Charlie’s Fairlaine Creamery
truck roared to life, Charlie turned the headlights on and swung the truck around,
charging the Finns, displaced Socialists from Duluth, and their dilapidated
flatbed. Much the worse for the wear of chasing the Freddie Merrill and Tommy
Hastings from Duluth to Canada and back again – all the while being harassed by
the friends Tommy and Freddie had made on their journey. Trying to find out
where the portrait of Tommy’s mother and two strange, well-dressed and official
looking men had come from had led them to Duluth; the connection between the
Finns and the portrait was one neither boy understood.
The Creamery truck
fish-tailing on the loose gravel, Finns leaped to save their lives, scrambling
in the darkness, now blinded by the headlights from the milk truck. As Charlie
spun the steering of his truck, the Finn driving turned to head them off.
The read end of Charlie’s
truck caught the front of the Finn’s truck with a tremendous BANG!
As the Finns slewed round,
the door slammed into the face of the driver as he leaned out to grab it.
Shouting curses, he lost hold and rolled backwards, at the same time as he
tried to stand up to regain his balance.
He floored the accelerator,
the truck surged forward, and before anyone could shout, scream or move, it
plunged over the edge near the tower. There was silence except for a racing
engine, then it, too, fell silent as the roar of metal meeting rock drowned out
all other sounds in the parking lot.
Charlie had stopped only long
enough to see the truck racing for the edge before he’d floored the accelerator
of his own truck to send them careening downhill toward both Lake Superior and
Superior Street. Tommy, Freddie, and even Charlie screamed as the truck swerved
wildly when it hit the slightest hole or stone. “The brakes! The brakes!” Tommy
shouted. He knew enough about Earl’s car to know that that would be the only
way to stop them.
Freddie threw his arms around
Tommy and buried his face in his chest.
Charlie turned off the truck’s
engine and stood on the brakes. At first nothing happened. The stench of
burning brake pads filled the truck cab. But the truck began to slow down. It
slowed down some more. Tommy threw a terrified look over his shoulder and
shouted, “The Socialists are coming! The Socialists are coming!” The truck had
rolled to a wild, bumpy ride not much different than a drive through a plowed
field. He popped the clutch to start the truck, slowed enough to take the
corner and as soon as he had, he floored the accelerator again, leaving behind
a roiling blue cloud of smoke to greet the tumbling, shouting, cursing, and fist-waving
men.
The city was still quiet in
the early morning hours, but as they roared along Superior Street, the raging
Socialist’s cries and curses faded until the only sound was the mournful horns
of the ore boats as they began their slow, ponderous journey to their next port
of call.
None of the boys spoke as
Charlie drove them onward until Superior Street became Grand Avenue that
branched off and turned in the US 61. Freddie had released Tommy some time ago
and stared out the window as the sun came up in their faces. After they were a
few miles out of town, Charlie slowed down. Freddie opened the door. Charlie
said, “What’cha doin’ kid?”
Freddie shrugged and climbed
down, “I dunno. I just figured you’d be dumping us here so we could walk back
to Minneapolis.”
Charlie laughed, “Now what
kind of friend would I be if I did that?”
“Huh?”
Charlie jerked his chin up,
saying, “Get back in, kid. I stopped because I wasn’t sure if I should go back
and try and make the milk delivery or not.” Tommy and Freddie’s eyes all bugged
out. Charlie laughed again. “You should see yourselves!” He shook his head. “Don’t
worry, the story I’ll tell Dad is WAY better than me going back and delivering
the milk!”
“What story?” Tommy asked.
Charlie snorted, spit out the
window and said, “The story I’m gonna tell him of me getting there to find
another milk truck had crashed over the cliff.”
“You’re gonna tell your dad
the truth?” Freddie exclaimed. He’d never told his own dad the truth unless it
was to get someone else in trouble or to save himself from a beating.
"Sure,” laughed Charlie, “Just
not all of it.” He jerked his chin up again and said, “Hurry up, let’s go! I
gotta have time to come back to Duluth and make a milk run after lunch.”
Freddie scrambled up the steps, back into the truck, and slammed the door
tight.
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