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Authors: Richard Stark
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difference, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes I think I ought to tell them to go someplace else.”
“No!”
He said it so forcefully she was surprised into looking at him again. For just a second his expression seemed to be startled, but then it smoothed again and he said, “Ellen, you can’t run away from things. We’ve talked about that before.
“Yes,” she said, and faced front again. “I know. You’re right.”
”You should let them stay,” he said. “You should face the problem squarely, understand it, conquer it.”
“I know.”
“In fact,” he said, “you shouldn’t run away from their meetings. You should be present as much as they permit. You should listen to everything they say, you should know just as much of their plans as they do.” He paused, and said, “Do you know why?”
“To help me understand why I’m afraid?”
“That too, of course. But even more than that, you should know precisely what they plan to do, because if the plan is a good one you’ll be spared a great deal of unnecessary worry. Who knows, if you listened to what they have in mind you might find out it’s really a very good and safe plan, and then you’d have one less problem to worry about. Wouldn’t you?”
She smiled at the carpet. “I guess I would.”
“You can talk their plans over with me,” he told her. “Together we’ll try and decide if they can get away with what they intend to do.”
“What if we don’t think they can?” she asked.
“Then we’ll decide why,” he said. “We’ll discuss their ideas, and if we see things that look like flaws you can show them to Stan, either so they’ll make their plan better or so he’ll decide not to go ahead with it.”
“I don’t dare tell Stan,” she said, “that I’ve been talking about all this with you.”
“That’s understandable.”
“He wouldn’t believe I’m perfectly safe telling you anything,” she said. She looked at him, actually held his eyes this time. “Anything at all,” she said.
His smile was gentle, sympathetic. “I’m pleased you have confidence in me,” he said.
4
Fusco pulled the Pontiac into the cinder driveway beside the house. There was no garage, only the driveway, ending at a metal fence. The fence completely enclosed the back yard, which was perfect for Pam. The kid was out there every warm and rainless day, with the whole yard to roam in. A hell of a lot more than the chunk of Canarsie pavement Fusco had had when he was a kid.
Fusco shut the Pontiac door and walked over to the fence. There was Pam, all the way at the other end of the yard, squatting the way little kids do, digging in the dirt back there with a tablespoon Ellen had given her.
Ellen was a good mother, there was no denying it. Yeah, and she’d been a good wife, too. It was him that was off. As a husband he’d been punk, and as a father he was the kind of guy who could show up once a year with a balloon and a box of Cracker Jack and other than that have no idea what the hell he was supposed to do. It was a good thing Pam had a mother like Ellen.
The one thing Fusco couldn’t work out entirely was his feeling about Stan. It seemed to him he ought to be bugged by it one way or another. Stan shacked up with Ellen, but when he thought about it he didn’t feel bugged at all. What the hell, they weren’t married any more. And after three years in the pen, completely separated from her, he had practically no emotional involvement left for Ellen at all any more. Oh, a little, but he thought that was mostly because of the kid, because she was the one in charge of bringing up his daughter.
He liked to look at Pam. He liked to know she was there. But he shouldn’t hang around out here too long now. Without having called to the child or in any way attracted her attention, Fusco moved away from the fence, walked around the Pontiac, and went into the house by the front door.
It was a little after six, and Ellen was in the kitchen making
“Sometimes I think I ought to tell them to go someplace else.”
“No!”
He said it so forcefully she was surprised into looking at him again. For just a second his expression seemed to be startled, but then it smoothed again and he said, “Ellen, you can’t run away from things. We’ve talked about that before.
“Yes,” she said, and faced front again. “I know. You’re right.”
”You should let them stay,” he said. “You should face the problem squarely, understand it, conquer it.”
“I know.”
“In fact,” he said, “you shouldn’t run away from their meetings. You should be present as much as they permit. You should listen to everything they say, you should know just as much of their plans as they do.” He paused, and said, “Do you know why?”
“To help me understand why I’m afraid?”
“That too, of course. But even more than that, you should know precisely what they plan to do, because if the plan is a good one you’ll be spared a great deal of unnecessary worry. Who knows, if you listened to what they have in mind you might find out it’s really a very good and safe plan, and then you’d have one less problem to worry about. Wouldn’t you?”
She smiled at the carpet. “I guess I would.”
“You can talk their plans over with me,” he told her. “Together we’ll try and decide if they can get away with what they intend to do.”
“What if we don’t think they can?” she asked.
“Then we’ll decide why,” he said. “We’ll discuss their ideas, and if we see things that look like flaws you can show them to Stan, either so they’ll make their plan better or so he’ll decide not to go ahead with it.”
“I don’t dare tell Stan,” she said, “that I’ve been talking about all this with you.”
“That’s understandable.”
“He wouldn’t believe I’m perfectly safe telling you anything,” she said. She looked at him, actually held his eyes this time. “Anything at all,” she said.
His smile was gentle, sympathetic. “I’m pleased you have confidence in me,” he said.
4
Fusco pulled the Pontiac into the cinder driveway beside the house. There was no garage, only the driveway, ending at a metal fence. The fence completely enclosed the back yard, which was perfect for Pam. The kid was out there every warm and rainless day, with the whole yard to roam in. A hell of a lot more than the chunk of Canarsie pavement Fusco had had when he was a kid.
Fusco shut the Pontiac door and walked over to the fence. There was Pam, all the way at the other end of the yard, squatting the way little kids do, digging in the dirt back there with a tablespoon Ellen had given her.
Ellen was a good mother, there was no denying it. Yeah, and she’d been a good wife, too. It was him that was off. As a husband he’d been punk, and as a father he was the kind of guy who could show up once a year with a balloon and a box of Cracker Jack and other than that have no idea what the hell he was supposed to do. It was a good thing Pam had a mother like Ellen.
The one thing Fusco couldn’t work out entirely was his feeling about Stan. It seemed to him he ought to be bugged by it one way or another. Stan shacked up with Ellen, but when he thought about it he didn’t feel bugged at all. What the hell, they weren’t married any more. And after three years in the pen, completely separated from her, he had practically no emotional involvement left for Ellen at all any more. Oh, a little, but he thought that was mostly because of the kid, because she was the one in charge of bringing up his daughter.
He liked to look at Pam. He liked to know she was there. But he shouldn’t hang around out here too long now. Without having called to the child or in any way attracted her attention, Fusco moved away from the fence, walked around the Pontiac, and went into the house by the front door.
It was a little after six, and Ellen was in the kitchen making
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