The Whiz Mob and the Grenadine Kid by Colin Meloy

Author:Colin Meloy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-08-24T04:00:00+00:00

“He beat you to it,” came a voice. They both turned and saw Amir, leaning against the facade of the building, sipping at a bulbous Orangina bottle with a bright yellow straw.

“I was making the frame, Amir,” said Jackie. “I was fronting the mark, I had him steered already.” Here she turned to Charlie, saying, “You think that okus was sitting there, half out his pit, by accident? You did, didn’t you. Like God himself came down and just handed that kick to you, like you’re some chosen cannon or something.”

“Relax, Jackie,” said Amir.

“Do your own jobs, Charlie,” said Jackie. “Don’t step in on someone else’s.”

“Got it,” replied Charlie, shocked and scandalized.

The girl gave one last angry look at both of the boys and then stormed back to the crowd. Charlie stood silently, his mind thrown between the ecstasy of having managed his first bing—even if it had been assisted by Jackie’s steer—and the shame of having been lectured so publicly by the mob’s class cannon.

“Interesting,” said Amir, pushing away from the wall. He gave another tug on his straw until the bottle sounded a resigned gurgle. He overturned it, gave it a few shakes, and dropped it to the pavement.

“What’s interesting?” asked Charlie.

“What she said. ‘Do your own jobs.’ Seems, in some way, you’ve won over the Southern belle. You may have just graduated, Charlie Fisher.” He slapped Charlie on the back and wandered, aimlessly, toward a huddle of stumbling sailors, falling in with them as if he were some long-lost comrade at arms.

“Do your own jobs,” repeated Charlie, like a mantra.

But it was always Pluto who was the holdout, who’d always been the holdout, who grumbled anytime Charlie’s name was volunteered for doing anything but center field or—at the very least—running duke. And so it was that day, just a week after the regatta tip, as they were walking through the Panier’s dusty warren of streets like a pack of wild dogs on the prowl. If you remember, and you should, Pluto had just made mention that it smelled like chumps, referring, of course, to Charlie, who was walking just behind him.

“So what’s a chump smell like, Pluto?” asked Molly.

“Expensive cologne. Freshly washed linens. Soap,” was the boy’s reply.

“Someone who has good hygiene, basically, is what you’re saying,” lobbed Amir.

“That would count you out, Pluto,” put in Jackie.

“Ha!” This was ejected from Borra; it hurled from his chest like a pipe bomb, and it made Charlie jump.

Pluto ignored them. “All I’m saying is that we’re putting the mob at risk when we put him up. Even running duke. But now he fancies himself a cannon?”

“I was gonna have him stall a bit is only, Pluto,” said Borra.

“He’ll throw the mob,” said Pluto, unconvinced. “It ain’t safe.”

“I’m not going to throw the mob,” said Charlie. He’d been hesitant to dive in; he didn’t feel like he had much standing to argue. “If I get caught—if I rumble someone, I’ll take the blame. I wouldn’t throw anyone.”

“How can we know?” asked Pluto.

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