Chapter 17

The Biggest Weed

An old, tired wind, spent from days over the ocean, moved ashore, kicking up little puffs of dust along the white sand dunes of the beach. The wind meandered through the dunes, then entered the cavernous maze of brick and steel of the city. It swooped to the earth and gently stirred a field of weeds in a vacant lot, then moved on its unhurried, eternal mission.

From the window of his cell Tony watched as the weeds waved in the breeze. Some of them had little blossoms and were almost lovely.

Weeds-hadn't that been one of Race's favorite terms? Anyone who was law-abiding or who had something Race wanted was a weed.

What was a weed, anyway? Wasn't it a plant that was out of place, something that didn't belong? Tony smiled bitterly. By that definition, Race was one of the biggest weeds of all.

Tony turned from the window. Looking through bars made him feel like an animal in a zoo.

He felt tired-old. Physically he was only about two weeks older than when he arrived in Miami, an eager, ignorant kid looking for big money and hot women.

But mentally, he had aged twenty years, he felt. Death had touched him-indeed surrounded him. Evon was dead, and now that she was gone he felt sure he had loved her.

Memories of that night on the beach with Evon returned to his mind time after time. Her laughter echoed in the back of his brain and he could almost feel her warm lips on his. Now the lips were cold, silent. At this very moment her rich, young blood-what was left of it-was probably being pumped out by an undertaker, flooding down the sewers of the city. If only he had been more persuasive that night on the beach when he had suggested they give up the hijacking. For that matter, if only he had not met her, perhaps she would be alive.

Then he thought of Dobber and how he had died. When Tony had been told his friend had died in a hospital from his injuries, he was surprised that he felt nothing. And then he realized that, to him, Dobber had been dead for many months-ever since he had had his first taste of narcotics.

Tony moved over to his bunk and sat down wearily. He ran a hand through his hair. He had been only seconds away from death himself-so close that he still doubted, at time, that he was alive.

From the police questioning and from what his court-appointed lawyer had told him, Tony had pieced together the events of that night of horror.

The blonde kid in the sports car Tony had tried to signal from Yorty's auto was the same college student they had robbed and left by the road on their way to Miami. He had recognized Tony and had followed Yorty's car to the vacant house. He had called the cops and they had arrived just in time to save Tony but too late for Evon.

Yorty was in custody, charged as an accessory to Evon's murder. Police had also arrested Race and Margo. Race had been wounded in a gunfight with Yorty and his gunman.

Several times during the last few days Tony had almost wished the cops had been a little later in arriving. He had felt as though his life were over, finished at eighteen. He could see nothing ahead, except a life in the slums.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, approaching his cell. Tony looked up expecting to see the rotund little lawyer the court had assigned to defend him. Instead he saw a blue uniform with a first class petty officer's stripes on the sleeve.

Tony's first impulse was to hide his face in his hands. It was his brother, Tom, and he felt he couldn't face him. But Tony only cut his eyes away and looked down at the floor. Keys rattled in the lock and the cell door swung open.

"Hello, Tony. It looks like we got ourselves into a little trouble." The voice was calm, uncritical.

Tony looked up. His brother's eyes were concerned, yet not reproachful or accusing. Tom offered his hand and Tony rose and shook it warmly. "Tom ... it's-it's damn good to see you. How did you know I was here?"

They sat down on the bunk. Tom removed his hat and turned it in his hands. He looked very much like Tony, only a bit stockier and with a squarer, more mature face. Streaks of gray shot through his hair at the temples.

"Dad wrote me. My ship was in Jacksonville and I flew down on a Navy plane." He put a hand on Tony's shoulder. "I talked to your lawyer awhile ago, Tony."

"How does it look, Tom? Bad?"

"Anything like this is bad, Tony," Tom said. "You know that. But I'm not going to lecture-instead, we're going to do something about getting your life straightened out."

"I'd like that," Tony said. "Oh, how I'd like that."

"You could be worse off," Tom told him. "You've got a clean record-that'll help. There's a very good chance that you'll get off with a suspended sentence. That is, if you're prepared to help straighten out your life."

"I am," he said. "I'll do anything. Anything at all."

"Honest?"

"Honest, Tom."

"I believe you, Tony."

A certain glow of happiness spread over him, but then it died quickly when he thought of Evon.

With a few more words of consolation and admonition, Tom left Tony's cell. Tony again resumed his pacing, vowing to try to forget Evon.

He knew that what Tom said made sense. He could probably count on a favorable decision in court, but after that, what? His mind glossed rapidly over the happenings of the last month, saw what he did ... and decided what he should have done. Well, it was all over now. He'd get another chance to face life. After all, he was only eighteen. It wasn't as if his life was all behind him.

"Yes," said Tony, mumbling to himself. "Let's see if I can straighten out the screwed-up mess I've made of my life."