Only Son by Kevin O'Brien Read Free Book Online Page A

two men looked like the same type: crudely handsome, swaggering ex-jocks. Carl guessed that both men had something else in common, maybe a sadistic streak. After all, he’d seen McMurray in action, the cruel way he’d tripped that poor little kid at the pool. Of course, as a child, Carl had routinely endured a lot worse.
    He’d been five years old when Walter Jorgenson quit his sales job to enlist in the army. Despite Mr. Jorgenson’s absence, an abundance of money kept coming in—from where it had always come, Grandfather Jorgenson’s estate. Carl’s father was gone three years, and during that time, Carl’s bad dreams gradually faded away—along with the bruises on his little body.
    Carl’s father returned with his honorable discharge and a chestful of ribbons and medals. He had them mounted on red velvet in a mahogany display case that adorned the living room mantel. With his money and war record, Walter Jorgenson became a big man in Santa Rosa. Instead of going back to his old job, he got involved in a lot of civic causes, contributing money and spearheading campaigns for buildings, parks, and monuments.
    At home, however, he hardly looked like a “pillar of the community,” sitting in his favorite chair in the living room, smoking Camels, and slowly getting tanked on scotch and waters.
    A few weeks after his father’s homecoming, Carl got to tag along with him on his Saturday afternoon poker game. It was held in the bar of a bowling alley a few miles from their house. Carl’s mother was sick; otherwise, he figured, the old man never would have taken him. For three hours, Carl bowled alone, ate a hot dog, and played pinball. Every now and then, he checked with his father to see if he wanted to go home yet. The last time Carl checked, his father’s poker game had disbanded, and he was sitting in a booth with a red-haired woman who had a beauty mark on her cheek. His father still wasn’t ready to go yet. But five minutes later, he was tapping Carl’s shoulder over by the gumball machine. He had a surprise for him, he said. Then he led him out to the parking lot, where the bicycles were parked. He pointed to a shiny, blue Schwinn. “Look what I won for you in my poker game.”
    Carl studied it with awe, running a hand over the leather seat. He rang the St. Christopher bell on the handlebars. From the handgrips dangled plastic red, white, and blue streamers. “Is it really mine?” he asked.
    His father nodded. “Think you can ride it home from here?”
    â€œBoy, I sure can! Thank you, sir,” and he shook his father’s hand.
    â€œI have to go to another poker game. Won’t be home till late. Enjoy the bike, son.”
    Of course he’d enjoy it. His old bike was a rusty, pint-size two wheeler. This was a big boy’s bike, and he was in love with it. For two days, he rode his “blue bomber” everywhere. Then one afternoon he came out of the five and dime and caught another kid trying to steal it. The boy was older—maybe ten—but skinny. “Hey, whaddaya think you’re doing with my bike?” Carl said, stomping toward him. He made a fist.
    The other boy looked past Carl’s shoulder. “Hey, Dad!”
    Carl spun around. A balding, fat man came out of the store. Carl couldn’t figure out what was happening. He glanced back at the boy pulling his blue bomber from the bicycle stand. “Hey, take your grubby mitts off my bike!” he said, grabbing the seat.
    Suddenly, the man’s hand came down on his shoulder. “Now, hold on a minute, young man,” he said. “We reported this bicycle stolen three days ago…”
    â€œNot this bike,” Carl said, still clutching onto the leather seat. “My dad gave this to me. He won it in a poker game.”
    The fat man squeezed Carl’s arm even tighter. “Listen you, I’m not going to stand here and