Rumble Fish Read Free

it?”
    â€œSeven thirty.”
    â€œHell,” I said, getting up. “I’m supposed to fight Biff Wilcox at eight. You got anything to drink around here?”
    I went into the kitchen and hunted through her refrigerator. I found a can of beer and gulped it down.
    â€œNow Mama’ll think I drank it. Thanks a lot.” She sounded like she was going to cry.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, honey?” I said.
    â€œYou said you were going to quit fighting all the time.”
    â€œSince when?”
    â€œSince you beat up Skip Handly. You promised me you wouldn’t be fighting all the time.”
    â€œOh, yeah. Well, this ain’t all the time. This is just once.”
    â€œYou always say that.” She was crying. I backed her up against the wall and hugged her awhile.
    â€œLove you, babe,” I said, and turned her loose.
    â€œI wish you wouldn’t fight all the time.” She wasn’t crying anymore. She could quit crying the easiest of any girl I knew.
    â€œWell, what about you?” I asked. “You took after Judy McGee with a busted pop bottle not too long ago.”
    â€œShe was flirting with you,” she said. Patty was a hellcat sometimes.
    â€œAin’t my fault,” I said. I grabbed my jacket on the way to the door. I stopped and gave her a good long kiss. Pretty little thing, she looked like a dandelion with her hair messed up.
    â€œBe careful,” she said. “I love you.”
    I waved good-bye and jumped off the porch. I thought maybe I’d have time to stop by my place and have a good swig of wine, but going by Benny’s I saw everybody waiting around for me, so I went in.
    There were more people there than had been there in the afternoon. I guess word had gotten around.
    â€œWe just about give up on you,” Smokey said.
    â€œBetter watch out or I’ll take you on for a warm-up,” I warned him. I counted the guys and decided maybe six of them would show up at the lot. I didn’t see Steve, but didn’t worry about it. He couldn’t get out much at night.
    â€œSplit up and meet me there,” I told them, “or we’ll have the cops on our tail.”
    I left with Smokey and B.J. I felt so good. I love fights. I love how I feel before a fight, kind of high, like I can do anything.
    â€œSlow down,” B.J. said. “You’d better be savin’ your energy.”
    â€œIf you wasn’t so fat you could keep up.”
    â€œDon’t start that stuff again,” B.J. said. He was fat, but he was tough, too. Tough fat guys ain’t as rare as you’d think.
    â€œMan, this is just like the old days, ain’t it?” I said.
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” Smokey said. Fights made him edgy. Before a fight he’d get quieter and quieter, and it always bugged the hell out of him that I’d get louder and louder. We had a funny kind of tension between us anyway. He would have been number-one tough cat in our neighborhood if it wasn’t for me. Sometimes I could tell he was thinking about fighting me. So far, either he was scared or wanted to stay friends.
    â€œYeah,” I said, “that’s right. It was all over before you got into it.”
    â€œHell, that gang stuff was out of style when you was ten years old, Rusty-James,” he told me.
    â€œEleven. I can remember it. I was in the Little Leaguers.”
    The Little Leaguers was the peewee branch of the local gang, the Packers. Gang stuff was out of style now.
    â€œMan,” I said, “a gang really meant somethin’ back then.”
    â€œMeant gettin’ sent to the hospital once a week.”
    Okay, so he was edgy. So was I. I was the one doing the fighting, after all. “You’re almost talkin’ chicken, Smokey,” I said.
    â€œI’m almost talkin’ sense.”
    I kept quiet. It took a lot of self-control, but I kept quiet. Smokey got nervous, since quiet ain’t my