Cherry Orphan

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The Cock and Fox wasn't so bad, James decided. Compared to strict Farmingham it might even have felt liberating, if it weren't for the loneliness. James occupied his own room in the upstairs flat next to Mrs. Blackwell's. The walls were thin and Blackwell snored louder than a hippo in heat, but it was private.

Farmingham's dorms were stalked nightly by snot-faced form bullies who terrorized smaller boys, and at fifteen James weighed in on the small side. He'd inherited small bones and was never been able to bluff his way into the town cinema when an over 16-rated film graced the silver screen. Other boys his age took great delight describing these crappy films, grossly exaggerating certain scenes in the rude way only pubescent adolescents could. The bullies at Farmingham all resembled bulldogs—plug-ugly. Big wasn't handsome in his experience, just frightening. Boarding school life felt akin to a prison and had left its stamp.

The mixed feelings troubled James. He and his father had been kindred spirits, but when Barry let Janet cajole him into sending the then twelve-year-old to boarding school it bordered betrayal in James's mind. The three years were awful. He didn't hate his parents, they had been loving in their own way, but neither of them understood his ordeal. It took their deaths to give him what he wanted. A terrible price indeed.

***

Instead of a few days, a full three weeks elapsed before Silverman called The Cock and Fox. James had been upstairs in his room for most of the morning.

"There's a telephone call for you, Master James," Mrs. Blackwell hollered up the side stairwell. "It's that solicitor, Mr. Silverman."

James came out onto the landing. "Be right down, Mrs. Blackwell."

He stashed away the copy of Girl Parade under his mattress before bounding down the staircase to the back hall. Girl Parade was tame, but he didn't want Mrs. Blackwell finding it all the same. Not that she'd give a damn. It was just another legacy from Farmingham, and mourning had no effect on the bodily urges of a teenage boy who'd been all but starved of affection for three long years.

"Hello, James. How are you doing?" Typically Silverman's voice sounded smooth as silk—much like the man.

"Hello, Mr. Silverman. I'm feeling better, thank you." The boy had indeed improved since his visit to Silverman's office only days after the funeral.

"I have some news regarding your uncle in America."

"Uncle Robert?"

"Yes, that's right. He's very interested in your welfare. No one told him about the accident so the news came as a terrible shock. Your father was his only brother. He wants you to go there for the summer. James, there's something else you should know."

On the surface this sounded positive—in fact too good to be true. James waited for the catch.

"Robert Nameth owns a car dealership in Monterey California near Pebble Beach. It's not just any car dealership."

"Where's Pebble Beach?"

"On the Pacific coast between Los Angeles and San Francisco. Listen, James, this is important. He's extremely wealthy. He sells exotic cars to collectors all over the world."

Silverman sounded eager, James thought, in a way only lawyers could when they happen upon deep pockets and envision a sizable fee. Something his father had been astute enough to explain on more than one occasion.