Free If Jack's in Love by Stephen Wetta Page A

dollars.”
    â€œThink so?” Pop said.
    â€œDiamonds as big as the Ritz,” Snead said.
    â€œHe can really get five thousand for a ring?”
    â€œYou know, most of it’s cheap-ass costume jewelry. He keeps the expensive stuff in the back. He’s got a safe back there you’d have to dynamite to break into.”
    Pop didn’t say anything. He looked at Snead, thinking things over.
    When Pop started thinking, he could burn a hole right through you. He didn’t even realize he was doing it. Now he picked up his harmonica and brought it to his mouth with his eyes still on Snead. He began to blow a tune and Snead strummed along.

9
    TO TRY OUT Gladstein’s magic ring I needed Myra. But it was summer vacation, which meant she could be anywhere. For a few days I hung out at the Ben Franklin hoping she might pass the plate-glass window on an errand for her mom. I was tempted to consult Gladstein, but he had ordered me not to return until I had kissed her. Going to her door and ringing the bell was out of the question. Nor would it be a good idea to pass the Coghill porch, where Myra reigned jointly with the beauties who lived there. She would find it mortifying to be greeted by a Witcher in the presence of Coghills.
    Another possibility was to frequent the small wooded area behind Dickie Pudding’s house, where I might waylay her if she passed. I took to the woods, and immediately Dickie spotted me through the glass in his storm door. He called my name and came up to join me.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    I was squatting beside a bush with a copy of Death Be Not Proud in my hand.
    â€œSitting here,” I told him.
    â€œNo lie,” he said. Of the neighborhood kids Dickie was the shortest in my age bracket. His parents made him take tap dance lessons and enter competitions, which had earned him the reputation for being a mama’s boy. Bullies were forever collaring him and forcing him to dance.
    â€œI’m thinking things over,” I explained.
    â€œWhat things?”
    â€œJust things.”
    Dickie sat beside me. It was a Saturday; his father was home from work and we saw him through the trees gathering together a hose as a preface to washing his car. Mr. Pudding shaded his eyes—pointlessly, since the sun was behind a cloud—and peered in our direction. Then he broke into a grin and came towards us. I found this extremely irritating. I wanted Myra, not the Puddings. Of course, I was on their property, so I guess they had a right to be there.
    â€œLittle Witcher!” Mr. Pudding shouted.
    â€œHi Mr. Pudding,” I said.
    â€œHow are things at Witcher House?”
    â€œFine.”
    Mischief hunkered deep in his eyes. Mr. Pudding had tight, wavy hair, a dark complexion and a Roman nose, ethnic traits in our part of the world. In spite of such swarthiness he vaunted a proud Anglo-Saxon heritage. One day not long before, he had left the house and ventured into Southside, where he’d signed up with the KKK. This was a secret Dickie confided in me after I swore on a stack of Bibles not to tell (a speech act without any real authority, since multiple copies of the Good Book were not readily available). Mr. Pudding had a pleasant face and beady eyes; he coached a failing Little League team; he listened to music that had banjos in it. And yet the Puddings were deemed respectable because they’d added an extension to the rear of their house.
    â€œI see Snead’s been visiting your folks lately,” Mr. Pudding observed.
    There, I thought, it’s out. People are already talking.
    I didn’t say anything.
    â€œWhat are they doing, singing the blues?”
    â€œYes sir,” I said.
    â€œAin’t nothing wrong with singing the blues. Kind of like Charley Pride,” he added, although I couldn’t follow the reasoning. “Don’t you think they should be doing that someplace else, though? There’s a time and place