The doorbell kept ringing.

  19

  I snuck back down the hallway, stood on my toes, and put my eye to the peephole. Ewing, hat in hand, was standing in the hall. I jumped back. Why was he here?

  The bell kept ringing.

  Fists clenched, breathing hard, I stood still.

  “Pete,” called Ewing. “I know you’re home. I really need to speak to you.”

  I didn’t move. Just hoped he would go away. After a long silence, I put my eye to the peephole again. He was gone.

  I tore back to my parents’ bedroom and looked down in time to see Ewing walking across the street toward his car. He got in. The car pulled away.

  I took a deep breath, went to my room, and sat on the edge of my bed, and tried to calm down. I was as wobbly as a three-wheeled roller skate.

  Why did Ewing need to speak to me? How did he know I was home?

  I went into Bobby’s side of the room and pulled out Ewing’s card. Bobby said Dad told me all his secrets. Maybe Bobby used the FBI card to call Ewing last night, told Ewing that I knew Dad’s secrets and that I’d be home today. That would explain why Ewing came.

  Except that would make Bobby an informer. Why would he do that? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. My thoughts a jumble, I put the card back and started pacing around the apartment.

  The phone rang. I wasn’t sure I should answer.

  When it kept ringing, I decided that if it was Ewing, I’d catch him by surprise and ask him how he knew I was home.

  I picked up.

  “Hello, love.” It was my mother. “Goodness, where were you? You never called.”

  My mind still churning about Bobby and Ewing, all I said was “Sorry.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Nothing. Reading.”

  “That’s good. Have any other plans?”

  “No. Did Bobby have school today?”

  “Of course. Why? Feeling lonely?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll try to get home early.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t sound too great.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Call me if you need anything. Or want to talk.”

  “Okay.”

  “Pete, love, you didn’t do anything very wrong. You shouldn’t have been suspended.”

  “I know.”

  I hung up and sat in the kitchen. Looked in the fridge. There was nothing I wanted to eat. I wandered down to my room. It felt empty. I did too. I decided to go back to Ritman’s.

  Out on the street, I checked for Ewing’s car. I didn’t see it. Walking, I looked to see if anyone was following me. No one was. When I got to the bookstore, Ritman was still in his place behind his counter, reading. The only thing different was that he had moved on to the newest Vault of Horror comic.

  “Stomach still hurting?” he said, without looking up.

  “Mind if I hang around and read?” I said.

  “Reading beats hanging around,” he said, without lifting his eyes from the comic.

  I went into the back room, found the Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine I had been reading, and went over that FBI story again. It occurred to me that the mysteries in my hands were a lot bloodier than the ones in my head, but the ones in my head were more complicated.

  An hour later, I bought the magazine and went to the Rexall Drugstore down the block. Taking an end stool at the food counter, I had a hot dog and a Pepsi for lunch while reading my new magazine. Near two thirty, I made my way to the newsstand. It was too early to meet Kat, so I sat on the curb and read another story, called “A Simple Matter of Deduction.”

  Simple. I wished.

  “Hello, traitor.” Kat sat down next to me. “Giants, third place.”

  I said, “Dodgers, fifth. What happened in school?”

  “Not much.”

  “Donavan say anything about me?”

  She shook her head. “What did you do all day?”

  “The FBI guy came back.” And I told her my suspicions about Bobby.

  After that, she stood up. “Gotta get home. My father started checking with my mother about what time I get there. He’s worried that I’m hanging out with you.”

  “You are. How’re your parents?”

  “Still fighting.”

  “About what?”

  “Their marriage.”

  We started to walk. She said, “You going to the movies tomorrow?”

  “Don’t want to.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I know,” I said, “let’s tell our parents we’re going to the show, only we’ll meet in that library on Monroe Street. No one will see us there. It opens at nine, same as when the movie starts.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “You’re an angel.”

  “Why you saying that?”

  “It’s what Sam Spade calls his secretary.”

  “I’m not an angel,” she said as she walked off. “Not your secretary, either,” she called over her shoulder.

  That got us laughing. “See you,” I called.

  A few minutes later, Mary Geary went by across the street. She was spying on Kat. The whole world was full of spies.

  I bought Ma’s paper and went home.

  Soon as I walked into my side of the room, Bobby called from his side.

  “Pete?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where you been?”

  “Walking around. How was school?”

  “No classes. The teachers had meetings. So I met with my Rocket Club.”

  “All day?”

  “Mostly.”

  I put my Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine on my desk next to the Black Mask, which I shoved to one side. When I did, the FBI card poked out. Bobby must have put it back in Black Mask, hoping I hadn’t noticed it was gone.

  I called. “You been reading my Black Mask magazine?”

  “I don’t read garbage.”

  Wishing I could dust for fingerprints, my best deduction was that he’d used the card to tell the FBI I was home.

  For the rest of the afternoon I stayed away from Bobby. I read my new magazine, and then listened to the radio. Russ Hodges announced the end of the Giants game, which they lost.

  Truth is, I could hardly think about baseball. Mostly I thought about Bobby.

  He’d listened to my conversations with Dad. He had been going through Dad’s files and looked at those pictures. He had taken that FBI card. Put it back to cover up. He was after something. Was it for himself or the FBI?

  What would I do if Bobby was the informer?

  Saturday morning I told my folks I was going to the kids’ movies. Instead, I walked into the library fifteen minutes after it opened.

  The library was a gloomy place, with high ceilings and dull lighting. Cracked brown linoleum covered the floors. Heavy tables, chairs, and bookcases were all dark wood. On the tables were reading lamps with green glass shades that looked like large green mushrooms. Paintings of old-fashioned-looking men with whiskers like Brillo hung on purple walls. The few adults sitting there were reading, though one guy was already asleep. The place had as much life as a funeral parlor.

  I didn’t go to the library much because kids my age weren’t allow
ed anywhere except a small children’s section. That was in a corner, walled in on four sides by low bookcases. The library had a mysteries section, but I’d been told by an old librarian that I couldn’t borrow those books till I got to high school.

  I went to the children’s section and looked for Kat. She wasn’t there, so I grabbed a Hardy Boys mystery, The Secret of the Lost Tunnel, from the “Boys’ Books” shelves. Nothing to go ape about, but it was a detective story.

  I was up to Chapter Three when Kat sat down in the chair next to mine.

  “Giants in sixth place,” she said. “What you reading?”

  I showed her the title.

  “Are we lost in a tunnel?”

  “Worse,” I said. “That FBI card came back.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  “Bobby put it back in one of my magazines.”

  “You sure?”

  “Like Ivory Soap: Ninety-nine point forty-four percent sure.”

  “Find out any more about your dad?”

  “No. I’ll talk to Grandma Sally tomorrow. Funny: I never spent much time thinking about Dad before. He never talks about himself, except being in the war. Now, I feel I don’t know him.”

  “You’re not supposed to learn too much about your parents.”

  “Is that a rule?”

  She nodded. “Parents’ rules.”

  “I’m sorry, children,” a voice broke in. It was a young librarian. “I have to ask you to keep your voices down. Someone has complained.”

  I looked over my shoulder. Across the room, a lady with bright red hair glared at us.

  Kat looked too. “Oh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “That lady plays bridge with my mother.”

  Over the next couple of hours, Kat and I whispered about our usual ten billion things. The biggest was that afternoon’s Dodgers – Giants game.

  At quarter to twelve, we got up. I checked out the Hardy Boys book. The same librarian who had spoken to us stamped a red ink date on the “Date Due” slip inside the pocket on the back cover. “I’m sorry about that lady.” She smiled. “I hope you come again. You have two weeks to get out of the tunnel.”

  As we walked out, I said, “That librarian was faking being nice.”

  “No, she’s nice.”

  “What makes you so sure?”