shrugging.
Liz groaned, her head beginning to drift from side to side.
“He is funny, a little,” Bud ventured in a whisper.
“I could tell that.”
“Came up to me and my lady on Monday, said he had a client who wanted to buy out my store.” He shook his head at the wonder of it all. “Weird, y’know? Wouldn’t say anything but made me an offer that almost blew my mind. Christ, I couldn’t make that much bread in fifteen years.”
Clark asked if he were taking the offer.
“Are you kidding? Leave Deerford? No way, Mr. Davermain. No way in hell. This is where I want to spend the rest of my life.”
FOUR
1
Keith had changed from his coveralls to his jeans, had taken his ten-speed from the garage, and was gone before Davermain drove up in his Mercedes. He didn’t want to see this guy, didn’t want to stick around so that his dumb sister could boss him when Mom was gone. There were important things to do, things Heather would never understand as long as she lived. All she cared about was talking about boys and standing in front of the mirror and combing her stupid hair. She was okay, he supposed, but boy was she dumb.
He rode to the end of the block, bounced up over the curb and onto a narrow bike trail that led across the pasture stretching behind Meadow View. In the distance, almost at the near horizon, he could see the darkening farmhouse, barn, and silo that belonged to the man who had sold Meadow View’s land. A barbed wire fence marked the boundary, and when he reached it he swerved right toward a narrow stand of trees.
The Gang was already there, waving as he skidded up and leapt from the saddle, letting the bike tip slowly over.
“Mohawks,” he said as he dropped cross-legged to the ground.
“Mohawks,” said Dirk Snow, the skinniest kid in the world with the most hair Keith had ever seen.
“Mohawks,” muttered Artie Mancuso, plucking at grass and dropping it on his fat belly. This was a guy Keith knew he had to watch.
“Yeah, Mohawks,” said Ian Backster eagerly. At nine, he was the youngest member of the Gang, the only one with glasses, and the only one who sunburned like a lobster instead of tanning like a human being.
“Gotta plan,” Dirk said, stretching out on the ground, his chin on the backs of his hands.
“Who cares,” Artie grumbled, and plucked more grass.
“Oh shut up,” Keith said. “What’s the plan?”
“Well, there’s two, really, and man, are they both excellent. The first, see, is that we leave the bikes here and go on back, get into Sitter’s house and—”
“No,” Artie said, thick lips pursed in derision. “That’s dumb. I mean, that’s really dumb. Really dumb. I mean, who the hell cares about that crazy old fart, right?”
Dirk shrugged the bones that passed for his shoulders. “Okay, then why don’t we go to Winterrest and break a few windows?”
“All right,” Artie exclaimed. “Now you’re talkin.”
“No!” Ian said. “No, we can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“ ‘Cause it isn’t right, that’s why. Tell him, Keith. Tell him it isn’t right.”
Keith rubbed the back of his head patiently while Artie laughed and Dirk whistled shrilly. When they were quiet again, he looked to Ian and wondered how many times he was going to have to explain this before the runt understood—that the Mohawk Gang had been formed to do a lot of good things around town so people would smile at them when they rode by, pat their heads, and say good things to their mothers. Like the time they wasted a whole Saturday helping to paint the Depot, or the time they mowed the church lawn for nothing, or the time they went around taking branches off the streets after a windstorm last fall. Good stuff, that made people like them.
Then, when they really wanted to have fun, no one would believe that the Mohawk Gang had done it.
He had seen it on TV; it worked there, and it was working here. No one, but no one believed they had painted the Shade Tree
Liz groaned, her head beginning to drift from side to side.
“He is funny, a little,” Bud ventured in a whisper.
“I could tell that.”
“Came up to me and my lady on Monday, said he had a client who wanted to buy out my store.” He shook his head at the wonder of it all. “Weird, y’know? Wouldn’t say anything but made me an offer that almost blew my mind. Christ, I couldn’t make that much bread in fifteen years.”
Clark asked if he were taking the offer.
“Are you kidding? Leave Deerford? No way, Mr. Davermain. No way in hell. This is where I want to spend the rest of my life.”
FOUR
1
Keith had changed from his coveralls to his jeans, had taken his ten-speed from the garage, and was gone before Davermain drove up in his Mercedes. He didn’t want to see this guy, didn’t want to stick around so that his dumb sister could boss him when Mom was gone. There were important things to do, things Heather would never understand as long as she lived. All she cared about was talking about boys and standing in front of the mirror and combing her stupid hair. She was okay, he supposed, but boy was she dumb.
He rode to the end of the block, bounced up over the curb and onto a narrow bike trail that led across the pasture stretching behind Meadow View. In the distance, almost at the near horizon, he could see the darkening farmhouse, barn, and silo that belonged to the man who had sold Meadow View’s land. A barbed wire fence marked the boundary, and when he reached it he swerved right toward a narrow stand of trees.
The Gang was already there, waving as he skidded up and leapt from the saddle, letting the bike tip slowly over.
“Mohawks,” he said as he dropped cross-legged to the ground.
“Mohawks,” said Dirk Snow, the skinniest kid in the world with the most hair Keith had ever seen.
“Mohawks,” muttered Artie Mancuso, plucking at grass and dropping it on his fat belly. This was a guy Keith knew he had to watch.
“Yeah, Mohawks,” said Ian Backster eagerly. At nine, he was the youngest member of the Gang, the only one with glasses, and the only one who sunburned like a lobster instead of tanning like a human being.
“Gotta plan,” Dirk said, stretching out on the ground, his chin on the backs of his hands.
“Who cares,” Artie grumbled, and plucked more grass.
“Oh shut up,” Keith said. “What’s the plan?”
“Well, there’s two, really, and man, are they both excellent. The first, see, is that we leave the bikes here and go on back, get into Sitter’s house and—”
“No,” Artie said, thick lips pursed in derision. “That’s dumb. I mean, that’s really dumb. Really dumb. I mean, who the hell cares about that crazy old fart, right?”
Dirk shrugged the bones that passed for his shoulders. “Okay, then why don’t we go to Winterrest and break a few windows?”
“All right,” Artie exclaimed. “Now you’re talkin.”
“No!” Ian said. “No, we can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“ ‘Cause it isn’t right, that’s why. Tell him, Keith. Tell him it isn’t right.”
Keith rubbed the back of his head patiently while Artie laughed and Dirk whistled shrilly. When they were quiet again, he looked to Ian and wondered how many times he was going to have to explain this before the runt understood—that the Mohawk Gang had been formed to do a lot of good things around town so people would smile at them when they rode by, pat their heads, and say good things to their mothers. Like the time they wasted a whole Saturday helping to paint the Depot, or the time they mowed the church lawn for nothing, or the time they went around taking branches off the streets after a windstorm last fall. Good stuff, that made people like them.
Then, when they really wanted to have fun, no one would believe that the Mohawk Gang had done it.
He had seen it on TV; it worked there, and it was working here. No one, but no one believed they had painted the Shade Tree
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