Chapter 12 life and death
I believe that there is a day in everyone's life that determines their destiny.That day may be chosen by the Fate sitting at the spinning wheel, murmuring and singing softly as she spins the thread of fate; or it may be decided by God's wheel of fortune, which turns slowly but is always turning.That day can be sunny or rainy, warm or cold, and it may have already arrived, but we don't know it, and we don't even know it until we look back later.
But anyway, we all have that day.And if the result is sad, it's better not to think about it.You will find that everything hurts, and it hurts needlessly, because by now, the dust has settled and nothing can be changed.
I found that there is a place where logical explanation cannot be explained here, and it is close to mysticism.Of course, this notion will be ridiculed by fashionable exorcists or half-baked crystal balls, and those psychologists, sociologists, and social workers will tell you in unique technical terms that they believe there are A way to control the forces behind the time, the place, the event - the day everyone must face.But they are all wrong.Like most of us, it was an afterthought.
In this case—“case” is the right word here—it was about the murder of a man I hadn’t seen for thirty-five years.The last time we saw each other was on a Brooklyn street one evening in the summer of 1932, to be exact.After that day we went our separate ways and never saw each other again.
We were both twelve years old at the time, and I remember that day so vividly because our family moved to Manhattan the next day.That was an earth-shattering event.The terrible thing is that I still remember the parting scene clearly in the future, and the last words said.Now I understand that that day was the boy's "day of destiny".A moment of life and death, as it is often said—even though it took thirty-five years for the fatal bullet to go off.
I learned about the murder from the headlines on the front page of the newspaper that my wife was reading while eating breakfast.She held up the newspaper, although it was partially folded, but it did not cover the disgusting photos on the front page. I saw a man lying on the driver's seat in the car, his face was covered with blood, his eyes were wide open, his mouth was slightly open, and he kept The way it looks when you're battling a horrible and brutal death.
The photo doesn't mean anything to me, and neither does the lurid headline - Racquet shop owner shot dead.In fact, all I can think about is whether there's something more enjoyable to watch while I'm eating toast and drinking coffee.
Then, my eyes were attracted by the explanatory text below the picture, and I was so surprised that I almost threw the coffee cup away.According to reports, the deceased was named Ignace Kovacs, the owner of a racket shop in Brooklyn, and last night...
I snatched the newspaper from my wife and studied the photo closely, and she looked at me in horror.Can't go wrong.Even though the last time I saw Ignace Kovacs was as a child, and even though he was a mangled mass of death in pictures, there was no doubt that it was him.And the scariest part was that it looked like there was a bag of golf clubs on the seat next to him that brought back my memories.
My wife's voice brought me back to reality. "Oh," she protested softly, "I'm halfway through a story about Walter Winchell . . . "
I returned the newspaper to her. "I'm sorry, but seeing this picture hit me hard. I know him."
Her eyes lit up with interest, and she found herself at the center, if only indirectly, of a scandal. "Really? When did it happen?"
"Oh, back when we were living in Brooklyn. We were kids growing up. He was my best friend."
The wife habitually sarcastically said: "It's incredible, I didn't know you were still hanging out with problem children when you were young."
"He's not a problem child. In fact—"
"Don't be so serious." She gave me a gentle smile and returned to the report on Walter Winchell, which was obviously more fresh and exciting than what I had said. "Anyway," she said, "I don't think much of that, my dear, it's been years after all."
It has been many years indeed.Those were the days when football could be played on the main road; in 1932, cars were rarely seen in the suburbs of Brooklyn.And Bays Beach, where we live, is a suburb within a suburb.Opposite is Gravesend Bay, Coney Island is just a few minutes east by tram, and it only takes a few minutes walk west to Dyke Heights and its golf course. A barren meadow discovered by real estate developers.
So, as I said, you can play football on the street without fear of cars.When dusk falls, you can watch the kerosene lamps on both sides of the street light up one by one, or hide behind the fire station on Eighth Avenue. If you are lucky, you can see the fire trucks blowing their sirens and shuttling down the street. The water pipe was quickly aimed at the fire point, and water jets were sprayed from the roller nozzles.Or, with a little luck, you can jump high and run after the biplane that proudly streaks across the sky.
These are my summer activities, with Ignace Kovacs, my best friend and my neighbor.His house is a two-story wooden house with plain paint on the exterior, similar to my house.Most of the houses in Bays Beach are like this, with a small garden in front of the house and a small yard behind the house.The only exception in our block was a ostentatious corner building that belonged to the newcomer, Mr. Ross.The house was large and whitewashed, almost a building, with a wide lawn and a whitewashed two-car garage at the end of the driveway.
That driveway sparked endless reveries for Iger and I.From time to time, Mr. Ross's car, a gray Parker, was parked on it, attracting us like a magnet.That car is not only very beautiful from a distance, but also as spectacular as a locomotive when it is approached. Even if it just stops there quietly, it can make us feel a thunderous shock.There are two pedals outside the rear seat, one up and one down, which is convenient for getting on the car.Truth be told, as far as we know, there isn't a car like the Parker around here.
So as soon as we spotted it parked in the driveway, we sidled up and climbed up the running boards in a delusional attempt.But we never got there.There was always someone watching, either Mr. Ross himself or the occupant on the other side of the garage.Every time, within a few yards of the driveway, someone in the house or garage would throw open a window, followed by screaming threats.Scared us into turning around and running, scrambling out of the driveway to escape their sight.
We don't do that often.We were walking when we first saw this car and found it purely by accident.In addition, I instinctively thought that the neighbors were good people, so I couldn't understand those threatening words at first.We just stood there, watching Mr. Ross in horror, until he suddenly disappeared from the window and reappeared before us, grabbing Igg by the arm.
Ig tried to break free but to no avail. "Let me go!" he screamed in terror. "We didn't do anything! Let me go or I'll tell my dad and you'll be in trouble!"
Mr Ross seemed unimpressed.He kept shaking Ig—it wasn't hard to do, Ig was thin and small for his age—and I stood where I was, as if my feet had taken root and I couldn't move.
We do have a few grumpy neighbors nearby who would chase us away if we made any noise in front of their house, but no one ever treated us like Mr Ross.When the incident happened, I guessed that it was probably because he just came here and he didn't know the behavior habits of the people here.Looking back now, I think the facts are probably like this.But whatever the specific reason, the incident was enough to make Igg cry and scream, and remind us to be careful when approaching Pike in the future.But the attraction of the car was too great. Frightened by Mr. Rose's terrifying threat, we were like two rabbits, rampaging during the hunting season.Luckily, lady luck is on our side most of the time.
I don't want these past events to give the impression that we were bad boys.For me, the legal terms are very important, and I learned at a very young age that the best thing is for a kind, peaceful, and weak-legged person—all three of which are exaggerated in me. The rule of survival is not to cross the threshold half a step.Iger's disadvantage is that he is impulsive and reckless.He's as unstable, restless, and mischievous as Quicksilver.
It was fashionable then for teachers to evaluate each student's performance on the last day of the week and reassign seats based on the scores—the top performer in the first row, the second best in the second row, and so on.I think that best describes Iger, who was either in the first row or the sixth row.Most students move no more than one row; Iger either rushes to the first row, or sinks to the ignominious sixth row, then suddenly climbs to the top and returns to the first row on Friday the following week.It is clear that Mr Kovacs took some steps when he learned of his son's dire situation.
But not physical punishment.I asked Igg once, and he said, "No, he didn't hit me, he just told me things like don't be stupid, and, uh—you know—"
I do know, because I guess Iger's attitude toward his father, Mr. Kovacs, is about the same as mine, bordering on fanatical hero worship.One reason is that most of my friends' fathers "work in the city"—a characteristic expression for Bays Beach residents, which means that they go to the Eighth Avenue station every morning, six days a week, to catch the Brooklyn-Manhattan train Go to our office in Manhattan.The exception was Mr. Kovacs, a conductor on the Bass Street tram, a heavy build with a powerful frame under a blue uniform with brass buttons and a hat.The cars on the Beth Street Line have no side walls, and the seats are so close together that conductors have to shuttle on narrow platforms outside the cars to collect fares.In our opinion, Mr. Kovacs has an interesting job, comparable only to the guy who used to sell tickets around the Coney Island carousel.
Another reason is that most fathers—at least at my age—don't play much sports anymore, while Mr. Kovacs is a very good baseball player.Every Sunday afternoon, young people living nearby gather in the small park by the beach for a free-play baseball game, playing nine innings in the circled diamond-shaped field, and Mr. Kovacs is always the center of attention .It seems to me and Iger that Mr. Kovac can catch like Vance and hit like Zach Waite, and that's enough.When it was his father's turn to strike, Iger's performance was worth pondering.He gnawed his nails when pitchers pitched, and if Mr. Kovacs made a hit, Iger would jump up screaming so loud it could kill you.
After the game we would squeeze into the line with a box of popcorn, and we would sit around on a park bench and talk.Iggy was like his father's shadow; he followed every step of the way, completely absorbed in it, eating and drinking with everyone.And I was alone at a distance, and because I couldn't find my place like Iggy did, I decided to keep a distance from them.Every afternoon like this when I came home, I felt more and more that my father was so ordinary and bloated, he always sat on the porch habitually, with the Sunday newspapers piled beside him.
When I first learned that our family was leaving this place and moving to Manhattan, I was completely dumbfounded.Manhattan is an occasional place to go on a Saturday afternoon, dress up, accompany my mother to Wanamaker's department store or Macy's department store, and when I am lucky, I can go to the racetrack with my father's lead, or visit the Natural History Museum.I never thought that people could live and live there.
But as the days passed, my thoughts slowly changed, becoming a little worried and a little excited.It was a pretty heroic thing to do after all—going into the unknown—and I was even more elated when the kids in the neighborhood came to ask about it.
However, it wasn't until the day I moved that I realized that everything before it was meaningless.My home has changed, it's weird, and it's full of bags; my parents are fretting; and I'm terrified at the realization that change is imminent—this is the first time I've experienced moving as a child. .
After dinner early, I walked across the hedge between my house and the Kovacs' with this feeling, and sat on their kitchen steps.Iggy came out and sat next to me, he could feel my mood, and it didn't make me feel good.
"Hey, don't be a kid," he said, "It's great, live in the city, think about what you're about to see."
I told him I didn't want to see anything.
"Well, don't read anything then," he said. "Want to read something? I have a new copy of Tarzan and League of Boys in Jutland. You choose first and the rest will be given to you." I."
It was a very generous offer, but I said I didn't want to read anything.
"Okay, but we can't just sit around like this," Ig said reasonably. "Do something, what do you want?"
The question represented a chain of impossibilities, a ritual of negation—too late to swim, too hot to play, too early to go to the room—and we had to come up with an idea.Step by step we ruled out possibilities, and as usual, it was Iger who came up with the idea.
"I see," he said. "Let's go play golf at Dyker Heights. It's a good time to go."
He was right. The best time to touch golf balls is when the sun goes down. The ball is hit into the water hazard of the course and has not been discovered by the owner. At this time, the course is very desolate, but it is light enough.The usual steps to touch the ball are to take off the sneakers and socks, roll up the bloomers above the knees, and then slowly and carefully walk through the soft mud beside the pool, and use your feet to feel for the ball that has sunk into the water.It was fun and profitable, because the next day you could sell the balls you picked up to whoever was going to play golf for a nickel.I don't remember how the five-cent deal was arrived at, but it was a fair price.Golfers look content, and so do we.
I can't believe we got half a dozen golf balls that summer for thirty cents each, which was a lot of money in those days.Unlike my extravagant share of money, which was quickly spent, Iger had a big plan.He wanted a pair of golf clubs so badly that every penny he saved he put into a tin can with a hole in the top and a bicycle chain attached to the edge.
He never opened the jar, but shook it from time to time to estimate how much he had saved.He figured that when the can was full it would be just enough to buy the putter he wanted in the window of Leo's sporting goods store on Eighty-sixth Street.Three or four times a week, he would ask me to go for a walk to Leo to see the putter, and on the way we'd talk about its length, show how to grip the club, and then we'd putt a lot on the street.Ignace Kovacs was the first crazy golfer I ever met -- and I've met many more since.But I think he's the most unique one because he never even touched a club as a kid.
So that evening, considering his mood, I agreed straight away. Since he wanted to touch the ball, I would accompany him.It didn't take long to walk to Bass Street; the hard part was getting into the pitch, where we had to climb several mountains of rubbish - "dirt slopes" as they were friendly called it - to cross the border and into the pitch.It was hot, and we were panting from climbing, first a swamp, then a court and water hazards.
I haven't been to that course since that day, but I happened to read an article about the Dyker Heights golf course in a magazine not too long ago.According to that article, it is now the busiest public golf course in the world.From dawn to dusk, the 18 well-manicured grass fields are always crowded with players. If you want to play a game on weekends, you have to go to the club at three or four in the morning to queue up.
Everyone loves it, but it wasn't as busy as it was when Iger and I went to touch the ball.One of the reasons is that there were no eighteen holes at that time, and I remember only playing nine holes.Another reason was that it was always pretty deserted, whether it was because not many people in Brooklyn played golf at the time, or just because the place wasn't attractive.
The real reason is the smell.The developer wanted to expand the stadium, so he filled the swamp with garbage, and the lingering fire in the garbage made the whole place shrouded in a layer of black mist.No matter when you go, you will be surrounded by dirty air, and within a few minutes, you will find that your eyes are tingling and your nasal cavity is filled with acrid smell.
But Iggy and I don't mind.We see it as part of the surrounding landscape, like the occasional passing Mack truck, loaded with garbage, rumbling down the dirt road to the edge of the swamp, run over by the chain-wrapped tires, muffled sound.The only thing that bothered us was that the garbage was hot underfoot when crawling through the swamp.We never dared to go into the pitch from the club side, we were caught by the waiter there at the pool once, and he must have remembered us for stealing his booty.Getting in from the rear was a bit hotter, but more doable.
When we came to the pond, there was no one around.It was a hot evening, and with the fiery red sun slowly sinking below the horizon, we immediately took off our sneakers and socks - black cotton stockings - and got into the water without wasting a second.It feels so good, when I step on it, the smooth and soft river mud squeezes out from between the toes.I fantasize about the soul of a fisherman living in my body. What is really interesting is not the moment when I pick up the ball, but the process of touching the ball.
Of course, picking up the ball is the goal.The method is to move forward slowly and gropingly, and stop as soon as you step on something small and hard.I didn't take a few steps until I was excited to find that I had just stepped on a golf ball stuck in the mud. At this moment, the sound of a car's motor came from the dirty path next to it.My first reaction was that it was another garbage truck with a load of garbage ready to pile up on the "dirt slope", but I soon realized that it didn't sound like a Mack truck.
I looked around to see what the hell it was, my foot still on the booty.However, dunes and paths in the pond block the view.Then the sound of the motor suddenly stopped, and I jumped out of the pond in a hurry when I noticed this signal, and Ig reacted in the same way.We grabbed our shoes and socks and walked straight around to hide behind the nearest mound.Then, ignoring his wet legs, he put on his shoes and socks in just five seconds, ready to run if anyone approached.
The reason we got away so fast was because we weren't sure if our touch was legal.Iger and I have discussed the matter countless times, and each time he has vehemently insisted that it is perfectly legal for us to do this—on the grounds that the ball is there, out of reach for dull keeper—but he also favors not trying to defy the law, and It is to complete the transaction in private and avoid people's eyes and ears.I'm sure he was thinking the same thing as I was thinking the moment the car stopped, that we had been found, that the hand of judgment was finally on us.
So we decided to wait, huddled breathlessly behind the weedy mound, until Ig couldn't wait any longer.He crawled to the edge of the mound on his knees and hands, peering across the path. "My God, look over there!" he whispered, awe in his voice, and waved me over as he spoke.
I looked over his shoulder and was surprised to see a gray Parker, the one with two running boards, one up and one down, like the only one I've ever seen in my life.It was unmistakable that standing by the side of the car was Mr. Ross, and beside him were two men, and Mr. Ross was talking to the thinner one, gesturing angrily as he spoke.
Looking back now, I think the reason that scene looked so eerie was the background.We are on an empty golf course, everything is so pristine, without a trace of urban atmosphere, all dyed crimson by the setting sun; A man in a straw hat, jacket, and tie looked so out of place.
Even more attractive is the dangerous smell they exude.Although I couldn't hear what they were saying, I could see Mr. Ross's expression the same way he had caught Ig and I in his driveway.The big man next to him barely said a word, but the smaller man who was talking to Mr. Ross shook his head, ready to respond, but suddenly backed away slowly, and Mr. Ross had to follow him.Then suddenly the little guy turned in a circle and ran straight towards the mound where Ig and I were hiding.We both drew back quickly, but he was running very close, and just as he was about to cross the pond the big man caught up and grabbed him, and Mr. Ross followed with his hat.We could have escaped unnoticed from this moment, but we didn't.As if under a spell, we stayed in place, watching a scene we never expected-a few adults were performing a scene that could only be seen in movies in front of us.
As I said, I was only twelve years old that summer.Arguably, it was that moment that made me understand the difference between film and reality, because the intense action in the film would never have happened in real life, without Tom Mix, Hoot Gibson or any of my favorite heroes, this That's what I thought as I watched what happened to the little man.I think Yigger felt it more strongly because he was so small, and whenever he tried to confront someone hard, he would lose due to lack of strength or weight.Iger's heart must have flown there, seeing the little man being grabbed by the big man, twisting his hands roughly and pressing them firmly behind his back, and then Mr. Ross kept slapping him in the face while yelling at him. Now, Iger must have felt the same way.
"You scumbag," growled Mr. Ross, "who do you think I am? Do you think I'm one of those vulgar, stupid, third-rate smugglers who take pleasure in betraying me? I'll show you Look who I am!" The little man began to scream, kicking and bumping wildly. Seeing this, Mr. Ross waved his fist and hit the man's abdomen and face heavily until the screaming and struggling stopped suddenly.Then Mr. Ross nodded toward the pond, and his men picked up the little man and threw him, and the little man fell headlong into the pond, the straw hat flying a few feet, bobbing up and down with the rising and falling water.
They stood in place staring at the water until they saw the little man throwing up his arms and legs in the water, spitting out dirty pool water and shaking his head in a daze, then they walked towards the car without saying a word go.I heard the slamming of the car door, followed by the rumbling of the motor, and gradually the sound died away.
At that moment, I just wanted to get out of here quickly.What I had just witnessed was beyond my comprehension, and it didn't even seem real; it felt like waking up from a nightmare only to realize it wasn't a dream, it was real.I just want to go home.
I stood up cautiously, but before I could run screaming to the safety of my home, Ig grabbed my shirt from behind with such force that he almost pulled me over on top of him.
"Where are you going?" he asked excitedly in a low voice, "Where are you going?"
I broke free from his hand and responded in a low voice: "Are you crazy? Are you going to stay here all night? Tell you where I'm going, I'm going home."
Yige's face was ashen, and his nose was slightly open. "But the man was hurt. Are you going to let it go?"
"Yes, I'm going to let it go. What does it matter to me?"
"You've seen it all. You think it's right to beat a guy up like that?"
The way he spoke then, the nervous tone, and the way he was out of breath made me wonder if he was crazy.I said weakly, "Anyway, that's none of my business. Anyway, I have to go home. If I don't come home on time, my family will be angry."
Iggy pointed a finger at me and scolded, "Well, if you think so!" Before I could stop him, he turned and ran out of the mound where we were hiding, towards the pond.I don't know if it was because I realized that I was going to be left alone, or because of some crazy loyalty. I don't know the reason, but after hesitating for a moment, I followed him.
He stood by the pond and looked at the man in the pond—the man was still thrashing about, looking around in bewilderment. "Hi, sir," Iggy called, his voice hesitating as never before. "Are you hurt?"
The man looked at us slowly, his face was terrible, bruised and purple, swollen in several places, and his eyes were dull.The wet hair was stuck to the forehead, dripping with water.Just the look of him was enough to make Igg and I take a step back.
It took him a lot of effort to barely stagger to his feet.Then he leaned forward, stared at us blankly, and took a few steps back hastily.Suddenly, he stopped and squatted down, grabbing a handful of slime from the water.
"Get out!" he screamed in a womanly voice, "Get out of here, you little traitors!" And without warning, he threw the slime at us.
It didn't hit me, and it was impossible to hit me.After I exclaimed, I ran away, and with my beating heart, my legs flew at full speed.Ig was almost up to my shoulders at the time, so I could hear his rapid breathing as we climbed over the mountain of garbage that lay in front of the street, and when we finally got to the top, we slid straight out onto the street without looking back, raising a A cloud of dirty dust.We didn't stop until the first traffic light, our legs were shaking, our mouths were wide open, and we were all filthy.
But the shock was not the strongest then when Iggy finally got his breath and was able to speak.
"Did you see that guy just now?" He was still out of breath, "Did you see what they did to him? Go, I'm going to call the police."
I couldn't believe my ears. "Call the police? Why are you calling the police? My God, why do you care so much about what they did to him?"
"Because they beat him up, didn't they? If the police knew, they'd catch them and send them to prison for fifty years. And I was a witness, and you saw it, so you are a witness. "
I don't like the idea.Frankly, I have no sympathy for the menacing, ghostly man we've just escaped from, and, more importantly, I'm against any idea of anything to do with the police.It's true, like most kids I know, I get nervous at the sight of a police officer in uniform.At this time, the puzzle Ige brought to me was unprecedented. It was unbelievable that a child would volunteer to go to the police station to call the police.
I said meanly: "Yes, I am a witness. But the man who was beaten could have gone to the police by himself. Why should we go?"
"Because he won't tell anyone. Don't you see how afraid he is of Mr. Ross? Can you tolerate Mr. Ross's audacity to beat whoever he wants without being stopped?"
Then I understood.Behind this nonsensical dialogue, there is a rationale to the core of this sudden flash of good manners, and I seem to get it.Yige didn't care about the man in the pool, he cared about himself.Mr. Ross treated him roughly and now is the time to get justice.
Still, I don't want to expose Iger's petty thinking, because when you've watched your best friend get pushed and insulted, you don't want to bring it up again.But at least it made me sort out the relationship and everything can be explained.Someone hurts you, and you fight back, that's all.
Understanding the cause and effect also prompted me to accept Yige's plan calmly.Not to help the stupid adults who got in trouble for offending Mr. Ross, I'm just a good friend of Igg's.
Suddenly, the offer to go to the police station and talk about what we just saw sounds very appealing.At the same time, the thought of thinking twice was thrown out of my mind, and it wouldn't get me into any trouble because I'm moving to Manhattan tomorrow, isn't it?
So I took a step and followed Ig around two flower beds, still dazed, not knowing what I was doing.When you walk into the gate of the police station, you will see a high table that looks like a judge's seat. A gray-haired man is sitting on the table and writing something. There is a low table next to him, and a big fat man in uniform is sitting. Read a magazine.When he saw us walk in he put down the magazine, raised his eyebrows, and looked at us.
"What's the matter?" he said. "What happened?"
I had mentally rehearsed how to describe what I saw on the golf course, but never got a chance to speak.Iggy was talking so excitedly that I couldn't get a word in.The fat police officer listened with a puzzled expression, pinching his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger from time to time.Then he looked at the man behind the high desk and said, "Hey, Sheriff, these two kids said they witnessed an assault in Dyker Heights. Wanna hear it?"
The sheriff didn't even look up, and continued writing. "What?" he said. "Is there something wrong with your ears?"
The fat officer leaned back in his chair, smiled and said, "I don't know what's wrong, but I heard a guy named Ross was involved in this."
The sheriff nodded and motioned the two of us to the raised platform where he was. "Well, boy," he said to Ig, "what's the trouble?"
So Iger said it again, and after he finished speaking, the sheriff still stared at him, tapping the pen on the table in his hand.Then he shook his head at Ig and said, "I'm just here to say, boy, it's not good to have a big mouth at your age, and there's nothing for you to do but make trouble for others everywhere?"
I think that's the end of the matter, and it's best to get out of here at once.Because in any case, it is best not to get involved in the affairs of adults, such as now.But Iger didn't flinch. He was always good at arguing, even when he was wrong;
"Don't you believe me?" he demanded. "My God, I'm right there! So close!"
The sheriff is like a thundercloud about to explode. "Okay, you're that close," he said, "that's enough, kid, shut that big mouth of yours. I don't have time to mess with you here. Now, get the hell out of here!"
Yige was furious. At this moment, he was not even afraid of the golden police badge a few inches in front of his eyes. "I don't care if you believe it or not. Wait until I tell my dad!"
I can hear my own tinnitus.The sheriff still sat there staring at Ig, and then at Ig, staring back even though he was a little startled by his sudden outburst.He must have been thinking the same thing as I was thinking right now, yelling at the police will end almost as badly as beating someone up, and we'll probably end up in jail for the rest of our lives.Only then did I realize that Ig had been murdered, and I was very angry with him.At that time, all I could think about was blaming him for putting me in the same situation, and to take the blame for his insanity.I guess I hated him more then than the sheriff.
Finally the sheriff turned to the fat officer, looking determined.
"Drive to Rose's house," he said, "tell him the whole story, and ask him to come with you. Oh yes, ask the boy's name and address, and take his father with him. Come. Let's see."
So, for the first time in my life, I sat on the bench in the police station, watched the pendulum of the big clock on the wall swing back and forth, and recalled the crimes I had committed in this life.After waiting for half an hour at most, the fat police officer showed up with Mr. Ross and Iggy's father, but to me, it seemed like a year.Still an incredibly long year.
What surprised me was what Mr. Ross looked like.I expected him to fight and fight his way in, because while the sheriff didn't believe Yigger's story, Mr. Ross knew it himself.
But instead of a fight, Mr Ross looked like he was visiting an old friend, in a good light suit, black and white sneakers, and smoking a cigar.He is extremely calm and at ease, even, I have a strange feeling, he looks like he has the final say here.
Looking at Yige's father, there are two extremes.科瓦奇先生刚才肯定正穿着汗衫、坐在门廊前读报纸，因为他身上的衬衫一半小心地掖在裤子里，另一半露在外面。单看科瓦奇先生的举动，你会错以为他才是做错事的人。他不停地吞咽着口水，脖子缩在衣领里，时不时紧张地瞥一眼罗斯先生。总之，他看起来和平时的样子判若两人。
警长指着伊格，说：“好啦，小鬼，现在告诉大家你刚才都跟我说了些什么。站起来，让我们都能看到你。”
那故事伊格已经说过两次了，因此这次他驾轻就熟，从头到尾连口气都没喘，也没人打断他。罗斯先生一直站在原地礼貌地倾听，科瓦奇先生则不时转动缩在领子里的脖子。
伊格说完，警长问道，“罗斯先生，恕我直言，今天您去过那个高尔夫球场吗？”
“当然。”警长说，“但你看，我们现在有点儿麻烦。”
“我理解。”罗斯先生说着，走到伊格身边，一只手搭在他的肩上，说道：“不过你知道吗？我也不怪这个搞恶作剧的孩子，前几天我们之间发生了些小麻烦，他总想爬上我的车，我猜他这么做是想和我扯平。我不得不说这孩子真有志气，是不是，孩子？”他边说边友好地捏了捏伊格的肩膀。
我被罗斯先生恰到好处的反击吓傻了，伊格却像串被点燃的鞭炮，炸开了。他挥开罗斯先生的手，径直冲向他的父亲。“我没撒谎！”他拉扯着科瓦奇先生的衬衫，声嘶力竭地说，“我对上帝发誓，警官，我们俩都看到了。我没撒谎，警官！”
科瓦奇先生低头看了看儿子，接着环视众人。他的眼神触到罗斯先生的那一刻，仿佛衣领又缩紧了一英寸。与此同时，伊格还在拉扯他的衬衫，叫唤着我们看到了，我们看到了，他没有撒谎，直到科瓦奇先生第一次晃了晃他，下手很重，他才终于闭上了嘴。
“伊格，”科瓦奇开口道，“我不希望你到处去传播是非，听到我说的了吗？”
伊格当然听到了，他后退一步，就像脸上挨了一拳，然后站在原地，一脸滑稽地看着科瓦奇先生。他不发一言，且一动不动，直到罗斯先生再次走到他身边，将一只手放到他的肩上。
“听到爸爸说什么了吗，孩子？”罗斯先生说。伊格还是不发一言。
“你肯定听到了，”罗斯先生说，“现在咱们俩更熟了，小鬼，所以也别闹别扭了。事实上，什么时候想来我家尽管来，我保证有好多奇怪的事情你能做。而且我给的报酬丰厚，这点你不用担心。”他把手伸进衣兜，掏出一张钞票，“拿着。”他说，把钞票塞到伊格手里，“或许这个能帮你想通。现在，出去尽情地玩吧。”
伊格迷茫地盯着钞票，就像个梦游的人。我没搞清状况，在我看来这意味着我们赢了，可伊格非但没有欢呼，反而迷迷糊糊的。直到警长开口，才将他唤醒。
“好了，孩子们，”警长说，“赶紧回家去，大人们还有些事要谈。”
无须再多说什么，听到这话我便冲出门，快步走到大街上，伊格跟在我身后，拖拖拉拉的，沉默不语。我们走了三个街区，转弯又走了一个街区，终于回到家门口了。在那之前，我从未如此喜爱熟悉的房屋线条，以及从窗户里透出的灯光。但我并没有马上进门，我突然想起这是最后一次和伊格见面了，于是尴尬地站在门口，等待着。我向来不擅长道别。
“这下好了，”终于我开了口，“我的意思是，罗斯先生给你的钱，至少值二十个高尔夫球。”
“是吗？”伊格说道，他看我的样子和刚才看他老爸时一样滑稽，“我敢打赌它够买一副新球杆了。跟我一起去里奥的店，我证明给你看。”
我很想去，但此时更想进屋回家。“哦，要是我今晚在外面玩得太晚，我家里的人会生气的，”我说，“而且，无论如何，一美元绝对不够买一副球杆，你还需要更多钱。”
“你这么觉得吗？”伊格说完伸出一只手，慢慢地张开，这下我能看清里面的东西了，那不是一美元，而是—一我真的吓了一跳——五美元。正如我妻子所说，这一切都是很久远的事了。据眼前这张伊格内斯·科瓦奇——球拍界精英，此时死在自己的豪华车的驾驶席上，额头被子弹开了个洞，旁边座位上放着一袋高尔夫球杆——的照片只有三十五年。直到此时我才明白在布鲁克利的最后一天，他说的话、做的事的内在含义，然后我们便各奔东西，各走各的路。
我瞪着伊格手里的钱，这一大笔钱为我敲响了警钟。
“嘿！”我说，“五美元，这可是一大笔钱！你最好给你老爸，不然他肯定饶不了你。”
令我惊讶的是，伊格握着钱的手竟在颤抖，接着他突然全身发抖，就像突然跳进了冰冷的水里。
“我老爸？”他冲我大声喊道，然后抿着嘴，紧咬牙关，好像这样能抑制颤抖似的，“要是我老爸敢对我做什么事，你知道我会怎么做吗？我会去告诉罗斯先生！然后走着瞧！”
说完他便像风一般地跑了，瞬间从我的视野里消失，跑向他命运的终点。
Notes:
Notes: