arse. He burst out laughing, and as Ted joined him he knew that he was done with the Hardy Boys, Tom Swift, Rick Brant, and Bomba the Jungle Boy. Lord of the Flies had finished them off. He was very glad he had an adult library card.
‘No,’ he said, ‘it sure wasn’t.’
‘And good books don’t give up all their secrets at once. Will you remember that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Terrific. Now tell me — would you like to earn a dollar a week from me?’
The change of direction was so abrupt that for a moment Bobby couldn’t follow it. Then he grinned and said, ‘Gripes, yes!’ Figures ran dizzily through his mind; Bobby was good enough at math to figure out a dollar a week added up to at least fifteen bucks by September. Put with what he already had, plus a reasonable harvest of returnable bottles and some summer lawn-mowing jobs on the street . . . jeepers, he might be riding a Schwinn by Labor Day. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘We have to be careful about that. Quite careful.’ Ted meditated quietly and for so long Bobby began to be afraid he was going to start talking about feeling stuff in the backs of his eyes again. But when Ted looked up there was none of that strange emptiness in his gaze. His eyes were sharp, if a little rueful. ‘I would never ask a friend of mine — especially a young friend — to lie to his parents, Bobby, but in this case I’m going to ask you to join me in a little misdirection. Do you know what that is?’
‘Sure.’ Bobby thought about Sully and his new ambition to travel around with the circus, wearing a black suit and pulling rabbits out of his hat. ‘It’s what the magician does to fool you.’
‘Doesn’t sound very nice when you put it that way, does it?’
Bobby shook his head. No, take away the spangles and the spotlights and it didn’t sound very nice at all.
Ted drank a little rootbeer and wiped foam from his upper lip. ‘Your mother, Bobby. She doesn’t quite dislike me, I don’t think it would be fair to say that . . . but I think she almost dislikes me. Do you agree?’
‘I guess. When I told her you might have a job for me, she got weird about it. Said I had to tell her about anything you wanted me to do before I could do it.’
Ted Brautigan nodded.
‘I think it all comes back to you having some of your stuff in paper bags when you moved in. I know that sounds nuts, but it’s all I can figure.’
He thought Ted might laugh, but he only nodded again. ‘Perhaps that’s all it is. In any case, Bobby, I wouldn’t want you to go against your mother’s wishes.’
That sounded good but Bobby Garfield didn’t entirely believe it. If it was really true, there’d be no need for misdirection.
‘Tell your mother that my eyes now grow tired quite easily. It’s the truth.’ As if to prove it, Ted raised his right hand to his eyes and massaged the corners with his thumb and forefinger.
‘Tell her I’d like to hire you to read bits of the newspaper to me each day, and for this I will pay you a dollar a week — what your friend Sully calls a rock?’
Bobby nodded . . . but a buck a week for reading about how Kennedy was doing in the primaries and whether or not Floyd Patterson would win in June? With maybe Blondie and Dick Tracy thrown in for good measure? His mom or Mr Biderman down at Home Town Real Estate might believe that, but Bobby didn’t.
Ted was still rubbing his eyes, his hand hovering over his narrow nose like a spider.
‘What else?’ Bobby asked. His voice came out sounding strangely flat, like his mom’s voice when he’d promised to pick up his room and she came in at the end of the day to find the job still undone. ‘What’s the real job?’
‘I want you to keep your eyes open, that’s all,’ Ted said.
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