"He's smart enough."
"Who're your parents, kid?"
Jimmy Holden realized that this was a fine time to tell the truth, but
properly diluted to taste. "My folks are dead," he said.
"Who you staying with?"
"No one."
The driver of the truck eyed him cautiously for a moment. "You escaped
from an orphan asylum?"
"Uh-huh," lied Jimmy.
"Where?"
"Ain't saying."
"Wise, huh?"
"Don't want to get sent back," said Jimmy.
"Got a flop?"
"Flop?"
"Place to sleep for the night."
"No."
"Where'd you sleep last night?"
"Boxcar."
"Bindlestiff, huh?" roared the man with laughter.
"No, sir," said Jimmy. "I've no bindle."
The man's roar of laughter stopped abruptly. "You're a pretty wise kid,"
he said thoughtfully.
"I told y' so," said Moe.
"Shut up," snapped the man. "Kid, do you want a flop for the night?"
"Sure."
"Okay. You're in."
"What's your name?" asked Jimmy.
"You call me Jake. Short for Jacob. Er--here's the place."
The "Place" had no other name. It was a junkyard. In it were car parts,
wrecks with parts undamaged, whole motors rusting in the air, axles,
wheels, differential assemblies and transmissions from a thousand cars of
a thousand different parentages. Hubcaps abounded in piles sorted to size
and shape. Jake drove the little pickup truck into an open shed. The tire
and wheel came from the back and went immediately into place on a
complicated gadget. In a couple of minutes, the tire was off the wheel
and the inner tube was out of the casing. Wheel, casing, and inner tube
all went into three separate storage piles.
Not only a junkyard, but a stripper's paradise. Bring a hot car in here
and in a few hours no one could find it. Its separated parts would be
sold piece by piece and week by week as second-hand replacements.