The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun (9 page)

Julian asked, “Did you invent anything?”

Marshall shook his head in negation.

Julian asked, “What happened?”

Marshall touched the battle jacket on his lap and for a moment a look of anger flashed across his face as he picked it up and irritably stuffed it down on the seat beside him. He replied, “Nothing,” and then his countenance regained its usual bland expression as he added, “But just you stay with it, kid. You’ll get somewhere.”

He glanced at the drawing again and leant back in his seat, his head tilted, his eyes staring blankly in long faraway thought.

C H A P T E R
7

I
t was dusk, lights had begun to come on and they had just passed through the main street of a small community consisting of a post office, a cafeteria, a Western Union Office, a few stores and a motel. The place was called Indian Falls and no stop was scheduled there. Nevertheless, the bus had come to a halt at the other side of town where there seemed to be some kind of a barrier across the road and a confusion of people gathered there. The bus was out of Arizona and into New Mexico and the wild country and at the foot of the pass that led over the Black Range to the Valley of the Rio Grande.

Marshall said, “Now what?”

Julian, who had been indulging once more in the sweet dream of his father confessing for the hundredth time that he had misjudged him and was proud of him, came out of it and asked, “Is something wrong?”

Marshall said, “I dunno. There seems to be some kind of a roadblock.”

There was a sheriff’s car at the barrier, some townspeople standing about. The bus driver got out and walked over as the noise of distant motor-cycles was heard and everyone looked up in the direction of the road signposted “Indian Falls Pass” as two state troopers came roaring down, got off and talked to the man in the sheriff’s car, their hands pantomiming as they told their story. The bus driver, now surrounded by bystanders, talked with the troopers briefly, consulted the sheriff for a moment and then returned to his bus where he picked up his microphone connecting him by radio to the Main Dispatcher’s Office and, cupping the mouthpiece with his hand, spoke
sotto voce
for a minute or so. Thereafter he transferred to his interior mike and addressed his passengers.

“Folks, I’m sorry, but there’s been a washout and landslide twelve miles up Indian Falls Pass and they say we can’t get through. The troopers say there’s a gang working on it and they expect to have it cleared by morning. So, here’s the news, folks. We’re staying overnight at the company’s expense. There’s a nice motel here, dinner’s on the house, eat all you like. You’ll be comfortable. Okay, everybody pile out.”

Marshall said, “Well, whaddya know, a night in the sack. That suits me,” and then he added, almost too hastily, “Can you look after yourself?”

If Julian was disappointed at Marshall’s question he did not show it. A room all to himself in a motel was pretty exciting too. Maybe there’d even be a TV set in it and no one to tell him to turn it off and go to bed. He said, “Aw, sure. I got my case.”

Marshall said, “Okay, kid, see you in the morning,” and was one of the first off the bus. Overnight with Julian asking eternal questions had not been attractive and he had thought suddenly about Clyde Gresham and was thankful that he had scared him off the bus.

As people were reaching for overnight bags and pressing down the aisle, Bill looked at Marge. They were still in their seats. He was conscious of a sudden excitement. He was no longer called upon to make a decision. The situation had been taken out of their hands. This was where they were going to spend the night and, as far as he knew, nobody had ever heard of a place called Indian Falls. He put his arm about Marge’s shoulder and whispered, “I guess here, maybe. Yeah?”

For Marge the decision had been made too and that it had happened without their having done anything more about it served somehow to quiet her qualms. There was no turning back now. She nodded in assent, leaned her head for a moment so that her hair touched Bill’s cheek to reassure him. Then they retrieved their overnight gear and joined the end of the line of passengers. Julian, too, lagged behind fascinated by the sheriff’s black and white car and troopers with their big guns and shining cartridge belts and the single street of the small town that was almost like a movie set.

The sign read
INDIAN FALLS MOTEL, R. GRADY, PROP.,
and the motel name was repeated in vari-coloured electric light bulbs that blinked on and off. It was a rather fair-sized establishment since, although Indian Falls was no great shakes of a metropolis, in fact hardly a dot on the map, tourists coming through at nightfall preferred to stay there and run the twisting roads of the pass in the morning. R. Grady was known as Pop and naturally his wife was Mom. Pop had been dried out by the sun until he was as stringy and tough as a slab of jerked deer meat. Mom, on the other hand, had two Mexican girls to do all the dirty work and so had blown up into a rotund and comfortable butterball with three chins and specs worn mostly on top of her head.

The cabins were gathered, in a U-curve, around the court in which there were planted flowers and cactus and yucca, with the office at one end of the U and the dining-room at the other.

Behind the counter Pop booked the passengers in, and Mom billowing over a high stool handed out the keys. At the end of the line Marge and Bill and Julian were waiting to be assigned rooms, with Julian barely visible over the top of the counter. Neither Mom nor Pop noticed him.

Pop looked queryingly at Marge and Bill, spotted the ring on Marge’s finger and said, “Mr. and Mrs. . . . ?” He looked up at them and when neither said anything, chortled, “Newlyweds,” and then to Marge, “You’re gonna have to get used to having your name changed ma’am. Never mind, the room’s on the bus company anyway. Mr. and Mrs. Newlywed.” He turned to his wife. “Number twenty-five, Mom.”

Mom said, “Welcome, folks. Now, where did that number twenty-five get to? I thought I had it in my hand.” She began a search for the missing key which seemed to be neither in its box nor on the counter before her. “. . . I could of swore I had it in my hand.”

Pop said, “Use your specs, Mom. You’re blind as an old gopher without ’em.” Quite suddenly he became aware of carroty hair, a forehead and half a pair of steel-rimmed glasses showing above the counter. Julian was standing on tiptoes so that he would be noticed.

Pop said, “Well, hello, buster. Where did you come from?”

Julian replied, “The bus. C-c-can I have a room, p-p-please?”

“Ain’t you with nobody?”

Julian shook his head in negation.

Pop glanced at the key rack. “Right now it looks like we’re fresh out of rooms. Ain’t that so, Mom?”

Mom was now engaged in frisking her ample person. “That’s right. Everyone’s took. Now where did I put that dratted key?”

Pop said, “What do we do about this shaver here? Kid’s all by hisself, but he’s on the bus.”

Mom leaned over the counter for a look at Julian. “All by hisself, is he? Well, there just ain’t any more rooms.” Suddenly she looked sharply at Marge and Bill and an edge crept into her voice. “Say? You two are a young married couple. You’re gonna have to get used to kids sometime. How about taking him in with you? Number twenty-five’s got a foldaway bed in it.”

She had flipped her glasses down from the top of her head and from behind them her eyes glared at them. The boy and the girl could only exchange one miserable glance before Mom challenged them again. “Well?”

Marge said, “All right, you can put him in with us.”

Mom said, “Well, that’s right nice of you. Oh, for land’s sakes, here’s the key all the time right in my pocket. Now what on earth did I put it there for? Here you are.” She handed it to Bill and then said to Julian, “There. Now you go along with them, sonny. You got any luggage?”

As Julian exhibited his little suitcase Bill had moved Marge off to one side and fiercely angry, muttered, “What the hell did you say yes for?”

Anguished Marge replied, “Bill, what could I do? Don’t you see? They saw this,” and indicated the wedding ring. “If I’d said . . .”

Julian moved over to them. “Is it all right for me to come?” He looked so anxious and uncomfortable Marge went to him and put her arm about him. “Of course.”

Pop said, “Number twenty-five’s the nearest one. Right next to the office here. I’ll show you how to work the bed.”

In a photographic dark-room somewhere in a south-western city in the early evening three men were examining developed negatives and wet prints. They were smoking nervously and conversing in Russian.

The technician held up a print. He said, “Excellent. You have done well, Comrade Allon.”

The courier, clad in black leather for a night motor-cycle ride, his helmet dangling over one arm, inquired, “What is it? Is it important?”

Nikolas Allon replied, “Secret weapon. You know where to find the plane, Boris. It will be waiting. You will, of course, not fail.”

The technician studied the picture again and asked, “What is this about soapy water and air bag?”

Allon replied, “Don’t be stupid. Code. The KGB will break it in a few hours.”

The technician carefully packed the finished work in plastic into a flat package and then wrapped it in waterproof linen. The courier stowed it away inside his leather jacket and sealed the pocket with tape. He asked, “Will there be pursuit?”

“Naturally,” replied Allon.

The courier said, “What about this?” and indicated the small laboratory.

Allon remarked, “We won’t be needing it again. It doesn’t matter. When they find it, it will be too late.”

All three went out of the dark-room. The technician locked the door and put the key in his pocket and they hurried down three flights of stairs to emerge from a shabby looking loft building in the industrial part of town. There were pedestrians and mild traffic in the street but no one paid any attention to the three.

The courier straddled the latest model giant Honda and kicked it into life. They shook hands and Allon said, “Good luck, comrade.”

The technician and Allon turned away and merged with the passersby. The courier gunned his machine and shot off. When he reached the outskirts of the city he turned off his lights and became one with the darkness.

With the foldaway cot let down beside the big double bed, and with a giant colour television set, the bureau and an overstuffed chair, there was hardly space to move in room twenty-five or get to the bathroom. As a matter of fact there was no path at all leading to the foldaway except directly across the double bed, which it joined so closely that the mattresses touched.

Supper had been a success. Mom and Pop had been generous with their food and there were Mexican tidbits. Afterwards Julian, on his best behaviour, had prepared himself for the night, brushing his teeth vigorously and loudly and then appearing in his pyjamas. Bill slouched unhappily in the overstuffed chair, Marge sat on the arm.

Julian gazed longingly at the big colour set. He said, “C-c-can we look at TV?”

Marge began doubtfully, “Well . . .” She felt that she had let Bill down, had been perhaps too quick to take the kid in with them. What could the proprietor have done if they had refused?

Bill cut in curtly, “No, we can’t,” and then rather more placatingly, “Look here, Julian, it’s been a long day. We’re all tired. You better get into bed.”

Julian hadn’t expected that he would be allowed to watch the box. That had gone down the drain along with the dream of the room to himself. And so he said amiably, “Okay.”

He studied the layout for a moment. There was no route to reach the foldaway except cross-country. He leaped up on to the big double bed which turned out to be well sprung and enticingly bouncy. In effect, and in Julian’s mind, a kind of trampoline. He took three bounces, each one higher than the last to land with a chortle of delight on his bed where he cried, “Say, that’s great,” and settled himself between the sheets.

Marge could not bear to look at Bill. Something way deep down inside of her wanted to laugh.

Bill said, “Go to sleep. We’ll put the light out.”

Julian answered, “All right. Thanks for everything. You’re swell. Good night.”

Marge felt as though she ought to go to him and give him a goodnight comfort of some kind, a pat, a kiss, a cuddle, but she was halted by two visions of herself, one bouncing across the bed to get to him, the other making the crossing on her hands and knees. The deeply buried laugh pushed a little harder. Marge pushed back and said to Julian, “Good night. Sleep tight.”

Julian smiled, removed his glasses which made him look suddenly extraordinarily touching, young and vulnerable, put his head to the pillow and was off.

Bill got up and flipped the light and the room was now illuminated only by the reflection of the electric advertising sign of the motel. The two sat on the edge of the double bed, but with some distance between them and when they spoke it was in whispers.

Marge asked, “Bill, are you angry with me? I’m sorry.”

“No, I guess not.”

Marge looked over at the sleeping boy and murmured, “He’s sweet.”

Bill said, “He’s a pest.”

Marge said, “Bill, do you think . . . I mean, should we . . . ?”

“Ssshhhhh! Wait till we’re sure the kid’s asleep.”

They sat waiting. Julian had indeed dropped off immediately but now he stirred for the first time lightly and then was quiet. Bill looked across inquiringly at Marge and reached for her hand. She withdrew it shaking her head in negation but softened the rejection by putting her finger to her lips.

Bill momentarily felt drained of all excitement. He was no longer angry with Marge but with his life pattern. He was not a lucky boy. Things had a way of getting screwed up with him whenever he embarked on any kind of project. He was bowed down by the ever pursuing fates.
Jesus, why did I have to get into a thing like this? It wouldn’t happen to anybody else.

The two sat waiting and watching the sleeping child.

The two cars roared up to the loft building and disgorged Army Intelligence and three FBI men. Colonel Sisson, still hugging his unstolen briefcase, was with them. He said, “This the place?” and an FBI man said, “Uh huh.” They stormed up the stairs and down a corridor to a numbered room. The glass pane on the door read “Cosmo Co., Inc.” The FBI man said, “This is it,” and tried the door.