Between the Roots Read online

  "I mean it. We can meet out here again." Walt pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. On it was a phone number. "Call me, okay? People get the wrong idea about the Colony." He pressed the paper into Sammy's hand. "Call."

  "Okay, I will."

  "I almost forgot. AnLillie said hi."

  "Tell her hi back." Sammy knew John would tease him, but it would have been impolite to ignore the greeting.

  A strange seed of friendship had been planted. Sammy knew he would visit again, partly to keep his word, but mainly out of curiosity. He found the old man intriguing, with only a hint of questionable integrity. Getting to know Walt would be an adventure, and besides, Walt knew AnLillie.

  The sun was flattened against the distant ridge. Making their five o'clock commitment would be a challenge.

  The boys took their positions on the bike: John on the pedals, Sammy on the bar. As John popped his foot to the pedal, he yelled over his shoulder, "Hope you enjoy the play, Walt!" Then into Sammy's ear he added, "I don't believe a word of it. The old fart is keeping a secret."

  "My thinking too. At least I've got an easier way of reaching him," Sammy yelled above the road noise, now much busier than before. He tightly crunched the paper Walt had given him. Sammy felt strangely connected to the old man for having witnessed the forest ritual. He knew he would return.

  When they came to the intersection of School Avenue, they crossed the street, and rode onto the sidewalk in front of the market. John rolled the bike to a stop alongside the shelf containing the kale plants. Sammy writhed off his front seat and bent low to grab the packs. He swished his hand around—they weren't there.

  "Crap! They're gone!"

  When they confronted the store clerk, he responded dryly, "I just got here, kids. Don't know nothin' about no backpacks. Don't know nothin' at all."

  As they left, John added under his breath, "He don't know nothin' about nothin'."

  Chapter Five: The Arcade

  THE BACKPACKS HADN'T surfaced. Being studious had increased Sammy's losses, which included an expensive hardbound social studies book and a math text, assorted pens, and a long-sleeved school sweatshirt. John's pack had contained three super-hero comics, one extra set of headphones, and a math review workbook. Both boys were in financial pain.

  "Are there any jobs for twelve-year-old boys?" Sammy asked his mother.

  "I've got plenty of jobs for twelve-year-old boys. Are you volunteering?"

  "Jobs for money?" Sammy said.

  "You could enroll in a babysitting class. You could help Mrs. West when she watches you," his mother teased.

  "I mean business, Mom. I need extra cash right now."

  Replacing his backpack and textbooks ran him deeply in the red. He was bankrupt, owing his mother $27.75.

  John, still upset over his bicycle loss, was ignoring this new problem. One financial disaster was enough. He hadn't replaced the backpack; instead, he was carrying a brown paper shopping bag from High Deli and borrowing another student's workbook.

  "You'll come up with something. You know about need; it's the . . . "

  "I know, I know, 'the mother of invention.'" Somehow invention was more fun when it was spontaneous. Thinking up a business venture had lost its charm under pressure.

  He decided to call Walt and see if he'd picked up some business ideas over the years. He went to a payphone after school and dialed the number Walt had given him. The old man picked up on the first ring, almost as if he'd been expecting the call.

  When he'd explained what had happened, Sammy told Walt, "Some luck, huh? Probably some punk kids."

  "Rotten luck, Sammy. But, maybe it wasn't a kid."

  The notion of an adult ripping off his gear hadn't occurred to him. He had jumped to conclusions.

  Walt continued, "So what are you planning to do?"

  "I'm too young to get a real job, unless it's delivering the paper, and that's only once a week. They don't need any help right now. John's in the same spot, only he has even less free time. Do you have any suggestions how to make money?"

  "Making money! There you go, that's the way to go." Walt seemed excited, almost childlike in his response.

  "Walt, I'm serious."

  "So am I, but I'll have to check something out. Call me tomorrow." Walt sounded rejuvenated. "By the way," he asked, "what's your number?" Sammy felt so comfortable with Walt, he almost blurted it out, but then thought worse of it and gave him Mrs. West's instead.

  The next day, Sammy had forgotten about his failure to check in with Walt, when he visited Mrs. West. There was hot pie on the table and a plate ready for him, so all was still right with the world. Mrs. West answered a phone call. "Sammy, it's for you." Her hand rested over the mouthpiece. "An elderly gentleman." Her eyebrows rose and her lips pursed as she handed him the phone. She lingered in the kitchen. Sammy smiled at her, and then turned his back for privacy. She stayed to listen.

  "Hi, Walt . . . No, I'm next door . . . I knew I wasn't going to be home so I gave you this number."

  Apparently satisfied, Mrs. West left the kitchen.

  "I've got an idea to bring in some money," Walt said, reminding him of yesterday's conversation. "You want to make money? How about printing some."

  "You gotta be kidding. That's illegal and impossible." Sammy laughed uneasily into the phone. He turned to see if Mrs. West had heard.

  "No, really, Sammy, listen to my idea."

  "Okay, Mr. Walt," Sammy hoped the whole conversation wasn't being taped.

  Walt said, "That old arcade downtown could probably use some business. What if someone were to ask them if they'd sponsor a 'senior citizen' night? Old folks could buy special discount coupons that are good only on that night."

  This didn't sound like the counterfeiting he understood. "Sounds interesting, but where does the 'Sammy makes money' come in?"

  "This Sammy guy would have to talk to the management to allow him to sell coupons for, let's say . . . a dollar, that could be used for . . . let's say . . . a dollar-fifty, maybe two dollars."

  Sammy interrupted Walt. "I still don't see Sammy making any money, especially if he has to give the money he collects over to The Arcade."

  "Ah, that's the beauty of it. Sammy collects one dollar but only gives fifty cents over to The Arcade."

  "Walt, what were you when you were younger, a professional thief?" Sammy quickly lowered his voice—not soon enough. Mrs. West passed by the door. She peeked into the kitchen and gave Sammy a long hard frown. He smiled weakly and shrugged. The sound of Walt's voice exploded around the earpiece.

  "Now, wait, Sammy! The Sammy I know would first tell the arcade they were only going to get fifty cents. But they don't care. They're going to get new business coming into the place that might even spend more while they're there. You know, on candy and pop."

  "I don't know if that crowd would eat much candy." Sammy could hear a groan coming from the other end of the line. He had to admit that the proposition was intriguing. Mrs. West seemed satisfied that the conversation was harmless; she went back into the living room. "Walt, I like the idea. Did you ever do this when you were my age?"

  "I thought about it. I'll help you with it, Sammy. I'm taking a class in our print shop, so I could print all the coupons you'd need, make it look real official."

  The offer sounded enticing. He wondered what the catch was. "Sounds like you'd be doing most of the work, doing the printing."

  Walt corrected him. "Oh, no, the person who has to contact The Arcade and figure out details will be doing the work. Selling them is big work."

  Walt's excitement was contagious. Sammy imagined raking in a tidy sum, at least enough to pay back his debts. He'd need help selling the coupons; and that wasn't something he relished doing. Now, John—he was a born salesman. Sammy's mind began whirring with new strategies. "Do you really think it will work?"

  "Sure I think it will work. I know a lot of Colony folks who would buy coupons."

  "Walt, you know some of the people in to
wn haven't been too friendly to you guys ever since that developer showed up."

  "We know that, but this will be another chance to mingle," Walt said. "And some of these folks would really like to get away from here for a while. An evening at The Arcade would appeal to them."

  "Let's go for it."

  Sammy thought he heard a war whoop coming from the other end of the line. "Is that you, Walt?"

  "T.V., they got the darn T.V. too loud. Good timing, huh?"

  "One more thing, Walt, why do you want to do this?"

  "I feel sort of responsible about you fellows losing your stuff. Besides, it should be fun." He paused, then added, "Say hello to John for me."

  "Yeah, sure, could you say hello to . . . to . . . "

  "AnLillie, sure." Walt chuckled, then hung up.

  Sammy's uneasiness about Walt was diminishing.

  * * *

  When Saturday arrived, the two pals made their way to The Arcade, a deteriorating building badly in need of an exterior paint job but fantastically alive and bright inside, kids' faces lit by the flashing of video games, sounds of sports cars, explosions, and music echoing off the high ceiling. It reminded the boys of a county fair midway. Workers stood behind lighted partitions that displayed prizes: colored drinking glasses, pictures, plastic fall-apart-in-a-minute airplanes, cars, winged monsters, and rows of stuffed animals. Each booth contained a different game: darts, shoot the wild turkey, beat the prairie dog, toss a coin, hit the gong, kiss the pig. Pinball machines lined the back wall, while newer computer games were along a side wall. Two fortune-telling boxes were in the center of the large room. Next door to The Arcade, the bumper cars were fighting it out. Sammy wasn't sure whether that event was under the same management, but he intended to find out.

  He was pleased with himself for having arranged this meeting. He had made his pitch well, convincing the manager that he wouldn't have to do any extra work, aside from making an extra trip to the bank. His humor had won him a real live interview. John came along for support and character reference; Sammy smiled at the thought.

  A couple days before meeting the manager, Walt, AnLillie, and Sammy got together at the Ice Cream Shop to finalize their ideas and look over mock coupons. Sammy had agonized over seeing AnLillie again. He rehearsed his actions several times, so he wouldn't be too awkward around the attractive, sprightly girl. Would she guess that she made him nervous? Did he have a crush on her, or was there something else about her that was distracting? Was AnLillie curious about him, or just willing to help?

  However, Sammy was soon at ease when he was in AnLillie's company; she was relaxed and friendly, and, better still, she had created several very impressive sketches. Her drawings looked professionally polished. The three of them working together felt so natural, and the growing warmth of their friendship pleased Sammy. They talked about many things. Both Walt and AnLillie were keenly interested in what he had to share, especially his love of skiing and snowboarding.

  "When the snow flies, I know someone you'll want to meet," Walt said.

  "Who's that?"

  "A real artist on the slopes." Sammy noticed AnLillie looking sharply at Walt then giving him a quiet sign. He wondered if she knew whom Walt was talking about.

  "Can't be anyone better than the guy I saw last season," Sammy said.

  An impatient look registered on AnLillie's face. She turned to the papers on the table and quickly gathered them into a neat pile. Both Walt and Sammy returned to the project.

  * * *

  So Saturday arrived. The boys strolled into The Arcade trying to look official and calm.

  "It's big business time for you boys, is it?" the overly fed, friendly man said as he tucked a purple tie under his checkered lapel. He motioned them into his office. "So, fellas, what have you got to show me?"

  "First off, Mr. Lanton, I'm Sammy O'Doul and this is my partner, John Wheaton." He was pleased with himself for speaking so boldly. John gave Sammy a friendly punch in the side. Sammy returned it by whipping out a folder and "accidentally" elbowing his friend. "I've written the entire plan in outline form and have some sample coupon sketches to show you."

  The manager raised his brows, which would have reached his hairline had there been one. "Let's have a look." The boys sat in low chairs across from the large wooden desk. Stacks of magazines cluttered its top, interspersed with order forms and other important-looking papers. The manager studied the new project information.

  "All you need to do is set the dates. When the coupons come in, count them against the money I give you. We promise, you won't get more coupons than money."

  "Sounds like you've done lots of thinking about this."

  "He has; you can bet your messy office on that!" John blurted.

  The man smiled, Sammy felt himself blush, and John smiled back, continuing to make eye contact. "So, partner boy," the man said, "why should I let your friend here have a go at this?"

  John didn't hesitate to take over the conversation. "Heck, it can't go wrong, even if you give us the lousiest day of the week. We'll do all the work pushing the coupons, and even if some of the old folks don't show, you still make money off the pre-sales. We've made a list of good places to sell tickets where the old folks hang out, you know, barber shop, doctor's office, churches."

  Sammy broke in, fearful John had come on too bold. "Mr. Lanton, sir, we really need the money. Our backpacks were stolen and we have to replace all the expensive books inside. Please, sir, we'll make all the connections. And you still make money on the food and drinks."

  Thoughtfully Mr. Lanton said, "It's not a bad idea. I'll tell you what, I'll look this over, then call you back." Sammy thought Mr. Lanton was attempting to put him off. But why? It was general knowledge The Arcade was hurting for business. Customers from out of town who'd been Mr. Lanton's bread-and-butter income had dwindled to almost nothing. Rumors in town hadn't helped. Sammy hoped that changing focus from the teen to adult crowd was a good sale.

  John said, "Well, sir, we really need to know today; otherwise, we plan to try another business that really wants us. And right now we can only handle one account at a time."

  Sammy sat numb-tongued in his chair. The large man stared at the boys, then brushed away a pile of loose papers to reveal a calendar taped to his desk. He studied it for one long, grueling minute. "How about November 15th, that's a Tuesday, from four to close. It's usually pretty slow about that time."

  "Great!" Sammy held out his hand. "You won't regret it." He spun toward John, quickly turned back. "Is this design okay?"

  "Looks good, Sammy. Just leave me a copy of the final work so I'll know what to expect on the fifteenth. I'll put some posters up myself to help both of us out." He gave John a serious look and said, "Is that going to be all right with you, Mr. Wheaton?"

  John smiled, leaned back in his chair, and gave him the thumbs-up sign.

  Halfway down the block Sammy popped John with the folder. He deepened his voice and said, "Excuse me, Mr. Lanton, but I've got these ten other businesses that are fighting over this chance. It's now or never!"

  "Hey, it worked, didn't it? If we'd have left that folder in his office, he wouldn't have found it until New Year's."

  Chapter Six: Skunked

  EARLY THE NEXT WEEK news had spread like a flash flood all over town. Two Colony teens were sitting in jail waiting to make their one phone call. The cell, one of three, was rarely used, hidden beyond the wide metal door leading to the clerk's station. With the door ajar, the culprits could easily hear the angry voices of the men responsible for their arrest.

  "Mr. Wade, we've acted on your call. We found the items."

  "Right."

  "You've filled out the necessary forms."

  "It seems so. But I want justice."

  "Mr. Wade," continued the Sheriff, trying to control his frustration, "you need to let that happen. It's our job now."

  "Sheriff, those boys have got to be taught a lesson."

  "Mr. Wade, we have the e
vidence. You've filed your complaint. It's time for you to leave."

  "Complaint, complaint, my butt! It's more than a complaint. Those fellows are thieves and vandals!" Mr. Wade hollered for all to hear.

  "Absolutely right," his partner chimed. "Sheriff, we can't have these thugs roaming the streets, acting tough, putting their paint 'art' on our buildings, shoplifting, swearing at the shop owners, and expecting not to pay the bill."

  "Now, sirs. You're padding the accusations. You'll need to back them up on paper."

  "I intend to," Mr. Wade answered as the heavy metal door thudded shut.

  "What is he talking about?" one of the boys asked his cellmate.

  The intense drama that brought the boys from the store, to the police car, to the jail was unfolding beyond their cell. Wade and Matters claimed they saw the teens make repeated trips to their car to stash merchandise in the trunk. After the pair notified the police, the boys were apprehended while browsing the store's aisles. They were led outside where their open car trunk held boxes of expensive electronic gadgets fresh from the store's shelves. No proof of purchase. They had two eye witnesses against them.

  "We've been framed." The taller teen slammed his fist on the cot that hugged the wall. Dust puffed into the air.

  "It's all politics. Ten to one, those guys are connected with that development scheme," the other boy added.

  "We're the bait they've been looking for. Our biggest mistake was being so darn trusting."

  "Your mistake was not locking the car."

  "Just what we need, more fuel against us."

  One teen, in no mood for speculation, said, "We should've seen it coming. The welcome mat got pulled last summer. Those guys are out to get the Colony."

  "They have to make us look bad. They have to scare the town into believing we're all delinquents, especially since we aren't attending their school like the rest of the . . . " He searched for the words.

  "Young folks," his friend added. "We have to connive better than they do and get rid of those labels."

  "All I want to do right now is make a call and get out of here."