Another hour slipped away. Calls were made, papers written, and stories swapped. The boys were released pending arraignment, while the two dutiful citizens headed to the newspaper office to spread the news, against Sheriff Blake's advice.
"This needs to be kept quiet until we sort the mess out," the Sheriff remarked to the arresting officer when the door closed behind the last patron.
City Hall was soon abuzz with new accusations against the Colony, made by the zealous newcomers from upstate who now expanded their territory to include the small police station and the newspaper office. Their stack of formal complaints grew daily.
A protest storm against the Colony was brewing. Jane O'Doul volunteered to act as goodwill mediator between the Colony and the town.
Tonight Jane stayed late in the office. When the front desk lights turned off, she directed her attention to the files under her care. She remembered the copied land zoning records dating back to 1889 that were handed to Wade. These documents, filed under Section VII, lots 101-498, lots 551-842, translated "Colony land." Wade had been satisfied of that.
As she searched through the files, a startling realization struck her. None of City Hall's records could verify the ownership of the property. There was no bill of sale, no property deed, no record of proprietorship, and no record of land grant or homestead. There were also no records for building permits. The Colony appeared to be located on a large tract of available property.
A banging noise outside sent a rush of adrenaline through her. Shadows crossed the room and whisked across the wall cast by the parking lot light. Someone had been watching. She closed the file cabinet, turned the lock and tucked the key in her pocket. What she hadn't found most likely didn't exist and that knowledge was what someone wanted. The Colony had no proof of ownership. She knew they would need a friend to save their community.
She picked up the phone and pretended to make a call. The pounding of feet on pavement echoed in the still evening, fading into the distance.
Chapter Seven: November 15th
SAMMY HAD HOPED to go inside the Colony to pick up the finished coupons. His disappointment was over when he saw the delivery person waiting for him. AnLillie sat on the nearly hidden bench. She greeted him warmly and passed the neat bundle into his hands.
"Can we go inside the gate?"
His hopeful question didn't get the answer he wanted.
"Not today, Sammy."
Sammy felt embarrassed to have even suggested it; a knot formed in his stomach and twisted.
"Are they rehearsing again?" His question came automatically, before he realized that he was referring to an event months in the past. Her surprised look reminded Sammy that he had nearly broken the promise a second time. He rose to leave, anxious to avoid another blunder.
"Sammy, next time I'll plan ahead and we can visit inside. There's someone I want you to meet, but—" she stopped in mid-sentence and smiled at him. She looked wise and childish at the same time, and it bothered him. "Not today."
He could feel the coupons inside his jacket pressing his chest as he pedaled toward town. As he left, a thought nagged him. Who did AnLillie want me to see? Had Walt told her that I'd already been inside the grounds?
Advertising at the retirement home, bowling alley, barbershops, and hair salons, plus outside various churches after services ate up almost all the boys' free time. Their business was thriving. One day before the big event, their coupon sales along with Walt's came to $225. Even with half the take going to The Arcade, minus expenses, the boys and Walt felt successful. Cut three ways, the money meant Sammy could pay his debts.
"Eleven seniors, counting me, are coming to the The Arcade."
"Are you all coming together?" Sammy still wondered if mixing the town seniors with Walt's group was a good idea. But greed was taking hold. He didn't want to lose any customers. One night together could be a good thing, he kept reassuring himself. Maybe they would mingle and get to know one another. He could see the newspaper headlines: TOWN'S YOUTH SOLVES COLONY MISUNDERSTANDING.
"We'll ride together. One of the older guys is hunting a van. I think we've got one."
"Older?" Sammy cringed at the thought. He knew what Walt's driving was like.
* * *
The next day, the business partners ate on the job; dinner consisted of hot dogs, fries, and pop. They could afford it with Walt's coupon sales. Mr. Lanton greeted them in his office at three-fifty. "Well, boys, not bad for your first try. It'll be interesting to see how many seniors actually show up. And I'd like to see the Colony seniors after all the fuss about that place."
"It's all a bunch of lies, Mr. Lanton. Those Colony people aren't out to hurt anyone," Sammy said.
"I know," Mr. Lanton said. "Personally, I think it's all one big hype to steal some prime development land."
Several of their customers had purchased many coupons, so Sammy knew the place wouldn't be crowded. He hoped the customers would spend more money on food so Mr. Lanton would be well rewarded for his time and worries. The general public was not welcome, unless, of course, they were senior citizens. It was going to be a slow-paced party.
By four-ten the first of the prepaying seniors arrived. The booming noise of the rock music was switched to a 1940's Glen Miller piece. Mr. Lanton had proudly found the tunes after searching through some cardboard boxes in the storage room. He also found Bing Crosby, Perry Como, and Old Blue Eyes, Frank Sinatra, along with what he called "older than dirt" dance music. John rigged up an ancient record player to the modern sound system.
One of the employees was listening to a Walkman, in an evident attempt to drown out the old tunes. From the looks of the men and women wandering the booths, they were enjoying the music more than the games. As more customers arrived and early evening darkened the sky, lights flickered, creating a carnival atmosphere. Coupons were being spent freely, the hot dog and caramel-corn business heated up, and decaf coffee was in high demand.
Sammy and John were feeling very successful. They stationed themselves near Mr. Lanton's office, ducking out every ten minutes to assess the crowd. It had grown over a dozen by five-fifteen, but still no sign of Walt and his troupe.
Music from the 20's Charleston Era had ended. An old fox-trot tune rose above the din of activity. One snappy-looking gentleman sporting a gray, waxed mustache and an unusual amount of hair sauntered to a perky-looking octogenarian with tightly permed curls and bright lipstick who wore a hot-pink pantsuit. Sammy, seated near the office, listened to their conversation, all about memories of dancing to that same tune in their youth. Soon they were gliding about the fortune teller's boxes, using long, smooth-flowing dance steps. The other customers stepped out of their way to watch the performance. When the song ended, applause led into the next song and the couple slipped away to a game booth.
Two couples walked past Sammy to the refreshment stand, where they ordered soft drinks and hot dogs. They carried the food to one of three tables in the corner. The ladies gingerly turned their swivel stools to face each other. After placing their drinks on the table, the men eased into their chairs. In unison, as if they had rehearsed, they reached into their pockets and pulled out what remained of their coupons.
"What you got left, Frank?" the thin, hunched-over man asked his friend.
"Huh?"
I said, "How many coupons you got left?"
"Oh, I don't know, three maybe. I sure liked that wild turkey game."
"You say you liked that mild jerky."
One of the ladies spoke up. "I didn't know they were selling jerky. I think I'd like that better than this hot dog."
Frank corrected her. "I don't think they're selling jerky. But I wouldn't mind a piece a' pie."
"Pizza?" She spoke up again. "I wish I knew they had pizza before I bought this dog!"
"Edna, he said he wanted a piece of pie," the other lady said. Sammy stifled a chuckle.
"Well, I'll have one, too."
"They don't sell it here, Edna." She turned to
talk to the first gentleman. "Are you having fun, Larry?"
Edna said, "Berry? That sounds good. Frank, do you want some berry pie, too?"
"That sounds good to me." Both Frank and Edna slid off their stools to place their orders.
The gentleman holding his coupons smiled at the remaining lady and asked, "Do you think they'll find their way back?"
It was nearly six and Walt was still missing. John and Sammy edged through the crowd. They headed toward the door hoping to see the group from the Colony. Several of the earliest customers had played their coupons and left. One old man was showing a lady friend how to aim a short dart gun so it would hit a plastic pig's rear-end, make the pig squeal, then tip forward onto a doll's head to plant a kiss on its cheek. After the kiss, the doll's eyes opened and its tongue stuck out. The lady had placed her darts everywhere but on the pig. The old gentleman put his last coupon on the counter, picked up the gun, aimed carefully, and hit the doll in the forehead. He stepped closer, removed his glasses, and tried again. Success! The pig squealed; the doll stuck out her tongue.
Outside, the November air was nippy, near freezing. Streetlights showed wintry halos through the icy fog. Sammy glanced back through the windows. The chill of the parking lot made the warm scene all the more festive-looking. Just as the boys turned to go back inside, they heard the rumble of an oversized flatbed truck. It was headed toward them. A shot of adrenaline raced through Sammy's chest, and he spun around. The squeal of brakes and the smell of rubber followed as the driver came to a jerking stop three feet from the curb. Walt and his seniors had arrived.
Bundled and hooded, looking prepared for a bonfire outing, a dozen silhouetted men and women laughed and chattered as they bounced against one another and the rail that framed the truck's exposed bed.
There was no need for introductions. The group wiggled their frail bodies off the truck and, as Walt held the arcade door open, began limping past him into the warm, inviting interior. Piles of pillows and blankets were left in a heap on the floor of the flatbed.
As Walt began to follow the last of the new arrivals inside, Sammy and John approached him. "We were beginning to wonder if you were going to make it."
"Just a little confusion over transportation. But here we are! How's business?"
Sammy took the door from Walt and pulled it open wider. "Take a look." The three of them entered and surveyed the scene. Vintage music blared. Some customers were milling around the games, while others attempted to visit. The new customers brought a surge of energy to the scene. Several of Walt's friends were scurrying through the crowd. Sammy noticed one old man push his way past another, nearly knocking him down. A surprised look flashed across John's brow, mirroring Sammy's reaction.
Within minutes the Colony ladies huddled outside the restroom, giggling like junior high girls. One of the grandmas caught Sammy's glance and gave him a shy wave, took a second look at him, and turned away to whisper to her friend. Perhaps he had reminded her of someone. Before he could slip back into hiding, three ladies raised their heads to stare at him. He felt totally out of place; then he remembered: he was. This was, after all, senior night.
At the top of the next hour, Mr. Lanton signaled the boys to return to the office. John followed Sammy, holding an envelope containing a few more dollars Walt had collected. "Lively set of folks that came in last," Lanton remarked. "One of them asked me where I found the stale music. He even offered to loan me one of his CDs."
"It looks like they're having fun," Sammy said. He'd noticed the mood change created by the new arrivals. There was a feeling of competition and hurry. They dominated the games with a fresh excitement typical of the nights when Sammy and his friends played.
"Oh, they're having fun all right," he said with some disgust in his voice. "I know it wasn't part of the deal, but do you boys mind sticking around here awhile. I'm a little short-staffed, and this new bunch might be more than I can handle."
"Sure thing, Mr. Lanton. We can stay till nine," Sammy said. Sammy's worst fears had surfaced; mixing resort seniors with town seniors was not a good idea. They had a reckless, almost immature attitude that he couldn't explain.
John added, "Walt's taking his folks home by nine, anyway."
"I appreciate it. Just hang around near the back and keep your eyes open."
Security work. Their job description was getting longer.
The back was Sammy's preferred place; he knew John liked mingling, teasing the old ladies who shared their coupons with him so he could show them how to play the games. Both boys kept busy watching the crowd.
"Get a load of that." John pointed toward the far pinball machine. Two customers were working the pull knob together, hand over hand. "Old Walt's got himself a lady friend."
The thought hadn't occurred to Sammy that Walt might have a date; he might even be married. The old gal holding his hand could actually be his wife.
"There's more spice in this room than in my grandma's chili," John said as he headed onto the open floor. Soon he was shooting wild turkeys and getting pats on the back from one grandma or grandpa after another. Sammy slipped into the men's room. A short, stocky old man from the Colony was leaning against the wall by the wastebasket. Sammy rushed to him, intending to ease him to the floor. The old man hadn't fainted, but was holding a pen, and there were fresh ink marks scribbled on the wall.
"What's going on?" Sammy demanded. The man quickly slipped past him out the door. Sammy was incensed. What kind of people live at the Colony? Were all those stories about them true? He followed the culprit, determined to inform Walt, whom he saw at the refreshment stand.
A familiar old lady edged up behind Walt and patted him on the shoulder. She flashed him a very resistible smile, which he ignored; he turned toward Sammy and walked his way. Sammy pitied the lady for a second, until he saw her approach another stranger from the Colony to say, "Hello, my name's Edna."
"Sammy, what's up?" Walt asked.
"What kind of customers did you bring us, Walt?"
"Some of them haven't been out for a while," Walt answered.
"That short, stocky guy was writing on the wall in the bathroom."
"Sorry, Sammy, I'll tell Skeeter to knock it off and clean it up."
"Thanks, I'd hate to have Mr. Lanton find out." Or anyone else, Sammy thought as he checked his watch. Time had slowed down considerably.
Sammy had never seen John so frazzled. "What's with these old gals? Three of them have been following me around like I was a magnet and they were wearing iron clothes. It's weird."
"Was one of them named Edna?"
"No, she prefers the older gents. These old ladies were asking me all sorts of questions: Who was my favorite movie star? What was my favorite music? And stuff about school."
Sammy said, "They must be old retired school teachers."
The next time the boys looked at their watches it was ten to nine. Walt was wandering around, tapping people, motioning them toward the door. He waved across the room. There was an obvious difference between the perky Colony group and the tired-looking, refined seniors from town. Within minutes Walt's friends were settled on the flatbed. Sammy and John watched the old truck bunny-hop down the street.
John said, "Letting them loose is like popping corn with the lid off. I'll go call my folks and see if we can get a ride home."
Mr. Lanton joined the two young businessmen. "Well, boys, it was a big success, not that it didn't have its moments." He looked at Sammy. "You wouldn't be tampering with city politics now, would you? Maybe you know something about those Colony folks, huh?"
"They spend their money more freely than most, Mr. Lanton." Sammy smiled.
It was now safe to sit on the curb, and soon John's dad flashed the car headlights, so the boys headed in his direction. Sammy whispered, "I'm not sure, but I felt like I knew some of the old folks from somewhere."
Chapter Eight: Bits and Pieces
YOU'RE WASTING AWAY, Sammy." John flopped next to him on the bench
, stood quickly, and brushed a flattened corn chip off his jeans. "It's like you're shrinking into your face. You gotta stop worrying."
"I've been telling myself the same thing. It's no good. All that work we put into the ticket sales was like a distraction."
"From what?"
"The old man, the secret, the weird feeling that keeps gnawing at me," Sammy answered curtly.
"Maybe you better tell someone, maybe your mom."
"I can't, John, I'm still under Walt's threat no matter how friendly he seems."
"Sammy, how about making me a promise? After the holidays, we blow this thing wide open, march right through that stupid gate and face Walt, tell him we know he was lying and we're going to turn the whole place over to the authorities."
Sammy slammed his fist on the table. Students near his table stopped eating their lunches. Sammy waved them off and leaned closer to John, and whispered, "That's crazy. You sound worse that those weasels from up north."
"So what's next?"
"I'll wait, like you said, until after the holidays. There's just too much going on at home with all the stress Mom's facing."
"Just don't slip away, Sammy. Have you looked in the mirror lately?"
It wasn't just his face, Sammy felt different, tighter, smaller, but he knew it wasn't so. Worry seemed to be messing with his whole body.
* * *
Time seemed to warp for Sammy, squeezing the rest of November right next to the beginning of February. A few days after the senior night Sammy had called Walt to get his impression of the evening.
"They loved it," Walt assured him. "They'd love another outing."
Sammy interrupted him. "Actually, I'm a little busy right now. Could you let the folks know we'll have to wait a few weeks?" There was no answer right away. Sammy raised his voice and began to repeat the question. "I'm a little busy right now. Could you let the folks—"
Walt barked, "Quit that! I can hear you good enough. What do you think I am, deaf?"
Sammy was embarrassed. He had marveled at how sharp Walt's hearing was, just as good as his. "Sorry."
Between the Roots Page 5
