Free Terminal Island by Walter Greatshell Page B

simply that the man couldn’t see him very well because he was silhouetted by the bright light of the entranceway? Henry wanted to cry, to fling himself on the ground and die, but instead he held his breath and started moving. He had to pass right under the man’s nose to get to the stairs, but it looked like he was going to make it. Suddenly a hand came down on his shoulder.
    “I think you forgot something,” the Butcher said.
    Henry couldn’t speak, couldn’t even scream—the only sound that issued from his constricted throat was a dry squeak. The man shoved something into his pants and let go of him. Unaccountably free, Henry bolted upstairs two steps at a time. Nobody followed. At the top landing he stopped for a second to see what the man had stuffed in his pants. It was money—the rest of the money from the purse. He found his mother sitting on the bed reading a gossip magazine.
    “Hi, sweetie,” she said, peering at him over the tops of her lenses. “Well, well, well: Dr. Livingston, I presume.”
    “Hi, Mom,” Henry said. He handed her the wad of cash from his pants, then wearily sat on the edge of the bed and took off his sneakers and socks. Standing up, he emptied the socks onto the bedspread, money tumbling out like damp leaves.
    “What in the world ?”
    Henry spoke the line he had rehearsed in his mind all the way across town: “Look what I found.” It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he had hoped.
    His mother looked more worried than pleased. “You found this?”
    “Yeah. Just blowing around the beach. Pretty incredible, huh?”
    “Wow.” Something about the way she was looking at the money made Henry think she knew the truth. He almost wished she did—one word of doubt and he was ready to spill the whole thing. But all she said was, “It never rains but it pours.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I got a job.”

    She was going to waitress in the evenings—a bit of a comedown from the office work she was used to, but one with the advantage of a free hot supper every night for both of them. Going in that night, she showed Henry the place.
    It was an unassuming diner specializing in burgers, steaks, and chops—all of Henry’s favorites. It even had the homey, broken-in look of all the places they were so fond of back in L.A.: the faded leatherette upholstery and Formica countertops, the big plastic tumblers and crushed-ice machine. Henry was introduced to the head chef and manager of the place, Mr. Ragmont—Nick Ragmont—who looked as if he had been born with a greasy spoon in his mouth.
    “Hey, Henry, how ya doin’?” Nick said as they shook hands. His grip was crushing.
    “I’m okay, sir.”
    “Sir! I like that.”
    Henry’s mother said, “Mr. Ragmont told me he has a daughter your age.”
    Winking at them, Nick said, “I sure do! And if you’re not careful, Henry, she’ll have you jumping at her every whim. Beware! That’s what these women do!”
    Mr. Ragmont was like a corny character out of an old TV show: the funny, savvy, slightly sleazy short-order cook, with a chewed stub of a pencil tucked behind one ear. He looked like an aging Elvis. Henry knew at once why his mother wanted to work here.
    “Your mom tells me you like to fish, Henry,” the man said.
    “A little.”
    “Catch any whoppers?”
    “Not really…maybe a few.”
    “Get that: ‘A few,’ he says! Oh, we got us a real cool customer here! Your mom tells me you’re almost ten years old—practically a grown man. I hope you’re not giving her any grief.”
    “I don’t think so, sir.”
    “Haw haw!” Nick ruffled Henry’s abundant hair. “Say, you oughtta get a haircut. You don’t want people thinking you’re one a them hippies.”
    Beaming, his mother said, “It won’t stay cut. Did you say your daughter would be here tonight?”
    “She better be, if she wants her allowance—I’ve got her helping out in the kitchen. It’s good practice for later life.” He winked. “Christy! Christy,