Blaze. Part 2

'How are you gonna get in?'

He remembered that part. 'One of the upstairs windows. They got those simple catches on em. You saw that, George. When we was bein the lectric company. Remember?'

'Got a ladder?'

'Well -'

'When you get the kid, where you gonna put him?'

'In the car, George.'

'Oh my f.u.c.kin word.' George only said this when he had bottomed out and was at a loss for all other expression.

'George -'

'I know know you're gonna put him in the f.u.c.kin car, I never thought you were gonna carry him home pigga-back. I meant when you get him back here. What are you gonna do then? Where you gonna put him?' you're gonna put him in the f.u.c.kin car, I never thought you were gonna carry him home pigga-back. I meant when you get him back here. What are you gonna do then? Where you gonna put him?'

Blaze thought about the shack. He looked around. 'Well -'

'What about didies? What about bottles? And baby food! Or did you think he was gonna have a hamburger and a bottle of beer for his f.u.c.kin dinner?'

'Well -'

'Shut up! You say that one more time and I'm gonna puke!'

Blaze sat down in a kitchen chair with his head down. His face was hot.

'And turn off the s.h.i.t-kicking music! That woman sounds like she's about to fly up her own c.u.n.t!'

'Okay, George.'

Blaze turned off the radio. The TV, an old j.a.p thing George picked up at a yard sale, was busted.

'George?'

No answer.

'George, come on, don't go away. I'm sorry.' He could hear how scared he was. Almost blubbing.

'Okay,' George said, just when Blaze was about to give up. 'Here's what you have to do. You have to pull a little score. Not a big one. Just a little one. That mom-n-pop where we used to stop for suds off Route 1 would probably be okay.'

'Yeah?'

'You still got the Colt?'

'Under the bed, in a s...o...b..x.'

'Use that. And wear a stocking over your face. Otherwise the guy who works nights will recognize you.'

'Yeah.'

'Go in Sat.u.r.day night, at closing. Say, ten minutes of one. They don't take checks, so you ought to get two, three hundred bucks.'

'Sure! That's great!'

'Blaze, there's one more thing.'

'What, George?'

'Take the bullets out of the gun, okay?'

'Sure, George, I know that, it's how we roll.'

'It's how we roll, right. Hit the guy if you have to, but make sure it doesn't get to no more than page three in State and Local when it makes the paper.'

'Right.'

'You're an a.s.shole, Blaze. You know that, right? You're never gonna bring this off. Maybe it'd be better if you got caught on the little one.'

'I won't, George.'

No answer.

'George?'

No answer. Blaze got up and turned on the radio. At supper he forgot and set two places.

Chapter 4.

CLAYTON BLAISDELL, JR., was born in Freeport, Maine. His mother was. .h.i.t by a truck three years later while crossing Main Street with a bag of groceries. She was killed instantly. The driver was drunk and driving without a license. In court he said he was sorry. He cried. He said he would go back to AA. The judge fined him and gave him sixty days. Little Clay got Life with Father, who knew plenty about drinking and nothing about AA. Clayton Senior worked for Superior Mills in Topsham, where he ran the picker and sorter. Co-workers claimed to have seen him do this job sober upon occasion. was born in Freeport, Maine. His mother was. .h.i.t by a truck three years later while crossing Main Street with a bag of groceries. She was killed instantly. The driver was drunk and driving without a license. In court he said he was sorry. He cried. He said he would go back to AA. The judge fined him and gave him sixty days. Little Clay got Life with Father, who knew plenty about drinking and nothing about AA. Clayton Senior worked for Superior Mills in Topsham, where he ran the picker and sorter. Co-workers claimed to have seen him do this job sober upon occasion.

Clay could already read when he started the first grade, and grasped the concept of two apples plus three apples with no trouble. He was big for his size even then, and although Freeport was a tough town, he had no trouble on the playground even though he was rarely seen there without a book in his hand or tucked under his arm. His father was bigger, however, and the other kids always found it interesting to see what would be bandaged and what would be bruised when Clay Blaisdell came to school on Mondays.

'It will be a miracle if he gets his size without being badly hurt or killed,' Sarah Jolison remarked one day in the teachers' room.

The miracle didn't happen. One hungover Sat.u.r.day morning when not much was doing, Clayton Senior staggered out of the bedroom in the second-floor apartment he and his son shared while Clay was sitting crosslegged on the living room floor, watching cartoons and eating Apple Jacks. 'How many times have I told you not to eat that s.h.i.t in here?' Senior inquired of Junior, then picked him up and threw him downstairs. Clay landed on his head.

His father went down, got him, toted him upstairs, and threw him down again. The first time, Clay remained conscious. The second time, the lights went out. His father went down, got him, toted him upstairs, and looked him over. 'Fakin sonofab.i.t.c.h,' he said, and threw him down again.

'There,' he told the limp huddle at the foot of the stairs that was his now comatose son. 'Maybe you'll think twice before you tote that f.u.c.king s.h.i.t into the living room again.'

Unfortunately, Clay never thought twice about much of anything again. He lay unconscious in Portland General Hospital for three weeks. The doctor in charge of his case voiced the opinion that he would remain so until he died, a human carrot. But the boy woke up. He was, unfortunately, soft in the head. His days of carrying books under his arm were over.

The authorities did not believe Clay's father when he told them the boy had done all that damage falling downstairs once. Nor did they believe him when he said the four half-healed cigarette burns on the boy's chest were the result of 'some kind of peelin disease.'

The boy never saw the second floor apartment again. He was made a ward of the state, and went directly from the hospital to a county home, where his parentless life began by having his crutches kicked out from under him on the playground by two boys who ran away chortling like trolls. Clay picked himself up and re-set his crutches. He did not cry.

His father did some protesting in the Freeport police station, and more in several Freeport bars. He threatened to go to law in order to regain his son, but never did. He claimed to love Clay, and perhaps he did, a little, but if so, his love was the kind that bites and burns. The boy was better off out of his reach.

But not much better. Hetton House in South Freeport was little more than a poor farm for kids, and Clay's childhood there was wretched, although a little better when his body was mended. Then, at least, he could make the worst of the bullies stand away from him in the play yard; him and the few younger children who came to look to him for protection. The bullies called him Lunk and Troll and Kong, but he minded none of those names, and he left them alone if they left him alone. Mostly they did, after he licked the worst of them. He wasn't mean, but when provoked he could be dangerous.

The kids who weren't afraid of him called him Blaze, and that was how he came to think of himself.

Once he had a letter from his father. Dear Son, Dear Son, it said. it said. Well, how are You doing. I am fine. Working these days up in Lincoln rolling Lumber. It would be good if the b*****ds didn't steal all the Overtime, HA! I am going to get a little place and will send for You once I do. Well, write me a little Letter and tell Your old Pa how it goes. Can you send a Foto. Well, how are You doing. I am fine. Working these days up in Lincoln rolling Lumber. It would be good if the b*****ds didn't steal all the Overtime, HA! I am going to get a little place and will send for You once I do. Well, write me a little Letter and tell Your old Pa how it goes. Can you send a Foto. It was signed It was signed With Love, Clayton Blaisdell With Love, Clayton Blaisdell.

Blaze had no photo to send his father, but would have written - the music teacher who came on Tuesdays would have helped him, he was quite sure - but there was no return address on the envelope, which was dirty and simply addressed to Clayton Blaisdell JR 'The Orfan-Home' in FREEPORT MAINE Clayton Blaisdell JR 'The Orfan-Home' in FREEPORT MAINE.

Blaze never heard from him again.

He was placed with several different families during his Hetton House tenure, every time in the fall. They kept him long enough to help pick the crops and help keep their roofs and dooryards shoveled. Then, when spring thaw came, they decided he wasn't quite right and sent him back. Sometimes it wasn't too bad. And sometimes - like with the Bowies and their horrible dog-farm - it was real bad.

When he and HH were quits, Blaze knocked around New England on his own. Sometimes he was happy, but not the way he wanted to be happy, not the way he saw people being happy. When he finally settled in Boston (more or less; he never put down roots), it was because in the country he was lonely. Sometimes when he was in the country he would sleep in a barn and wake in the night and go out and look at the stars and there were so many, and he knew they were there before him, and they would be there after him. That was sort of awful and sort of wonderful. Sometimes when he was. .h.i.tchhiking and it was going on for November, the wind would blow around him and flap his pants and he would grieve for something that was lost, like that letter which had come with no address. Sometimes he would look at the sky in the spring and see a bird, and it might make him happy, but just as often it felt like something inside him was getting small and ready to break.

It's bad to feel like that, he would think, he would think, and if I do, I shouldn't be watching no birds and if I do, I shouldn't be watching no birds. But sometimes he would look up at the sky anyway.

Boston was all right, but sometimes he still got scared. There were a million people in the city, maybe more, and not one gave a shake for Clay Blaisdell. If they looked at him, it was only because he was big and had a dent in his forehead. Sometimes he would have a little fun, and sometimes he would just get frightened. He was trying to have a little fun in Boston when he met George Rackley. After he met George, it was better.

Chapter 5.

THE LITTLE MOM-N-POP STORE was Tim & Janet's Quik-Pik. Most of the rear shelves were overflowing with jug wine and beer stacked in cardboard cases. A giant cooler ran the length of the back wall. Two of the four aisles were dedicated to munchies. Beside the cash register stood a bottle of pickled eggs as large as a small child. Tim & Janet's also stocked such necessaries as cigarettes, sanitary napkins, hot dogs, and stroke-books. was Tim & Janet's Quik-Pik. Most of the rear shelves were overflowing with jug wine and beer stacked in cardboard cases. A giant cooler ran the length of the back wall. Two of the four aisles were dedicated to munchies. Beside the cash register stood a bottle of pickled eggs as large as a small child. Tim & Janet's also stocked such necessaries as cigarettes, sanitary napkins, hot dogs, and stroke-books.

The night man was a pimple-pocked dude who attended the Portland branch of the University of Maine during his days. His name was Harry Nason, and he was majoring in animal husbandry. When the big man with the dented forehead walked in at ten minutes of one, Nason was reading a book from the paperback rack. The book was called Big and Hard Big and Hard. The late-night rush had dried up to a trickle. Nason decided that after the big man had bought his jug or his six, he'd close up and go home. Maybe take the book along and beat off. He was thinking that the part about the traveling preacher and the two h.o.r.n.y widows might be good for that when the big man put a pistol under his nose and said, 'Everything in the register.'

Nason dropped the book. Thoughts of beating off left his mind. He gaped at the gun. He opened his mouth to say something intelligent. The kind of thing a guy being stuck up on TV might say, if the guy being stuck up happened to be the hero of the show. What came out was 'Aaaa.'

'Everything in the register,' the big man repeated. The dent in his forehead was frightening. It looked deep enough for a frog-pond.

Harry Nason recalled - in a frozen sort of way - what his boss had told him he should do in the event of a hold-up: give the robber everything with no argument. He was fully insured. Nason's body suddenly felt very tender and vulnerable, full of bags and waters. His bladder loosened. And all at once he seemed to have an absolute a.s.sful of s.h.i.t.

'Did you hear me, man?'

'Aaaa,' Harry Nason agreed, and punched NO SALE on the cash register.

'Put the money in a bag.'

'Okay. Yes. Sure.' He fumbled among the sacks under the counter and dumped most of them on the floor. At last he managed to hold onto one. He flipped up the bill-holders in the cash drawer and began to drop money into the bag.

The door opened and a guy and a girl, probably college kids, walked in. They saw the gun and stopped. 'What's this?' the guy asked. He was smoking a cigarillo and wearing a b.u.t.ton that said POT ROCKS.

'It's a hold-up,' Nason said. 'Please don't, uh, antagonize this gentleman.'

'Too much,' the guy with the POT ROCKS b.u.t.ton said. He started to grin. He pointed at Nason. His fingernail was dirty. 'Dude's ripping you off, man.'

The hold-up man turned to POT ROCKS. 'Wallet,' he said.

'Dude,' POT ROCKS said, not losing the grin, 'I'm on your your side. The prices this place chargesand everybody knows Tim and Janet Quarles are, like, the biggest right-wingers since Adolf -' side. The prices this place chargesand everybody knows Tim and Janet Quarles are, like, the biggest right-wingers since Adolf -'

'Give me your wallet or I'll blow your head off.'

POT ROCKS suddenly realized he might be in some trouble here; for sure he wasn't in a movie. The grin went bye-bye and he stopped talking. Several zits stood out brightly on his cheeks, which were suddenly pale. He dug a black Lord Buxton out of his jeans pocket.

'There's never a cop when you need one,' his girlfriend said coldly. She was wearing a long brown coat and black leather boots. Her hair matched the boots, at least this week.

'Drop the wallet in the bag,' the hold-up guy said. He held the bag out. Harry Nason always thought he could have become a hero at that point by braining the hold-up man with the giant bottle of pickled eggs. Only the hold-up man looked as if he might have a hard head. Very hard.

The wallet plopped into the bag.

The hold-up man skirted them and headed for the door. He moved well for a man his size.

'You pig,' the girl said.

The hold-up man stopped dead. For a moment the girl was sure (so she later told police) that he was going to turn around, open fire, and lay them all out. Later, with the police, they would differ on the hold-up man's hair color (brown, reddish, or blond), his complexion (fair, ruddy, or pale), and his clothes (pea jacket, windbreaker, woolen lumberjack shirt), but they all agreed on his size - big - and his final words before leaving. These were apparently addressed to the blank, dark doorway, almost in a moan: 'Jeezus, George, I forgot the stocking!'

Then he was gone. There was a bare glimpse of him running in the cold white light of the big Schlitz sign that hung over the store's entrance, and then an engine roared across the street. A moment later he wheeled out. The car was a sedan, but none of them could ID the make or model. It was beginning to snow.

'So much for beer,' POT ROCKS said.

'Go on back to the cooler and have one on the house,' said Harry Nason.

'Yeah? You sure?'

'Sure I'm sure. Your girl, too. What the f.u.c.k, we're insured.' He began to laugh.

When the police asked him, he said he had never seen the stickup guy before. It was only later that he had cause to wonder if he had not in fact seen the stickup guy the previous fall, in the company of a skinny little rat-faced man who was buying wine and mouthing off.

Chapter 6.