The Night of the Moonbow (12 page)

Tiger darted Leo a look that said he agreed with the Bomber. It wouldn’t do to rile Coach, who was already down on Leo because of his chicken-wing.

“That’s okay,” Leo said, more unwilling than ever to tear himself away from the meadow now that his friends had come. “I’d rather stay here. Besides, there’s time. I can practice with Coach during swim.”

Tiger still looked doubtful - Coach didn’t like changes in his plans, and Leo needed swim practice, too - but the Bomber, having consumed the remains of his candy bar at a bite and licked his sticky fingers, chose that moment to insert them into Harpo’s mouth to finish the job.

“Come on,” said Tiger, disgusted. “He’s not a napkin, you know, he’s a dog.”

The Bomber looked properly chagrined, while the dog went on licking his chops. For a moment they were quiet. The stream bubbled over the weir, the birds sang in the trees, the scene was properly bucolic. In the distance they could hear the sound of the Moonbow Maid, Doc Oliphant’s new Chris-Craft.

“I bet that’s Heartless and Honey,” Eddie said, and they all jumped up for a better look. Out on the water they saw the bright flash of chrome, and the glossy red mahogany hull of the gorgeous speedboat creating a feathery wake as it spanked across the water. And even at a distance they could make out the bare-chested figure of their counselor, a jaunty white yachting cap on his head and his pipe clenched in his mouth. He was lounging on the back of the seat, piloting the boat with his bare toes, and, beside him, her golden hair flying, looking curvy and kissy in a yellow bathing suit, was Honey Oliphant.

For a while it looked as if the boat might be headed for the China Garden - the icehouse was reputed to be a Heartless rendezvous - and the boys prepared to make themselves scarce. But Reece evidently had other things in mind: the boat went speeding off toward the opposite shore.

As the sound of the motor faded, Eddie ventured a question. “Do you think he and Honey - I mean - you know what the guys are saying - about going all the way?” he asked, his eyes rounding with the possibilities. The Bomber also probed them. Honey Oliphant was a walking, breathing, ugly-duckling story. For years here was this scrawny kid, flat as a bed slat, with her chopped-off hair sticking out all over her head, and wowie! This summer the whole camp had been astonished by the incredible transformation, duckling into swan.

“She’s sure got a build on her,” the Bomber said fondly. Leo agreed. In his brief stay at camp he had already suffered through several manifestations of that ineffable vision, whose name, it seemed, was upon the lips and in the heart of every camper over the age of six. Honey, to use Reece’s phrase, was a four-point-oh girl.

Despite his occasional proximity to the luscious creature, however, Honey remained a mystery to Leo (he had yet to address a syllable to her, or she to him). Still, as he imagined the scent of the traces of perfume that she must surely leave trailing behind her, he also imagined what it would be like to hold her in his arms and kiss her and hear her say, “I love you, Leo Joaquim.” But who was he kidding? And at this point his feelings about Reece became more complicated - for, along with the classy Nancy Rider, whose snapshot graced Reece’s mirror, Honey Oliphant was the sole and exclusive property of the counselor of Cabin 7.

Now the others began kidding about Reece, about how he was a real Don Juan, a sailor with a girl in every port, who always kept a couple of prophylactics (he favored Trojans, the red-and-black pack) in the glove compartment of the Green Hornet “just in case.” Leo enjoyed the notion of his counselor being a wolf - certain romantic exploits just made a man that much more to be admired and envied - but when it came to Honey Oliphant, he wasn’t so sure.

The talk dwindled away and for a few minutes the four boys again fell silent. Then, “You all set for the big hunt, Leo?” Eddie asked, referring to the annual Snipe Hunt, which was to take place that evening.

“I still don’t get what it’s all about,” Leo said. “I mean, what exactly do we do?”

“You’ll find out,” Eddie replied mysteriously.

Leo felt a creeping suspicion. “Just where do we hunt these famous snipe?” he asked.

“Over in Indian Woods,” said Tiger, sitting up.

“They build their nests there,” the Bomber added.

Leo looked from one to the other, assaying their expressions. “If you ask me, I think there’s something screwy about this whole deal,” he said. “These birds must be awfully stupid. Why don’t they just fly away?”

Tiger shook his head. “They can’t. They’re like penguins, their wings aren’t big enough.”

Leo was not impressed. “I still think there’s a catch to it,” he insisted.

“Sure there’s a catch,” the Bomber said. “A catch of snipe.” He rolled over and presented his amiable features to Leo. “Whyn’tcha play somethin’ for us?” he urged, changing the subject.

Obligingly, Leo again opened his case, and took out the violin.

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” the Bomber asked, looking into the open lid, which showed a label of frayed gold silk printed with the words “Heindorp Briider. Leipzig.” “That’s the name of the people who made the violin,” Leo replied, adding that the Heindorp brothers were famous in Leipzig.

“What about them initials?” The Bomber indicated the almost worn-off gilt letters stamped on the forward rim of the case.

“My mother’s,” Leo said. “This was her violin. What would you like to hear?”

Before the Bomber could respond, Tiger put in his request.

“How’s about ‘The Music Goes ’Round and Around’?” Fair enough. Taking up the violin, Leo began fiddling up the corny melody in a mock heroic style with lots of exaggerated swoops and arpeggios, making the ditty sound comical, yet performing in the most straight-faced manner possible, with no trace of humor or mischief in his face. As he sawed off the “Whoa-ho-ho-ho” part his listeners laughed, then joined in on the bridge.

I push the middle valve down.

The music goes down around below, below,

Dee-dle-dee ho-ho-ho,

Listen to the ja-azz come out

Then, without finishing the piece, Leo segued into the Mendelssohn “Spring Song,” for a fillip adding a clever bird-whistle. The boys were impressed; this was what music-making was all about. But it was getting on toward Morning Swim - time to head back to camp - and at the conclusion of the piece Leo laid his violin again in its case, shut the lid, and snapped the catches. When he looked up, he saw the Bomber trotting off, not in the direction of the road, but heading for the Haunted House, Harpo sniffing in his footsteps.

“Here, boy,” Tiger called, but the dog paid no attention as he tracked the Bomber’s spoor. When Tiger started off toward the Old Lake Road, Leo got up, tapped the spider from its web into the codfish box, slid the panel shut, then gathered up the remainder of his gear.

“Hey, you guys, you cornin’?” the Bomber called impatiently as he made his way around a clump of pricker bushes and marched across a patch of weeds to the line of trees separating the house from the meadow.

Leo shot a querying glance at Tiger, who shook his head. The fact of Leo’s failure to attend baseball practice ought not to be compounded by any illegal activity, and the Steelyard house and property were strictly off limits. “Skip it,” Tiger said, “let’s hop it,” and went on toward the road, while an irresolute Leo lagged behind with Eddie, both of them darting looks to where the Bomber was just disappearing among the trees.

Eddie winked at Leo. “Want to . . . ?”

Leo was staring at the house now, at the window in the tower. “It’s against the rules ...” he said halfheartedly; part of him would go, part stay.

“Oh, sure, but that doesn’t stop anybody,” Eddie replied blithely. “Come on, one look won’t hurt. You’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I better get going.” Leo was feeling guilty: Tiger had reached the road and Leo should be with him.

“There’s time,” Eddie coaxed as he started away. For another moment Leo stood undecided; then, knowing he should go back to camp, he left his knapsack and violin in a hollow at the foot of the sycamore tree and followed Eddie toward the house.

As they threaded their way through the screen of trees to the backyard, Leo’s eye fell on the sealed-up well.

“Did somebody really put a dead body down there?” he asked.

“That’s the story,” Eddie replied.

“What’s the rest of it?”

“You’re gonna have to wait and hear it from Hank Ives on ghost-story night. It’s a wowzer. Come on,” he added, leading the way past the well to the front of the house. The Bomber was on the porch, peeking through a window.

“Hey, you guys — get a load of this—” he called over his shoulder.

“Whatcha got?” asked Eddie.

“Wait’ll you see,” said the Bomber, his tone inviting their participation.

Leo hung back, his heart suddenly pounding, but Eddie sprang nimbly onto the porch. “Screw off, Jerome, I bet it isn’t anything.”

“That’s what you think. Have a look.” He pointed to the window. “There’s a dead body in there.”

“Aw, come on, Fat Stuff. Can it, willya?”

“If you don’t believe me, see for yourself. There’s a stiff in that room: it’s lyin’ right there on the floor, a real live dead body. If you don’t see no corpse in that room I’ll let you have my desserts for a whole week.”

Eddie, whose great weakness was desserts, was snared. He crossed the porch, leaned on the windowsill, and looked inside. What he saw provoked a scornful exclamation, and as he yanked his head back he banged his crown against the sash.

“So, wasn’t I right?” the Bomber crowed. “Didn’t you see a dead body?”

“It’s only a bird,” Eddie said.

The Bomber gloated. “So what? Dead’s dead, ain’t it? I win.”

“The heck you do,” Eddie declared. “That’s not a fair bet.”

Eddie’s indignation fell on deaf ears as the Bomber dropped to the ground and gave Leo an elbow and a wink, then made his way along the side of the house. Harpo, ever curious, went bounding after him. By the time Eddie and Leo came around the corner, the Bomber was waiting on the top step of the cellar hatchway. Were they actually going down there?

Eddie tossed Leo an encouraging nod and disappeared after the Bomber and Harpo, leaving Leo staring at the gaping hatch. Once again his heart was pounding. Over the low doorway was a crudely crayoned legend:

RINKYDINKS MEMBERS ONLY ALL OTHERS KEEP OUT AT PERIL OF LIFE!

and under this warning, a skull and crossbones. A moment more Leo stood at the top, trying but failing to hear the voice of conscience, knowing the others would think he was merely scared if he turned back now. Then he ducked his head and, imperiling the only life he’d ever get, entered the dim, musty room.

In the dim light, he could just make out the other two, busy doing something in a corner. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw that the Bomber was bending over a long bench, lighting a candle stub. Soon a wavering glow was making the shadows dance in the corners and along the ceiling.

“So what d’you think?” the Bomber asked as if he were welcoming a guest to his new house.

Leo shrugged; what could he say? The cellar was large and - well - spooky. It had a strange, earthy smell, but, then, what else could you expect from the cellar of a haunted house? Of ample proportions, it formed a spacious, below-ground room with stone walls, a hard-packed dirt floor, and a low-beamed ceiling supported by squared-off posts, into which a hinged trapdoor had been cut and from which a broken stair-ladder hung at an angle. There was an old furnace and an empty coal bin, and a cobweb-covered fuse box was attached to one wall. The mixture of odors - of dampness, soil, must, dust and rust, of stagnant rain pools in the corners - gave the place a special character that both attracted and repelled, a place for sinister doings.

“What does the sign mean?” Leo asked. “What are Rinky dinks?”

While Eddie described the illegal organization, the Bomber marched over to a wall and paced out a distance along the footing, then knelt and dislodged a stone, from behind which he extracted a coffee can. Bringing it back to the bench, he removed the lid and pulled out a half-empty pack of Old Gold cigarettes, along with a finger-soiled envelope.

“Smoke?” He fished a squashed cigarette from the crumpled pack and lit up.

“Sure, give us a drag,” Eddie said. The Bomber handed over his butt, then watched Eddie draw and choke, expelling the smoke in three gusts through both mouth and nostrils. The Bomber was contemptuous.

“Cripes, Ed, you know somethin’ - you smoke just like an old lady. Why don’tcha learn to inhale like I showed you?”

“It hurts my throat.”

“You got to get it way down into your lungs and then blow it out. See? Like this.” The Bomber offered an eloquent demonstration of this procedure, puffing voluminously, then proceeded to blow three uniform smoke rings that waffled gracefully through the air.

“You want a drag, Leo?” The Bomber held out the fuming butt. “These have ‘latakeeah’ in ’em,” he pointed out.

“Latakeeah’s only a kind of Turkish tobacco, that’s all,” Leo said knowledgeably. He took a drag, inhaled it, then coughed it out in a thick cloud.

“Must be the latakeeah,” the Bomber said with a smirk.

Leo took another puff; the pugeant tobacco was at once heady^ and dizzying. “ 'Kaf kaf,’ said Major Hoople,” he said; Eddie and the Bomber both chuckled. The blowhard major with the Shriner’s fez was a comic-strip favorite.

The three continued puffing on the cigarette, passing it back and forth; while they smoked, the Bomber made Leo privy to the contents of the envelope: half a dozen dog-eared photographs, which he ceremoniously tendered to Leo for perusal.

Leo blushed; he had never gazed upon their like before - though he’d heard of such phenomena often enough at Pitt, the large-buttocked women clad only in black stockings, the gentlemen self-conscious in funny-looking underwear, gartered socks; one of them wore a derby hat, which rendered him ridiculous, given his activity.

“They’re French,” the Bomber explained, about the cards. “From Gay Paree.”

Leo nodded, hoping he appeared sophisticated. He wondered what Kretch would have to say about all this. The Bomber made a sudden move, holding out his hand for silence.