Read Online The Wanderers by Richard Price - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard Price
Tags: thriller, Young Adult
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John."
"Twelve-thirty," said Emilio, still not looking at them.
"You goin'?"
"No"—a clipped sound cutting of! all debate. Lenny was relieved. He didn't want to watch the game with Ivan the Terrible. "You know why I'm not goin'?" Emilio challenged Lenny and John. "I'll tell you why ... I'll tell you why..."
Lenny ran his finger along a scratch in the bar top. He wished Emilio would go away, drop dead or something.
"Because..." Emilio looked at them now, pointing a finger like a gun. "Because that kid, that little bastard..." The finger wavered, folded into a fist, and Emilio returned to his beer. Lenny and John looked at each other and shrugged.
"Ralphie playin'?" John asked.
"Yeah, the kid runs like a stallion. They're puttin' 'im in as halfback," Lenny said with pride.
"No kiddin'?"
"No kiddin'. You haven't seen 'im in years."
"Christ, lemme think, the las' time ... the las' time he was like ... thirteen, maybe fourteen."
"Jesus, you're in for a shock."
"Got big?"
"Big and fast. They're puttin' 'im in as halfback."
"Fast too, hah?"
"Runs the hundred in ten-two."
"Jeez, that's fast."
"Yeah."
"Ten-two ... wow."
"Goddamn stallion."
"No, he's not," said Emilio, again looking away.
"Not what?" asked Lenny.
"Joey's halfback." Emilio sat erect, his back to his audience.
"But..." Lenny started.
"Joey's the fucking halfback." Emilio's voice came out loud and flat.
Lenny was going to say that there were two halfbacks—Emilio's son and his own kid brother—but decided it wasn't worth it. Anything he said would be a goddamn major production. Fuck it. Fuck Emilio. Goddamn asshole. He threw a dollar on the bar and waved to John. As he passed Emilio he involuntarily flinched as if half expecting a punch in the back of bis head.
***
Bronx Park was a plain of high weeds, weeping willows, and sporadic swamps stretching for miles in every direction. The only area cleared enough to play ball was French Charlie's field—a rectangular patch of land almost bald from generations of football cleats. It looked like an old oriental rug. No one knew who French Charlie was. Some said he was a farmer in the area before it became Bronx Park, but unless he raised mosquitoes and rats that didn't seem likely. Some said he was a murderer who lived in the woods and killed people strolling through the park during the 1890s. The cops had him holed up one night, and when they couldn't flush him out of the woods they set fire to the area. He was presumed dead although the body was never found. Over the years the burned-out land became known as French Charlie's field. The reason he was called French Charlie instead of just Charlie was because all his victims were women. But this legend was probably bullshit too.
French Charlie's was surrounded by a small forest of willows and other more shapeless trees. When football teams arrived for a game, they dumped their gear on the borderline between the forest and the field and changed behind the trees.
When the Stingers showed up the Del-Bombers were already in uniform, doing push-ups and wind sprints on the far side of the field. The Stingers watched the enemy in anxious silence: the most intimidating thing about the Del-Bombers was their full uniforms. The Stinger outfit was a silky green jersey, shoulder pads, a protective cup, a helmet, and tight black dungarees. Half the team had cleats, the other half wore converse sneakers. The Del-Bombers weren't richer than the Stingers They had uniforms because Winston Knight and Raymond Firestone held up a sporting goods store last year and took everything from ace bandages to teeth guards for twenty-five guys. As a matter of fact the Del-Bombers were on the average poorer, if for no other reason than they were spades.
Joey tossed his duffel bag against a tree and yawned. The Del-Bombers looked big. He wished Perry could play. But Perry was in that fingertip-elbow cast. Richie and the Tassos started throwing around a football. In the
"Twelve-thirty," said Emilio, still not looking at them.
"You goin'?"
"No"—a clipped sound cutting of! all debate. Lenny was relieved. He didn't want to watch the game with Ivan the Terrible. "You know why I'm not goin'?" Emilio challenged Lenny and John. "I'll tell you why ... I'll tell you why..."
Lenny ran his finger along a scratch in the bar top. He wished Emilio would go away, drop dead or something.
"Because..." Emilio looked at them now, pointing a finger like a gun. "Because that kid, that little bastard..." The finger wavered, folded into a fist, and Emilio returned to his beer. Lenny and John looked at each other and shrugged.
"Ralphie playin'?" John asked.
"Yeah, the kid runs like a stallion. They're puttin' 'im in as halfback," Lenny said with pride.
"No kiddin'?"
"No kiddin'. You haven't seen 'im in years."
"Christ, lemme think, the las' time ... the las' time he was like ... thirteen, maybe fourteen."
"Jesus, you're in for a shock."
"Got big?"
"Big and fast. They're puttin' 'im in as halfback."
"Fast too, hah?"
"Runs the hundred in ten-two."
"Jeez, that's fast."
"Yeah."
"Ten-two ... wow."
"Goddamn stallion."
"No, he's not," said Emilio, again looking away.
"Not what?" asked Lenny.
"Joey's halfback." Emilio sat erect, his back to his audience.
"But..." Lenny started.
"Joey's the fucking halfback." Emilio's voice came out loud and flat.
Lenny was going to say that there were two halfbacks—Emilio's son and his own kid brother—but decided it wasn't worth it. Anything he said would be a goddamn major production. Fuck it. Fuck Emilio. Goddamn asshole. He threw a dollar on the bar and waved to John. As he passed Emilio he involuntarily flinched as if half expecting a punch in the back of bis head.
***
Bronx Park was a plain of high weeds, weeping willows, and sporadic swamps stretching for miles in every direction. The only area cleared enough to play ball was French Charlie's field—a rectangular patch of land almost bald from generations of football cleats. It looked like an old oriental rug. No one knew who French Charlie was. Some said he was a farmer in the area before it became Bronx Park, but unless he raised mosquitoes and rats that didn't seem likely. Some said he was a murderer who lived in the woods and killed people strolling through the park during the 1890s. The cops had him holed up one night, and when they couldn't flush him out of the woods they set fire to the area. He was presumed dead although the body was never found. Over the years the burned-out land became known as French Charlie's field. The reason he was called French Charlie instead of just Charlie was because all his victims were women. But this legend was probably bullshit too.
French Charlie's was surrounded by a small forest of willows and other more shapeless trees. When football teams arrived for a game, they dumped their gear on the borderline between the forest and the field and changed behind the trees.
When the Stingers showed up the Del-Bombers were already in uniform, doing push-ups and wind sprints on the far side of the field. The Stingers watched the enemy in anxious silence: the most intimidating thing about the Del-Bombers was their full uniforms. The Stinger outfit was a silky green jersey, shoulder pads, a protective cup, a helmet, and tight black dungarees. Half the team had cleats, the other half wore converse sneakers. The Del-Bombers weren't richer than the Stingers They had uniforms because Winston Knight and Raymond Firestone held up a sporting goods store last year and took everything from ace bandages to teeth guards for twenty-five guys. As a matter of fact the Del-Bombers were on the average poorer, if for no other reason than they were spades.
Joey tossed his duffel bag against a tree and yawned. The Del-Bombers looked big. He wished Perry could play. But Perry was in that fingertip-elbow cast. Richie and the Tassos started throwing around a football. In the
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