Free The Baby Blue Rip-Off by Max Allan Collins

and longing. In a darkened movie theater, Debbie would grasp my hand; in the gym at the ninth-grade party, she’d ask me on a ladies’ choice and would snuggle close till we were cheek to cheek, among other things. I took the hints and broke up with the luscious Maureen, who promptly took up with Debbie’s sophomore. Free again, I made my intentions known to Debbie.
    Who wanted nothing whatever to do with me now.
    Of course.
    Until a year later, in high school, when I had a car of my own. That got her interested again, and I asked her out on a date: homecoming. I offered her my class ring at the dance afterthe game, she accepted, and it looked like tonight would be the night—I’d kiss Debbie Lee at last!
    And then on our way out of the dance, as I waited outside the restrooms while Debbie powdered her nose or something, a short, tough, red-headed upperclassman cornered me. He was, as fate’s sick sense of humor would have it, a distant cousin of Darla, the go-between who moved away.
    He said, “Pat Nelson’s back in town.” He had perfected a way of talking without moving his lips.
    “Really?” I said. Politely.
    “You know who Pat Nelson is, don’t you?”
    I knew who Pat Nelson was. Pat Nelson was a hood (pronounced like “who” with a “d” on the end), and I wanted nothing to do with him or his friends. Pat Nelson had been caught stealing sports equipment from the locker room at the junior high several years before, and had recently stolen a television set from a church. He’d been spending most of his time lately at Eldora, a reformatory for “wayward youths.” Pat Nelson was pretty damn wayward, if you asked me.
    “I know Pat,” I said. “Pat’s a good guy.”
    “That’s right,” the upperclassman said defensively. “Pat’s a
hell
of a good guy, and don’t forget it. And don’t forget something else.... He don’t like it when guys go messing with his girl.”
    “I don’t blame him,” I said. “I wouldn’t want anybody messing with my girl.”
    “Don’t be cute. Me and some other friends of Pat’s seen you with her tonight.”
    Panic.
    “Oh?” I said.
    He prodded me with a finger attached to a short, beefy arm; his gray tee-shirt had full moons of sweat under both. “Stay away from his girl, if you know what’s good for you.”
    What a corny line! I couldn’t believe this guy! I would’ve laughed in his face if I hadn’t been scared shitless.
    “Pat’s got a knife,” he said.
    “Good... good for Pat.”
    “What did you say?”
    “Nothing.”
    “I thought you maybe said something.”
    “No. What’s Pat doing home? I thought he was at Eldora.”
    “He’s got good conduct leave.”
    “Oh.”
    “And he’s back in town to stick his knife in anybody who messes with his girl.”
    “Who,” I asked, knowing, “is Pat Nelson’s girl?”
    “Be reasonable, Mal,” Debbie said later as I dropped her off at her folks’. “Pat’s a nice boy, misunderstood. I felt sorry for him, so I wrote him a few letters, that’s all.”
    I didn’t see Debbie anymore after that. I loved her, but her sympathy for underdogs had gotten out of hand. I decided not to go out with girls who wrote to guys at Eldora who came home on good conduct leave with knives.
    She went steady with Pat Nelson all through high school. She used to be in classes with me sometimes; she’d give me meaningful looks with those big baby blues, and I’d hurt inside from wanting to return them. Once I did, and a friend of Pat Nelson’s (he was big on go-betweens himself) told me to stay the hell away from his woman. (Somewhere between sophomore and junior year in high school, the ownership term for femalesshifted from “girl” to “woman.”) I left Debbie alone after that, because I had a feeling Pat and Pat’s go-between had gotten the information that I had exchanged meaningful looks with Debbie from Debbie herself. I began, as I got older, to consider Debbie a troublemaker, and spent the rest of my