'He's out on Highway 50, dragging on his Harley, Mr. Jones,' said Gerald.
Bob looked around.
'Where can I find a seat and wait for him?' he asked.
'In there. That's his office,' said one of the toughs.
Bob walked into the dingy office, and sat down at the desk. It was fairly neat, a trait not usually found in sixteen-year-old boys, and Bob was impressed. There were also a passel of books on the desk-good books, another fact which impressed Bob.
They were well thumbed, and the pages were marked, passages underlined.
On many of the pages, were grease marks.
Troy didn't let any grass grow under his feet, obviously. He heard a muffled roar, and stood up, going to the door of the office.
Troy roared into the garage, and parked his bike. He was a tall guy, Bob guessed about six-one, and well built. One of the toughs went up to him, and said something to him.
Troy, pulling the bike up on the kick stand, looked in the direction of the office door, and saw Mr. Jones.
He walked over to him, his pace smooth and long-legged, a little bit like a cat's, thought Bob.
He stood in front of Bob, his thumbs hooked into the thick leather belt of his riding leathers.
Bob grinned slightly, and mimicked his posture.
'Young man, you are a threat to every decent, staid American home.
You're the rake of the town, a hell-raiser, and you're so damned sexy that even my wife squirms in her seat.'
The grim expression on Troy's face melted, and he laughed, the laugh lighting up his dark eyes.
'But your wife won't let her daughter go to a staid, all-American decent dance with me.'
'Ah, but that's understandable! After all, your presence at that dance changes the whole atmosphere. I can see it now!' Bob laughed, warming to his subject, 'all those decent virginal girls, turning weak in the knees, and abandoning their nice staid, respectful boyfriends to flock into your arms, as if you were some polygamous sultan with a harem in addition to twenty adoring wives.'
There was a wry look on Troy's face.
'Are you aware that girls who don't put out don't go to the prom?'
'I am aware,' Bob said. There was something solid about the boy. Yes, he was obviously wild, but no wilder, really, than his Jimmy.
'It doesn't really matter,' Troy said, extracting a cigarette from a pack in the breast pocket of his leather jacket.
'Why not?'
'Because I'm going to have your daughter anyway, when she's sixteen.'
'What makes you so sure?' Bob asked, alarmed.
'She promised.'
Bob sighed, and sagged against the door frame.
'Knowing my daughter, she'll keep her word,' Bob said, frowning at the boy.
'Right! Any girl who can resist peer pressure to keep a silly promise she made to her mother has to mean what she says,' Troy responded.
'Huh?'
'Your move, Mr. Jones.'
Chapter 8
Bob looked at the tall, powerful boy, thoughtfully.
'I suggest we go home and talk about it. I'm quite sure my wife would love to meet you.'
Troy laughed.
'Do you want me to meet her?'
'Not particularly, but since men like you exist in the world, I guess I have no choice. My wife is just going to have to control herself.'
'Did you bring your car?'
'That would be a bit of a slap in the face in this neighborhood, don't you think? I wasn't slumming.'
Troy walked over to his Harley, and kicked it to life. He handed Bob a helmet.
'Let's go,' he said.
Bob got on the back of the motorcycle gingerly, and they sped away, leaving behind a group of aghast boys.
They pulled up in front of the Jones's house, and Troy parked the bike.
Bob let himself into the house.
'June? I'm home!'
'Hello, dear! I'm in the kitchen!'
Bob walked out to the kitchen, the tall, booted boy following. His lovely wife turned around with an anxious smile on her face, which quickly turned to an expression of shock.
'Bob, what's he…?'
'I invited him here.'
'Oh!' June said in a small voice.
'Sit down!' Bob said, pointing to a chair. Troy sat.
'I suppose you drink?'
'Like a fish,' Troy said.
'Listen!' Bob snapped, going to the cupboard to get a bottle of scotch,
'I'm not playing any games with you. Don't play any with me.'
June looked at her husband adoringly, and then at Troy with some fear.
Troy laughed. 'I drink, moderately. I've never raped a girl, or hit one. I've never beaten my mother or my sisters, and once in awhile, I've been known to mix it up in a bar. I have, on occasion, been known to throw the first punch.'
'Thank you,' Bob said, sitting down with the bottle, and some glasses filled with ice. He turned to his wife.
'I brought him here because Cathy likes him. I cannot pretend that I don't know why. He's intelligent, honest, and industrious. The only thing that makes him different from Jimmy, is that he was born on the other side of town, and he has to work for everything he gets.'
'You forgot something. My companions are different.'
'No different than Jimmy's on occasion when he wants to swing, or Gerald or Whitey's, and who's that other boy who always hangs out over there?'
'Ron Biltmore,' Troy volunteered.
'Yes. Now, Cathy has gone out with Wayne, and Ron. I don't know about Whitey.'
'Whitey only goes out with girls who put out.'
June was bewildered.
'What are your intentions with regard to my daughter?' Bob asked, pouring the scotch.
'Strictly honorable-until she's sixteen.'
'Well, we have no choice in that matter, do we?' Bob said, handing his wife a glass of scotch.
June was very grateful for the liquor. She remembered her husband from his wild days, and to her, it appeared that he was getting just as wild in his approaching middle age.
'Why-why don't we have any choice when she's sixteen, Bob?' June asked her husband.
'Because Cathy apparently promised herself to him when he was sixteen.'
'Oh, my God!' June exclaimed softly.
'Well, dear, we were at it at the same age. What did you expect?'
'Bob, darling, I don't know what to expect. Why did you bring him here?'
