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kind of eh-eh-eh from deep in his throat. “ ‘You’ll never take me alive, copper! Blast em, Muggsy! Nobody runs out on Rico! Ah, jeez, they got me! ’ ” S-J clutched his chest, spun around, and fell dead on Mrs. Conlan’s lawn.
    That lady, a grumpy old rhymes-with-witch of seventy-five or so, cried: “Boy! Youuu , boy! Get off there! You’ll mash my flowers!”
    There wasn’t a flowerbed within ten feet of where Sully-John had fallen, but he leaped up at once. “Sorry, Mrs. Conlan.”
    She flapped a hand at him, dismissing his apology without a word, and watched closely as the children went on their way.
    â€œYou don’t really mean it, do you?” Bobby asked Carol. “About Ted?”
    â€œNo,” she said, “I guess not. But . . . have you ever watched him watch the street?”
    â€œYeah. It’s like he’s looking for someone, isn’t it?”
    â€œOr looking out for them,” Carol replied.
    Sully-John resumed Bo-lo Bouncing. Pretty soon the red rubber ball was blurring back and forth again. Sully paused only when they passed the Asher Empire, where two Brigitte Bardot movies were playing, Adults Only, Must Have Driver’s License or Birth Certificate, No Exceptions. One of the pictures was new; the other was that old standby And God Created Woman , which kept coming back to the Empire like a bad cough. On the posters, Brigitte was dressed in nothing but a towel and a smile.
    â€œMy mom says she’s trashy,” Carol said.
    â€œIf she’s trash, I’d love to be the trashman,” S-J said, and wiggled his eyebrows like Groucho.
    â€œDo you think she’s trashy?” Bobby asked Carol.
    â€œI’m not sure what that means, even.”
    As they passed out from under the marquee (from within her glass ticket-booth beside the doors, Mrs. Godlow—known to the neighborhood kids as Mrs. Godzilla—watched them suspiciously), Carol looked back over her shoulder at Brigitte Bardot in her towel. Her expression was hard to read. Curiosity? Bobby couldn’t tell. “But she’s pretty, isn’t she?”
    â€œYeah, I guess.”
    â€œAnd you’d have to be brave to let people look at you with nothing on but a towel. That’s what I think, anyway.”
    Sully-John had no interest in la femme Brigitte nowthat she was behind them. “Where’d Ted come from, Bobby?”
    â€œI don’t know. He never talks about that.”
    Sully-John nodded as if he expected just that answer, and threw his Bo-lo Bouncer back into gear. Up and down, all around, whap-whap-whap.
    â€¢   •   •
    In May Bobby’s thoughts began turning to summer vacation. There was really nothing in the world better than what Sully called “the Big Vac.” He would spend long hours goofing with his friends, both on Broad Street and down at Sterling House on the other side of the park—they had lots of good things to do in the summer at Sterling House, including baseball and weekly trips to Patagonia Beach in West Haven—and he would also have plenty of time for himself. Time to read, of course, but what he really wanted to do with some of that time was find a part-time job. He had a little over seven rocks in a jar marked BIKE FUND , and seven rocks was a start . . . but not what you’d call a great start. At this rate Nixon would have been President for two years before he was riding to school.
    On one of these vacation’s-almost-here days, Ted gave him a paperback book. “Remember I told you that some books have both a good story and good writing?” he asked. “This is one of that breed. A belated birthday present from a new friend. At least, I hope I am your friend.”
    â€œYou are. Thanks a lot!” In spite of the enthusiasm in his voice, Bobby took the book a little doubtfully. He was accustomed to pocket books with