April Evil by John D. MacDonald

a guy who really knows California … so he says … and brother I told him off … she was driving a bright red Thunderbird … so then I told him the oldie about the plumber and the night nurse …”
    She knew that her horizons had been the same. But the world had grown larger for her. On this morning, reading to Doctor Paul from this book she had never heard of, the world would grow larger still, and Joe would be left a little farther behind. The only close remaining element of their marriage was the physical. And she knew that her recent heightened interest in the physical was probably a reaction to the loss of the other elements of their marriage. Joe was pleased with her responsiveness. She could not tell him that she now feared for even that aspect, because she had lately begun to feel a vague distaste for the way he looked. His sideburns had begun to look absurd. His over-long fingernails looked cheap and affected. She was distressed by the spots of acne near his lips. That had never bothered her before. She was offended by the oil marks his hair left on their pillows. She resented picking up his dirty shorts and socks, washing his comb, replacing the top on the toothpaste, picking black hairs out of the sink.
    She was afraid that soon everything would be gone, and she did not know what she would do without him.
    She walked into the garden. Doctor Paul filled his pipe. She opened the book to “Typhoon.” Her voice was clear, distinct, childlike, in the soft April garden. “ ‘Captain MacWhirr of the steamer Nan-Shan, had a physiognomy that, in the order of material appearances, was the exact counterpart of his mind: it presented no marked characteristics of firmness or stupidity; it had no pronounced characteristics whatever; it was simply ordinary, irresponsive and unruffled.’ ”
    Toby Piersall, at eleven, was brown and thin and agile, with a head that looked too large for him. But there was in his face a promise that he would look very much like his father, Ben.And, barring any serious psychological hurt, he might become a man very like Ben—large, mild, steady, purposeful—with oblique and surprising humor, with an outsize capacity for both love and loyalty.
    He was in his second term of junior high. His last class of the day was American History. He sat at the fourth desk from the front in the row by the windows. Mr. Weed was talking about Wilson and the League of Nations. Toby wore an attentive look, but he was not hearing a word. He could see Mr. Weed’s mouth moving, but he had achieved that state of hypnosis where the room seemed entirely silent. Mr. Weed was like a television commercial with the sound turned off.
    Toby Piersall was thinking of the sheet he had torn out of a magazine. It was in his notebook, on the slanted top of the desk in front of him. He had come across it during some forbidden reading. Magazines that concerned themselves with true crime cases were not on the official Toby Piersall reading list. The penalty for possession of such magazines was drastic. He would be grounded. No bike for a week. But he had a friend named Carl Gruen who was not similarly restricted. Carl had a playroom which adjoined the family garage. Carl was a true crime addict. The magazines were stacked high there. When Carl was short of money he had a nasty habit of charging a reading fee, but usually he was generous.
    Toby Piersall turned back the sheets of his notebook until he could see the clipping. It showed a man in full face and in profile. There was a number on a placard that was hung around his neck.
    He read once again what it said underneath. “Harry Mollinetti, alias Harry Mullin, alias Harold Moon. Escaped in January from state prison where he was serving consecutive sentences for bank robbery, second degree murder and kidnapping. This man is the most recent addition to the F.B.I.’s ‘ten most wanted’ list. Warning: He is probably armed and may be considered very dangerous. If you