under the stump. What she said she wanted to do was to have a soda with the rest of the kids from the Whaler after the game. Aunt Stella believed that having a soda with other clean-cut high school achievers was a step up the ladder of being popular, Helen knew. Pinky helped. “We’ll just be about an hour at Howard Johnson’s,” he said encouragingly. No high school groups ever went to Howard Johnson’s. They went to Vito’s Time Warp or Pizza City. Aunt Stella could not think of a reply quickly enough. The car in back of them honked. Pinky and Helen leaped out and, fading into the crowd, yelled, “Good-bye!”
Aunt Stella, hopelessly caught in the snaking traffic, yelled back fortissimo, “Don’t get into any strangers’ cars!” over the honking horns behind her.
Most of the people pouring into the stadium entrances wore partisan colors, red and white for New Bedford, black and orange for Fall River. Chrysanthemums with ribbons in both combinations sold briskly at the sidewalk stands. The leaves on the elms that lined the street were turning yellow at the edges. The trees were dwarfed by the huge stadium. The stadium had been built many years ago and had been meant to look like a Roman coliseum. Helen decided to let herself be caught up in the spirit of the day. She never would have imagined, a week ago, that she would be at a football game with a boy, but here she was, with her drawing pad clasped tightly under her arm and the still summery air laced with the promise of autumn. She and Pinky found seats at the thirty-yard line on the New Bedford side, as close to the field as they could so that Helen would have a good view of the players. Helen apologized to Pinky for Aunt Stella’s awful conversation. “I don’t mind,” said Pinky. “Actually the conversation can get much worse at my house. Especially when my relatives from Norway visit us. They speak English and Norwegian, and of course I only speak English, so they feel all superior. They can’t understand why my mom married an American. A Jewish American too. Since my dad’s been dead, eight years, they’ve been pushing her to move back to Norway. They think she’ll find some nice Norwegian widower to marry. Jeez Louise, that’s all she needs. Some clown who manufactures frozen fish cakes next door to the North Pole. My relatives think it would be good for me and my sister to go to school there.” Pinky made a noise as if he were spitting out vinegar. “My mom’s plenty proud of me and my sister the way we are,” he added. “Wednesday afternoon she sent the relatives the article from the paper.”
Helen took the newspaper article from last Wednesday’s Post-Dispatch out of her wallet. DRUG-CRAZED ROCK THROWER TRACKED BY CLEVER COPS was the headline. “Maniac with Bad Aim Sought to Loot Jewelry Trucks” was the sub-headline. Helen read the whole thing over for the twentieth time.
New Bedford police ended a two-month search and a two-month siege of terror for local residents with the arrest Tuesday night of Duane “Stubby” Atlas of 42 Dock Street. Police sources have suspected for some time that there was a pattern to the rock throwing. Their suspicions proved correct when they arrested a heroin addict and son of local mobster Chet Atlas. Atlas was aiming his rocks at the UPS delivery trucks that routinely carry merchandise for Perry and Crowe’s huge mail order business. According to police sources he was hoping to cause an accident and loot the trucks of their jewelry and money. A spokesman for Perry and Crowe expressed horror at the incidents and informed this paper that all valuables, jewelry and cash, are shipped at irregular intervals in Brinks armored vans. “All this madman could hope to do was take human life and smash up a little china and glass,” said the spokesman.
Atlas has been charged with attempted murder, aggravated assault, and possession of heroin. His last victims, a mother and child from Dartmouth, were slightly
Aunt Stella, hopelessly caught in the snaking traffic, yelled back fortissimo, “Don’t get into any strangers’ cars!” over the honking horns behind her.
Most of the people pouring into the stadium entrances wore partisan colors, red and white for New Bedford, black and orange for Fall River. Chrysanthemums with ribbons in both combinations sold briskly at the sidewalk stands. The leaves on the elms that lined the street were turning yellow at the edges. The trees were dwarfed by the huge stadium. The stadium had been built many years ago and had been meant to look like a Roman coliseum. Helen decided to let herself be caught up in the spirit of the day. She never would have imagined, a week ago, that she would be at a football game with a boy, but here she was, with her drawing pad clasped tightly under her arm and the still summery air laced with the promise of autumn. She and Pinky found seats at the thirty-yard line on the New Bedford side, as close to the field as they could so that Helen would have a good view of the players. Helen apologized to Pinky for Aunt Stella’s awful conversation. “I don’t mind,” said Pinky. “Actually the conversation can get much worse at my house. Especially when my relatives from Norway visit us. They speak English and Norwegian, and of course I only speak English, so they feel all superior. They can’t understand why my mom married an American. A Jewish American too. Since my dad’s been dead, eight years, they’ve been pushing her to move back to Norway. They think she’ll find some nice Norwegian widower to marry. Jeez Louise, that’s all she needs. Some clown who manufactures frozen fish cakes next door to the North Pole. My relatives think it would be good for me and my sister to go to school there.” Pinky made a noise as if he were spitting out vinegar. “My mom’s plenty proud of me and my sister the way we are,” he added. “Wednesday afternoon she sent the relatives the article from the paper.”
Helen took the newspaper article from last Wednesday’s Post-Dispatch out of her wallet. DRUG-CRAZED ROCK THROWER TRACKED BY CLEVER COPS was the headline. “Maniac with Bad Aim Sought to Loot Jewelry Trucks” was the sub-headline. Helen read the whole thing over for the twentieth time.
New Bedford police ended a two-month search and a two-month siege of terror for local residents with the arrest Tuesday night of Duane “Stubby” Atlas of 42 Dock Street. Police sources have suspected for some time that there was a pattern to the rock throwing. Their suspicions proved correct when they arrested a heroin addict and son of local mobster Chet Atlas. Atlas was aiming his rocks at the UPS delivery trucks that routinely carry merchandise for Perry and Crowe’s huge mail order business. According to police sources he was hoping to cause an accident and loot the trucks of their jewelry and money. A spokesman for Perry and Crowe expressed horror at the incidents and informed this paper that all valuables, jewelry and cash, are shipped at irregular intervals in Brinks armored vans. “All this madman could hope to do was take human life and smash up a little china and glass,” said the spokesman.
Atlas has been charged with attempted murder, aggravated assault, and possession of heroin. His last victims, a mother and child from Dartmouth, were slightly
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