Little Boy Blue (31 page)

When he went back toward shore, JoJo was
waiting at the start of the seawall.

“Damn, I thought you fell in and
drowned,” JoJo said. “You ready to go home?”

“I dunno.
When’s
your sister get
there?”

“You got eyes for Teresa, huh?”

“Man, I mean—bong!”

“Yeah, I guess so. Everybody says it.
But a guy can’t see his sister like that… know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Oh yeah, I think she got a new
boyfriend while I was in Whittier. I heard her talkin’ about him to Lisa
when they visited me. He’s like us, been in trouble, and I think
he’s sixteen or seventeen.”

Alex said nothing. The odd part was that
he’d barely met Teresa, and nothing besides her attractiveness had led
him to the mild fantasies and speculations.

JoJo took a different route to the house,
staying down near the harbor, shortcutting through the yards of canneries and
along docks where fishing boats were moored. Across a ship channel was Terminal
Island, where many big ships were drydocked. “Man, last year I used to go
over there to sell newspapers. One time a big troop transport came in. I was
damn near the only one on the dock. A whole division of G.I.s was hanging
on the rails. One
guy
wanted a paper— so I threw
it up and he threw me half a buck. Then they all started throwing money down
for papers. I only had thirty-five and wound up with better’n twenty
bucks.”

They finally turned away from the harbor,
heading toward the houses clustered on the sides of hills which rose two miles
away. In between was an undeveloped area, the roads sometimes were dirt. The
land was mostly vacant lots with high weeds and discarded trash. But when they
came over a low rise, ahead was a chain link fence around several acres. Within
the fenced acreage were big, gray life rafts knocked together with flotation
drums and wood. Every cargo ship and tanker had carried several during the war,
augmenting the lifeboats. Now they were surplus.

“This is new. I
never
seen
it before.”

“Let’s go in and see what’s
what?”

The fence was low for agile youths, and the
area was unguarded. Curiosity and zest for adventure had them inside in
seconds. The huge rafts were stacked on top of each other. They climbed to the
top of one stack to see what was in it. They found storage compartments with
waterproofed packages of emergency rations, C-rations, chocolate, and tiny
packs of cigarettes and matches.
Medicines,
flare
guns, and other valuables had been removed.

They also found dye markers and three big,
gray cans with pins like hand grenades and writing on their sides. They were
orange smoke bombs—to be thrown overboard far at sea whenever a ship was
anywhere on the horizon. They took two of the cans, simply to do something, and
climbed back over the fence.

Half a mile away, in high weeds next to some
railroad tracks, Alex put one can down and pulled the pin, jumping back
quickly. At first it sputtered inside, and then the unimaginably bright orange
smoke issued forth. Initially it came slowly, but it quickly gained force and
density. Within thirty seconds it was geysering thirty feet into the air. The
can began spinning with the force of whatever was going on inside. As it rocked
the smoke came out more thickly. It also stayed thick as it rose—now
sixty feet in the air.

“Wow!” JoJo said. “That
fucker sure does kick out the smoke.”

“And it smells like shit, too.”
Indeed, a vagrant gust of air had carried the acrid, lung-searing smoke to
Alex, making him duck away.

They both heard the siren. The scream of it
grew rapidly. They knew it was coming to the orange smoke. Whether it was a
police car or fire engine made no difference. Either one would grab them—
if they were available. They ran, Alex carrying the other smoke canister tucked
under his arm like a football. They went over a rise, around a corner, and now
they slowed to walk down an alley. The siren went silent, indicating that the
vehicle had reached the cause of the smoke. The boys looked back every few
steps, just in case, and also watching the orange smoke still hanging in the air
behind them.

“Get rid of that,” JoJo said,
meaning the canister. “If they cruise around and spot us when you got
that…”

“They’re not gonna do that.
I’m keeping it. I’ve got an idea.”

“What idea?”

“Wait until we reach the pad.
I’ll tell you then.”

The following morning they found the market
they wanted—not too big, but not a mom-and-pop corner grocery either.
This one had two cash registers (just one was operating) and four employees on
duty. It was a hot, hazy day, and they watched the market until the afternoon,
going in twice to buy Dr. Peppers and stand beside the case while drinking
them.

Just before the closing hour, they came back
with the canister of orange smoke in a paper sack. They stopped around the
corner of the building.

“What if they ask what’s in the
sack?” JoJo queried nervously.

“So what?
Show ‘em and don’t do nothing. Just come
back and we’ll find another place. It ain’t like you had a gun or
something. They won’t know what’s in your mind.
Right?”

“Yeah, it sounds right,
but—”

“But shit… Get going before you
think too much.”

Alex gave him a hug and a shove. JoJo sighed
and went around the corner into the market. The girl at the cash register
glanced up for a second,
then
went back to her
newspaper. An aproned stock boy putting cans on a shelf didn’t even
glance up. JoJo went down one aisle; then turned back to the empty aisle
closest to the cash registers. He was trembling as he opened the top of the
sack and pulled the pin. He put the can down so quickly that he almost dropped
it, and then hurried toward the rear. He was at the end of the aisle when the
fizzing noise started, followed by spluttering noises—after which the
orange smoke belched forth. As the day before, the beginning was small,
but each passing second added to the smoke. It was at the ceiling and spreading
swiftly when the first voice cried: “Hey! What’s that?” And
there was fear bordering on panic in the voice.

“Oh my God!” said the girl.

At that moment Alex came in, stepping to the
side. Nobody saw him because they were watching the smoke, frightened but not
knowing what they confronted.

“GAS!”
JoJo bellowed from the rear. “IT’S
MUSTARD GAS!”

The scream was the catalyst. They ran for the
front door, the young woman going over the counter without dignity but with
remarkable agility. They were all galvanized by panic.

In another ten seconds the entire store was
filled with orange smoke. It poured out the front door.

Alex had a wet handkerchief over his nose and
mouth. He was just a few feet from the cash register. He bumped into the
checkout counter, went over it and felt for the cash register. He took a
breath; it burned his lungs. He punched the buttons. The cash drawer came open
and he stuffed the contents in his pockets, first the paper, then some coins.
He had to breathe again; it was worse this time. He dropped to his belly. Some
air was within a few inches of the floor.

He stumbled blindly for the front door,
knocking over a display of cold cereal. Panic strained to control him, the deep
fear of being unable to breathe. Then he saw the patch of light indicating the
front door. He stumbled out into the sunlight.

The rapidly increasing crowd was already two
dozen persons, both passersby and employees of adjacent shops.

JoJo was in the forefront. He grabbed
Alex’s arm, pulled him away from a clucking, concerned woman, who kept
asking, “Are you okay? Are you okay?”

Alex’s lungs still burned, and he kept
coughing, but he also kept going, nodding and saying, “I’m all
right, all right.” He and JoJo were passing people heading toward the
smoke. Once they were around the corner, Alex began laughing. He felt
wonderful.

Back at JoJo’s, they locked
themselves in the bedroom and Alex pulled the money from his pocket and dropped
it on the bed. It was three hundred and ninety dollars, not a bad score for two
young boys.