‘I won’t,’ Pete said, and hurried out.
The last thing he wanted to discuss with Mr Ricker was the possibility that the thieves who had taken John Rothstein’s life had stolen a bunch of unpublished manuscripts as well as money, and maybe destroyed them after deciding they had no value. Once or twice Pete had played with the idea of turning the notebooks over to the police, even though that would almost surely mean his parents would find out where the mystery money had been coming from. The notebooks were, after all, evidence of a crime as well as a literary treasure. But it was an old crime, ancient history. Better to leave well enough alone.
Right?
The bus had already gone, of course, and that meant a two-mile walk home. Pete didn’t mind. He was still glowing from Mr Ricker’s praise, and he had a lot to think about. Rothstein’s unpublished works, mostly. The short stories were uneven, he thought, only a few of them really good, and the poems he’d tried to write were, in Pete’s humble opinion, pretty lame. But those last two Jimmy Gold novels were … well, gold. Judging by the evidence scattered through them, Pete guessed the last one, where Jimmy raises a burning flag at a Washington peace rally, had been finished around 1973, because Nixon was still president when the story ended. That Rothstein had never published the final Gold books (plus yet another novel, this one about the Civil War) blew Pete’s mind. They were so good!
Pete took only one Moleskine at a time down from the attic, reading them with his door closed and an ear cocked for unexpected company when there were other members of his family in the house. He always kept another book handy, and if he heard approaching footsteps, he would slide the notebook under his mattress and pick up the spare. The only time he’d been caught was by Tina, who had the unfortunate habit of walking around in her sock feet.
‘What’s that?’ she’d asked from the doorway.
‘None of your beeswax,’ he had replied, slipping the notebook under his pillow. ‘And if you say anything to Mom or Dad, you’re in trouble with me.’
‘Is it porno?’
‘No!’ Although Mr Rothstein could write some pretty racy scenes, especially for an old guy. For instance the one where Jimmy and these two hippie chicks—
‘Then why don’t you want me to see it?’
‘Because it’s private.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘Is it yours? Are you writing a book?’
‘Maybe. So what if I am?’
‘I think that’s cool! What’s it about?’
‘Bugs having sex on the moon.’
She giggled. ‘I thought you said it wasn’t porno. Can I read it when you’re done?’
‘We’ll see. Just keep your trap shut, okay?’
She had agreed, and one thing you could say for Teens, she rarely broke a promise. That had been two years ago, and Pete was sure she’d forgotten all about it.
Billy Webber came rolling up on a gleaming ten-speed. ‘Hey, Saubers!’ Like almost everyone else (Mr Ricker was an exception), Billy pronounced it Sobbers instead of SOW-bers, but what the hell. It was sort of a dipshit name however you said it. ‘What you doin this summer?’
‘Working at the Garner Street libe.’
‘Still?’
‘I talked em into twenty hours a week.’
‘Fuck, man, you’re too young to be a wage-slave!’
‘I don’t mind,’ Pete said, which was the truth. The libe meant free computer-time, among the other perks, with no one looking over your shoulder. ‘What about you?’
‘Goin to our summer place up in Maine. China Lake. Many cute girls in bikinis, man, and the ones from Massachusetts know what to do.’
Then maybe they can show you, Pete thought snidely, but when Billy held out his palm, Pete slapped him five and watched him go with mild envy. Ten-speed bike under his ass; expensive Nike kicks on his feet; summer place in Maine. It seemed that some people had already caught up from the bad time. Or maybe the bad time had missed them completely. Not so with the Saubers family. They were doing okay, but—
There must be more money, the house had whispered in the Lawrence story. There must be more money. And honey, that was resonance.