rebuilt motors, out of their apartment. Now they lived apart, in
a kind of netherworld of bickering and making up. Not completely in
love, but not quite ready to file
for divorce, either.
“Did you get fired?”
Toni demanded of Junior. Grabbing the back of his collar she steered him to a table
and forced him into a wooden
chair.
Junior gazed up at her
with round, innocent eyes. “No! Cross my heart! I’m still workin’ diligently at Shelby’s Body Shop.”
Suzanne and Petra
shuffled in to watch the show. If you were in the right frame of mind, Junior could be
pretty darned amusing. Fodder, almost, for a TV sitcom. Think Fonzie meets Homer Simpson.
“You sure you’re
still working?” Toni asked, bunching her right hand into a fist. “Because I’ll clock
you if....”
“Whoa, whoa!” said
Junior, putting up an arm in mock defense. “Whatever happened to innocent until
proven guilty?
Seriously, babe, I just dropped by to get a bite.”
Toni glanced up at
Suzanne. “What do you think?”
Suzanne gave a shrug.
“If the man’s hungry, I say go ahead
and feed him.”
“Just do it quick,”
said Petra, making her escape. Then she called back over her shoulder, “Thank
goodness we’re not real busy.”
Toni brought Junior a
leftover chicken sandwich and a bowl of vegetable soup. “Watch out,” she warned him, “that soup is so hot
it could boil your eyeballs.”
Junior nodded. “Okay.”
“And you’re going to
have to pay for this,” Toni nat tered. “We’ve catered to enough freeloaders for one day.”
“Jeez,” said Junior, “will
you chill out? I got money. I can
pay.”
“Still
raking it in at Shelby’s, huh?” said Suzanne. Hon estly, how much could a guy make
repairing fenders and ironing out dents? On the other hand, maybe quite a lot.
“I got something going
on the side, too,” Junior told Su zanne. He gave a cocky, knowing look as he took a
big bite of sandwich.
Toni looked unhappy. “What
are you talking about?’ To the best of everyone’s knowledge, none of Junior’s hare brained;
get-rich-quick schemes had ever panned out. Not the Cuban tax haven, plastic
antenna balls, or bait business.
“I’m going into the
scrap metal business,” Junior boasted.
“Excuse me?” said
Toni.
“There’s money in
that?” Suzanne asked.
“Oh yeah,” said
Junior, suddenly looking more confi dent. “Me and Marsh Freedman are gonna be
partners.”
“Isn’t Freedman the
guy who used to wander through town with a plastic sack, picking up pop cans?”
Suzanne asked, trying to
stifle a grin.
“Ancient
history,” said Junior, waving a hand. “Now we’re partners, fifty-fifty.”
“And what does this
partnership entail?” asked Suzanne. She was a tiny bit fascinated by Junior. It was
probably the same fascination a mongoose felt for a cobra. A bit of dan ger, but still that hypnotic lure.
“We’re going to scour
the countryside in our truck,” Ju nior told her, delighted to have an audience. “Picking
up discarded
car parts, old farm equipment, appliances, milk cans, bedsprings, tire rims,
pretty much anything we can get our hands on. Then we’ll sell it at the scrap
yard over in Jessup.”
“No kidding,” said
Suzanne. The whole idea sounded sort of old-timey, like something from the
forties, when people supposedly donated tin cans and scrap metal to the war effort.
“Of course, the really
primo stuff is copper,” Junior said, knowingly. “You can pull in three bucks a pound
for scrap copper, did you know
that?
“Where exactly are
you going to find this scrap cop per?”
Suzanne asked.
Junior looked
suddenly evasive. “Around.”
“Hmm,” said Toni, in
a suspicious tone.
Petra leaned out of
the kitchen, rubbing flour from her hands onto her red calico apron. “Suzanne? I just
remem bered,
we still need to order pumpkins for Saturday night. With all we’ve got going this
week, we could easily overlook it.” Saturday night, Halloween night,
a kind of netherworld of bickering and making up. Not completely in
love, but not quite ready to file
for divorce, either.
“Did you get fired?”
Toni demanded of Junior. Grabbing the back of his collar she steered him to a table
and forced him into a wooden
chair.
Junior gazed up at her
with round, innocent eyes. “No! Cross my heart! I’m still workin’ diligently at Shelby’s Body Shop.”
Suzanne and Petra
shuffled in to watch the show. If you were in the right frame of mind, Junior could be
pretty darned amusing. Fodder, almost, for a TV sitcom. Think Fonzie meets Homer Simpson.
“You sure you’re
still working?” Toni asked, bunching her right hand into a fist. “Because I’ll clock
you if....”
“Whoa, whoa!” said
Junior, putting up an arm in mock defense. “Whatever happened to innocent until
proven guilty?
Seriously, babe, I just dropped by to get a bite.”
Toni glanced up at
Suzanne. “What do you think?”
Suzanne gave a shrug.
“If the man’s hungry, I say go ahead
and feed him.”
“Just do it quick,”
said Petra, making her escape. Then she called back over her shoulder, “Thank
goodness we’re not real busy.”
Toni brought Junior a
leftover chicken sandwich and a bowl of vegetable soup. “Watch out,” she warned him, “that soup is so hot
it could boil your eyeballs.”
Junior nodded. “Okay.”
“And you’re going to
have to pay for this,” Toni nat tered. “We’ve catered to enough freeloaders for one day.”
“Jeez,” said Junior, “will
you chill out? I got money. I can
pay.”
“Still
raking it in at Shelby’s, huh?” said Suzanne. Hon estly, how much could a guy make
repairing fenders and ironing out dents? On the other hand, maybe quite a lot.
“I got something going
on the side, too,” Junior told Su zanne. He gave a cocky, knowing look as he took a
big bite of sandwich.
Toni looked unhappy. “What
are you talking about?’ To the best of everyone’s knowledge, none of Junior’s hare brained;
get-rich-quick schemes had ever panned out. Not the Cuban tax haven, plastic
antenna balls, or bait business.
“I’m going into the
scrap metal business,” Junior boasted.
“Excuse me?” said
Toni.
“There’s money in
that?” Suzanne asked.
“Oh yeah,” said
Junior, suddenly looking more confi dent. “Me and Marsh Freedman are gonna be
partners.”
“Isn’t Freedman the
guy who used to wander through town with a plastic sack, picking up pop cans?”
Suzanne asked, trying to
stifle a grin.
“Ancient
history,” said Junior, waving a hand. “Now we’re partners, fifty-fifty.”
“And what does this
partnership entail?” asked Suzanne. She was a tiny bit fascinated by Junior. It was
probably the same fascination a mongoose felt for a cobra. A bit of dan ger, but still that hypnotic lure.
“We’re going to scour
the countryside in our truck,” Ju nior told her, delighted to have an audience. “Picking
up discarded
car parts, old farm equipment, appliances, milk cans, bedsprings, tire rims,
pretty much anything we can get our hands on. Then we’ll sell it at the scrap
yard over in Jessup.”
“No kidding,” said
Suzanne. The whole idea sounded sort of old-timey, like something from the
forties, when people supposedly donated tin cans and scrap metal to the war effort.
“Of course, the really
primo stuff is copper,” Junior said, knowingly. “You can pull in three bucks a pound
for scrap copper, did you know
that?
“Where exactly are
you going to find this scrap cop per?”
Suzanne asked.
Junior looked
suddenly evasive. “Around.”
“Hmm,” said Toni, in
a suspicious tone.
Petra leaned out of
the kitchen, rubbing flour from her hands onto her red calico apron. “Suzanne? I just
remem bered,
we still need to order pumpkins for Saturday night. With all we’ve got going this
week, we could easily overlook it.” Saturday night, Halloween night,
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