Spy Runner by Eugene Yelchin

Author:Eugene Yelchin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co. (BYR)

29

Shubin held Jake until the Buick sped the length of the alley and, turning onto Convent Avenue, screeched out of sight. The horses’ hooves clopped to their left, and three mounted policemen galloped past the entrance to the alley.

When he was let go, Jake’s shaky legs gave out under him, but Shubin caught him just in time. “You okay, buddy?”

Jake drew a deep breath and pulled away from him. “Who are those creeps?”

“What creeps?”

“In the Buick.”

“How should I know? I just didn’t want you to be run over, kid. May I have my bag, please?”

Avoiding Shubin’s eyes, Jake thrust the satchel back at him.

“Thank you for lugging it for me, my friend,” Shubin said brightly. “And now, as promised, Jake McCauley is about to solve a mystery. This way, if you please.”

Defeated, Jake followed Shubin out of the alley and southward on Stone. As before, Shubin strolled ahead of him as if he had no care in the world, turning his head this way and that, and swinging his satchel, and even—Jake had been right!—whistling a silly and cheerful tune. Thankfully, this torture was short: at the corner of McCormick and Stone, Shubin halted abruptly, and Jake bumped into him from behind.

“Take it easy, kid,” Shubin said, nudging Jake with his satchel toward a glass door shadowed under a faded green awning. “Right through there.”

They approached the door on which PHOTO & REPAIRS was written in flaking gold letters. Shubin put his hand on the dusty glass and pushed. The door swung open. A thin bell chimed.

“Welcome to the spy lair, kid.”

Jake glanced up at him quickly, but could not tell by Shubin’s mocking grin if he was serious or joking. He turned away from Shubin and peered into the murky space. Faded photographs of sunsets, weddings, and kids playing baseball hung haphazardly on the darkly paneled walls. Below the pictures, a glass display case held boxy photo cameras, the kind that had not been in use since the war. Beside the case, an advertisement for Kodak film leaned against the wall: a full-size cardboard cutout of a pretty woman about to snap a picture with a slick camera aimed in Jake’s direction. At the sound of the bell, a brown drape hanging from a rod behind the counter moved aside, and a young woman, who looked remarkably like the Kodak cutout, stepped out and said in a pleasant voice, “Please come in. We’re open.”

Shubin gently pushed Jake in, and the door thumped closed behind them. The bell chimed again.

“You’re thirty-seven minutes late, Mr. Shubin,” the young woman said. “I was beginning to worry.”

“Sorry, darling, I was held up saving this young fellow’s life from a reckless motorist.” Unexpectedly, Shubin slapped Jake on the shoulder. “This is Jake McCauley, Kathy, my landlady’s kid. I’m warning you, he is extremely curious. Watch out what you say to him.”

“I better be careful,” the woman said, smiling. “Hello, Jake McCauley.”

Jake blushed and nodded awkwardly. She was much prettier than the woman on the Kodak cutout, and her hair was even redder than Trudy Lamarre’s.

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