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

argue.” He nodded up the street. “There’s the police station. We’ll walk the bicycle over there and discuss this with them. It’s a police matter anyway.”
    On their way to the police station, Carl clung to the seat while the other kid gripped the handlebars, both of them in a silent tug-of-war for ownership. He glanced back at the kid’s father, who frowned at him. They were treating him like a criminal, and he hadn’t even done anything.
    â€œJorgenson?” the policeman said, after Carl told him his name. The cop was big, with an acne-scarred face. He didn’t seem very old, just stern and scary-looking. He stood behind a tall desk that hit Carl at neck level. The station was starkly lit, but seemed gloomy nevertheless. “Your father isn’t Walter Jorgenson, is he?” the policeman asked.
    Carl nodded nervously. “Yessir.”
    The boy’s father touched Carl’s back. “You’re Walter Jorgenson’s son?” he asked.
    He nodded again. His dad was very well respected in town. He’d clear all this up. They’d listen to him.
    The policeman smiled. “Um, why don’t you have a seat, Carl? I’ll be right back.” He retreated to an office down the hallway.
    Carl sat on a long, wooden bench against the wall. The kid and his father situated themselves on the other end—far away. After what seemed like an eternity, the policeman came back. “Your father’s on his way here, Carl,” he said. “Just sit tight.”
    Carl nodded. He couldn’t figure out why his dad didn’t just tell the cop over the phone that the bike was his. But Carl kept silent. He stared at the clock on the wall, behind the desk; then at the cigarette stubs in the dirty ashtray stand by his side, and at the fat man’s underthighs hanging over the bench. He spied a water fountain down the hall. His mouth felt dry, but he was too scared to ask for permission to get a drink.
    Finally, his father came through the swinging doors. “I’m Walter Jorgenson,” he told the policeman.
    Carl got to his feet, but he remained silent in his father’s presence.
    â€œMr. Jorgenson,” the policeman said. “We’re terribly sorry to inconvenience you—”
    â€œNo apologies necessary. We’ll straighten this out in no time.” He turned and smiled at the fat man, who stood up. “We haven’t met. Walter Jorgenson.” He shook the man’s plump hand. “I hear your son got his bike stolen, and you think my Carl here is the culprit.”
    â€œWell, Mr. Jorgenson, I—”
    â€œOh, call me Walter.”
    The man nodded timidly. “Well, the bicycle your son has, it—it’s exactly like the one that was stolen, right down to the St. Christopher bell on the handlebars.”
    â€œAnd you think my boy did it?”
    The fat man looked very uncomfortable. “It appears to be my son’s bicycle. But your son claims that you gave him the bike.”
    Suddenly, his father seemed agitated. “Well, if that’s what my son says,” he replied hotly, “then on top of being a thief, he’s also a liar. And believe me, he’ll be punished.”
    Carl couldn’t believe what his father was saying. “But Dad, what do you mean? You—you gave it to me!”
    â€œI’m going to give it to you, all right.” He grabbed Carl’s arm, then looked at the policeman. “I’d like a word in private with him.”
    Carl fought back the tears. He didn’t understand how this could be happening. His father’s grip nearly cut off the circulation in his arm. The other boy smirked at him.
    â€œI think we have an empty office,” the policeman offered.
    â€œThe men’s room is good enough,” his father said.
    Carl was terrified. “Dad, why don’t you tell them they made a mistake?” he whispered. “Please,