known about the jar and dug it up himself. Vern refused to believe it, although he
hated Billy like the Arabs hate the Jews and probably would have cheerfully voted the
death penalty on his brother for shoplifting, if the opportunity had ever presented
itself. He also refused to ask Billy point blank. Probably he was afraid Billy would
laugh and say, Course I got them, you stupid pussy, and there was twenty bucks’
worth of pennies in that jar and I spent every fuckin’ cent of it. Instead, Vern went out and dug for the pennies whenever the spirit moved him (and whenever Billy wasn’t
around). He always crawled out from under the porch with his jeans dirty and his hair
leafy and his hands empty. We ragged him about it something wicked, and his
nickname was Penny–Penny Tessio. I think he came up to the club with his news as
quick as he did not just to get it out but to show us that some good had finally come of his penny-hunt He had been up that morning before anybody, ate his cornflakes, and
was out in the driveway shooting baskets through the old hoop nailed up on the
garage, nothing much to do. No one to play Ghost with or anything, and he decided to
have another dig for his pennies. He was under the porch when the screen door
slammed up above. He froze, not making a sound. If it was his dad, he would crawl
out; if it was Billy, he’d stay put until Billy and hisfriend Charlie Hogan had taken off.
Two pairs of footsteps crossed the porch, and then Charlie Hogan himself said
in a trembling, cry-baby voice: ‘Jesus Christ, Billy, what are we gonna do?’ Vern said that just hearing Charlie Hogan talk like that -Charlie, who was one of the toughest
kids in town–made him prick up his ears. Charlie, after all, hung out with Ace Merrill and Eyeball Chambers, and if you hung out with cats like that, you had to be tough.
‘Nuthin’,’ Billy said. “That’s all we’re gonna do. Nuthin’.’
‘We gotta do somethin’ Charlie said, and they sat down on the porch close to
where Vern was hunkered down. ‘Didn’t you see him?’
Vern took a chance and crept a little closer to the steps, practically slavering.
At that point he thought that maybe Billy and Charlie had been really drunked up and
had run somebody down. Vern was careful not to crackle any of the old leaves as he
moved. If the two of them found out he was under the porch and had overheard them,
you could have put what was left of him in a Ken-L-Ration dogfood can.
‘It’s nuthin’ to us,’ Billy Tessio said. “The kid’s dead so it’s nuthin’ to him,
neither. Who gives a fuck if they ever find him? I don’t.’
‘It was that kid they been talkin’ about on the radio,’ Charlie said. ‘It was, sure
as shit Brocker, Brower, Flowers, whatever his name is. Fuckin’ train must have hit
him.’
‘Yeah,’ Billy said. Sound of a scratched match. Vern saw it flicked into the
gravel driveway and then smelled cigarette smoke. ‘It sure did. And you puked.’
No words, but Vern sensed emotional waves of shame radiating off Charlie
Hogan.
‘Well, the girls didn’t see it,’ Billy said after a while. ‘Lucky break.’ From the
sound, he clapped Charlie on the back to buck him up. “They’d blab it from here to Portland. We tore out of there fast, though. You think they knew there was something
wrong?’
‘No,’ Charlie said, ‘Marie don’t like to go down that Back Harlow Road past
the cemetery, anyway. She’s afraid of ghosts.’ Then again in that scared cry-baby
voice: ‘Jesus, I wish we’d never boosted no car last night! Just gone to the show like we was gonna!’
Charlie and Billy went with a couple of scags named Marie Daughtery and
Beverly Thomas; you never saw such gross-looking broads outside of a carnival
show–pimples, moustaches, the whole works. Sometimes the four of them -or maybe
six or eight if Fuzzy Brackowicz or Ace Merrill were along with their girls–would
boost a car from a Lewiston parking lot and go joyriding out into the country with two or three bottles of Wild Irish Rose wine and a six-pack of ginger ale. They’d take the girls parking somewhere in Castle View or Harlow or Shiloh, drink Purple Jesuses,