“Wow,” Sylvia said. She handed Davey the plastic bag, it was small and light enough for him to carry. She went over to the air-conditioner and stood in front of it.
“This’s great. It’s hotter’n hell out on th’ streets.”
Ron smiled. “Wasn’t much.”
“It’s terrific.” Sylvia came over and kissed him lightly. “C’mon, let’s eat. Al’s comin’ up here later on.”
Dinner was nothing more than a few pieces of cold meat and a single bottle of beer. Davey drank the beer, too. There was nothing else.
But Sylvia was planning ahead. “With th’ ’frigerator fixed I can stock some food an’ keep milk fer Davey. An’—hey, Ron, can you fix cookers? There’s a cooker sittin’ in an empty kitchen upstairs. If we can get it down here an’ get it goin’ . . . wow, it’ll be great! Right?”
He laughed. “Right.”
Davey went to sleep right there on the floor. Sylvia picked him up and brought him to the mattress and laid him down gently. Then she pulled the bedcover up over him. Both the mattress and the cover were so filthy that Ron shuddered.
“He’s a bright kid,” Ron said quietly.
Sylvia nodded.
There was a knock at the door, and it swung open before they could move to answer it. Al came into the room, his face dark as a thundercloud.
“So yer back,” he said.
Before Ron could answer, Sylvia said, “I brought him back. You was jest gonna let th’ hardtops flip him.”
For a moment, Al stood there at the door and said nothing. He glanced at Davey curled up on the mattress, then quietly shut the door behind him.
“Okay. Let’s sit down and talk.” They squatted on the floor like three Indians.
For the first time, Ron saw that Al was tired. There was tension in his face. His eyes were blood-shot. Tight lines were etched around his mouth and eyes.
“Now lissen,” Al said. “We can’t feed no extra mouths all winter. That’s why I hadda get ridda ya. It’s tough enough gettin’ food fer all the mouths we got already without puttin’ on a dude from Outside. Catch?”
Ron realized that Al was trying to be honest. Maybe even fair. “What do I do, then?” he asked.
Al shrugged. “All I know is, we can’t feed no extra mouths.”
Slyvia broke in, “But Ron can help th’ gang! He can fix machines an’ stuff. Look, he fixed the air-conditioner. An’ th’ ’frigerator in th’ kitchen. He can fix anything. Right, Ron?”
“Well, not anything—”
She went on, “I bet he can fix th’ whatsit down in th’ basement that always blows out.”
“The generator,” Al said.
“You have a generator downstairs?” Ron asked. “So that’s where the electricity comes from.”
“It’s always conkin’ out,” Al admitted. “We hafta pay a guy from another gang t’ fix it, or else we go without power. Costs plenty, too.”
Ron nodded.
“Can you fix it?” Al asked flatly.
“I won’t know until I see it,” Ron answered. “But I’ve fixed generators before, and motors, and lots of other stuff.”
“Gun?” Al asked suddenly. “Can you fix guns?”
Ron shrugged. “I don’t know. I never tried. But if they’re not too complicated . . .”
Al eyed him suspiciously. “Okay. We’ll see. Come on down to th’ basement an’ take a look at th’ generator.”
They started to get up. But Sylvia stopped them for a moment. “Al, what happens if Ron can’t fix th’ generator?”
“Then he’s out. He either knows how t’ fix things or he don’t. If he can fix machines, then he can help us, an’ we keep him. If he can’t, then he goes out onna street.”
“On his own?”
“Yeah.”
“But he’ll die. They’ll kill him. Nobody can live on th’ streets by himself.”
“I know,” Al said. He wasn’t being cruel. It was simply a flat statement of truth.
It was an old, old generator, powered by an even older diesel engine that roared and clattered and spewed a fine mist of oil spray through the musty air of the basement. A dim light hung over the machinery. In the shadows Ron could make out a half-dozen drums of diesel fuel.
“How on earth do you get diesel fuel here?” he wondered aloud.
“Never mind,” Al said. “We get it. That’s all you gotta know.”
Ron shrugged and went up close to the machinery. The oil spray stung his eyes. He shouted over the noise, “How long does it run between breakdowns?”
Al waved a hand. “Coupla weeks. Sometimes more, sometimes less.”
Ron could see that the generator was held together with little more than bubble gum and prayer. It vibrated dangerously. In time it would shake itself apart.
He stepped back to where Al and Sylvia stood.
“Can you get spare parts?”
Al said, “You show us whatcha need an’ we’ll get it for you.”
“Okay.”
“Can ya fix it?” Al shouted.
“Sure. Had one just like it in school, in mechanical repair class. Our auxiliary generator at home is a later model—”
“Okay, okay. You can stay ’til it stops runnin’ again. If you can fix it, great. If you can’t . . .” He jerked his thumb in an old baseball umpire’s gesture that meant out.
