Island Boyz by Graham Salisbury Read Free Book Online

frantically. “Ask her what we should do. Quick!”
    Shane hurried over to the phone, took it off the hook, and hid down behind the counter. He dialed Mrs. Medeiros, who owned the Taco Bell on Kalanimoku Street. The phone rang and rang. Five times, six.
    She answered on the seventh ring. “What?” she said, half-awake.
    “Mrs. Medeiros, this is Shane. We got a problem.”
    “What problem? What time is it? Where are you?”
    “I’m here. Taco Bell. It’s eleven-thirty.”
    “What’s the problem?”
    “This old guy came in, but then these other two guys came in, and they’re starting to fight. What should we do?”
    “Call the police, use your brain. That’s why I made you assistant manager. I’ll be right down. You call the police.” She hung up.
    “She said call the police,” Shane whispered to Jimmy, who didn’t know whether to listen to Shane or watch the fight or make tacos and burritos or run for it.
    Wayne yelped in pain and Shane peeked up over the counter. The old man was still sitting there with Wayne’s head mashed down onto the table.
    Jojo slid out of the booth and stood up, his bloody-knife tattoo stabbing out like trouble. He didn’t seem to know what to do. He glanced over at Shane and Jimmy and saw Shane still holding the phone. “Who you calling? Put that down. Now!”
    Shane dropped the receiver. It broke when it hit the tile floor. Part of it bounced around on the end of the cord.
    Jojo looked back at Wayne, then scowled when outside he saw a police car’s blue lights flashing behind a Corvette stopped in front of the Taco Bell. Two cops were getting out to give some speeder a ticket. “Tst,” Jojo spat. “Hurry it up! Gimme the food.”
    Shane and Jimmy went to work, faster even than they ever did when the place was crushed with customers. In seconds they had the six burrito supremes and six tacos wrapped up in paper and in a sack. They slid the sack out onto the counter, keeping the counter between them and Jojo, who rushed toward them with pinched and angry eyes. “Where’s the root beer?” he said.
    “We— we—” Jimmy stuttered.
    “Shuddup! Gimme some cups.”
    Shane pointed to the pop dispenser.
    Jojo grabbed two large paper cups and filled them with ice that shot down noisily. “Wayne, let’s go!” he said, filling the cups with Coke. He put lids on them and grabbed two straws.
    Wayne all this time jerked around, still trying to get free, still with his head mashed down onto the table because the old man was twisting his arm so hard. Outside, the cops were making the Corvette driver spread-eagle against his car.
    “Come on!” Jojo shouted to Wayne. “Stop fooling around.”
    But Wayne couldn’t break free.
    Jojo looked at the police, then back at Wayne, then hurried out alone. He fired up his truck and drove slowly out of there with the six burrito supremes, six tacos, and two large Cokes.
    Shane ran over and locked the door.
    The old man smiled when he saw Shane do that and let Wayne the fat boy go.
    Wayne sprang up and leaped over the table and jumped out of the booth on the other side. He stood facing the old man, rubbing his wrist. His small mongoose eyes darted around, searching for Jojo, but there was only Shane, Jimmy, and the old man. Slowly he backed away, then turned and ran for the door.
    But it was locked now. And you needed a key to get out.
    “Unlock this door!” he yelled, banging on it with his fists, then slamming against it with his shoulder.
    Shane and Jimmy didn’t move. The old man kept smiling.
    Wayne whipped out Mr. Blade and flipped him open. “I said open the door, you deaf?”
    “Hijo, creo que es mejor que me devolváis el dinero,”
the old man said.
    “Shuddup! I don’t speak Russian, you stupit.” Wayne started toward the old man with his knife but stopped when another set of headlights flashed into the parking lot.
    “Man, where are all these people coming from?” Jimmy mumbled.
    “It’s Mrs. Medeiros,” Shane