Archie's Gold

By E. R. Yatscoff

International Fire Bird Book Winner 2024
Twelve year old Archie Crane has a dream to be reunited with his estranged father. Shining shoes in front of a hotel in a tough blue-collar town is the only way, but it'll take a lot of nickels and dimes for a bus ticket. Shining shoes is his first job and it's not easy fending off drunks and cheats. Archie has developed a tough exterior working the streets, but inside he’s just a lonely kid who seeks his father’s love. Archie doesn’t like his school and the kids at school don’t like him. His only friends are an old ex-vaudeville entertainer, Freddie Fox, a secretive Indian, Lyle Raintree, and Ma Belasky, a mysterious gypsy woman who runs the local café, a hangout for ex-cons and riff-raff. The mean streets get a whole lot meaner when Boogy, rink rat and bully, is determined to wrest the shoe-shine spot away from Archie by any means. After Boogy pushes him into traffic, Archie awakens in the hospital with two detectives at his bedside, very curious as to how a stolen gold coin ended up in his money can. One stolen gold coin is a curiosity, but when he stumbles upon 42, his simple world is turned upside down. The two cops catch gold fever, determined to find all the coins. Caught between holding stolen items and finding a trustworthy person to turn the gold into cash proves to be fraught with danger. As the walls begin to tumble and the police close in, Archie's hope of rejoining his father may only be a dream.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. R. Yatscoff
• Release date: Jul 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9780986967818

E. R. Yatscoff

Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis Award finalist, John Bilsland non-fiction award, Canada Book Award Winner and Author Shout 2023 honorable mention. Most mysteries and suspense novels have to do with cops, lawyers, and PIs. My protagonist is a firefighter and is the first firefighter pulp fiction in Canada. True grit and reality are my writing tenets.My juvenile/middle grade/chapter books have no magic wands, wise talking creatures, vampires, or parallel worlds. I write stories about children, not so much specifically for children. Many adults enjoy my writing because of this. My stories are about unassuming boys who get in trouble and must prove themselves and show the world they have hearts of lions. There's fighting, conflict, loyalty, bullies, integrity, and courage. I've read samples to Grade 4 and 5 students and garnered excellent reviews.I was born in Welland, Ontario and now live in Alberta. Backpacked the world on the Hippie Trail and lived in Australia. I've worked as a paperboy, grocery clerk, sales rep, all types of construction work, painter, mink ranch hand, assembly line rubber factory, cherry picker, freelance astronaut (no offers), boilermaker apprentice, delivery driver, father, coach, and career firefighter and officer for 32 years. I've also played drums in the Black Gold Big Band for 8 years.I retired as fire captain with Edmonton Fire Rescue, a large Canadian metro fire service. I live in Beaumont, Alberta with Gloria, whom I met on a freighter/passenger ship from Jakarta to Singapore. I've climbed the Great Wall of China, been down and out living in Australia, honeymooned with Gloria during the Grenada Revolution and saw Maurice Bishop, snorkeled with a marlin, almost smuggled a Playboy into Communist Russia, tossed eggs at an Aussie PM, was in Havana when Fidel shocked Cubans and stepped down. My wife made a pot of tea for the Queen of England in N.Z.I travel widely, do a bit of fishing and boating, drink demon rum, manage a writers group, do occasional renos, and sit on my butt outside in the good weather reading a decent book. My writing work consists of travel articles, YA, juvenile, how-tos, and has garnered several awards. Check out my website for some excellent short stories.

Book preview

Archie's Gold

by

E.R. Yatscoff

Copyright © 2011 E. R. Yatscoff

Published by TGR Books

This book is available at most online retailers and in paperback.

PAPERBACK ISBN: 978-0-9869678-7-0

eBook: ISBN: 978-0-9869678-1-8

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This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author © Archie's Gold

Dedication

To my writer's group: Edna Gerrie, Tim Padleki., Savanna Harvey, and Ray Suchow; encouraging, supportive, and honest editors.

To the King Street Boys, wild and crazy characters who used to prowl King Street on summer nights.

Special thanks to my son Joel for the great cover.

Lyle Ryan (deceased) was the inspiration for my Mr. Raintree character.

This book is a work of fiction. Certain locations are mentioned, but all characters and events are totally imaginary. Any similarities are coincidental.

He charges you a nickel just to shine one shoe

He makes the oldest kind o' leather look like new

You feel as though you wanna dance when he gets through

He's a great big bundle o' joy

He pops the boogie-woogie rag

The Chattanoogie shoe shine boy

-Red Foley

Chapter 1

"OW-W-W!"

You long-haired little snot!

The man grabbed a mittful of my thick mop of hair and uprooted me from the tiny saddle on my shoeshine kit. That’s when it struck me why Willy told me to get my haircut before I took this job. My foot slammed against the kit; scattering supplies and spilling my money can across the sidewalk.

You sh-sheated me, kid! The stocky man slurred his words, drunkenly wavering before me.

A gust of wind could easily blow him over. His warm breath reeked of whiskey. His unzipped blue windbreaker had several greasy stains near the pockets. Patches of hair, like two small shaving brushes, poked out at odd angles from each nostril.

Did not! Le'go my hair! I howled, readying a kick to his shins.

He opened his dirty palm revealing the coins I gave him for change on a buck.

"Sh-shange is ninety-five, brat--not…eighty-five."

He needed a bar of soap and clean clothes more than a shine.

My short experience taught me that the longer they sat in the smoky, beer-smelling Station Hotel, the worse they could count, or even see, the blur of coins in their hands. Only my integrity kept me from taking all their loose change.

The man tugged me higher, almost to my feet. I dropped my buffing brush, feeling the roots in my scalp about to be yanked like unwanted crabgrass.

Hey! That's enough! A voice rose from behind my tormentor.

The man turned to it, twisting my head at a painful angle.

The voice belonged to the Indian man, rolling up the sleeves on his white button shirt, giving it all the drama of a surgeon gloving-up for a heart transplant. There was no question as to his intention. As he folded up the right sleeve, a slithering dragon revealed itself on his powerful forearm. The long creature, tattooed in green and dark blue ink, had eyes like finely cut red gems.

A muscle flicked under his skin below one cheekbone. His skin was the color of burnt leather as if he'd spent all his days working outdoors. There were plenty of Indians in my hometown up north, but he was the finest looking Indian I’d seen; looked like a chief to me.

"And who the heck are you?" asked the man, adding a hiccup.

Light bulbs flickering from the hotel sign above our heads reflected like sparks in the Indian's menacing eyes.

The man eased his grip.

I'm his father, replied the Indian man in a deadpan tone.

The man laughed. "You?" He turned back to me, squinting in a blurry-eyed examination. I nodded as best I could from my contorted angle.

The boy's a shhheat.

And you're very drunk, said the Indian man, putting the finishing touches on his sleeves. He flexed his fingers and rested his hands on his hips, waiting. His dark eyes sized up the man, top to bottom, very slowly like a butcher selecting the best part.

The challenge was issued.

The drunk relaxed his grip and I pulled away. I raked my hair into place with my hand as best I could without a comb. My scalp felt scorched. The drunk grumbled under his breath and trudged away, only turning back to sneer at me.

Thanks, I said to my savior, with a nod.

He walked over and offered his hand to shake.

I guess we may as well introduce ourselves. I’m Lyle Raintree, he said, with a broad smile, exposing healthy white teeth; his tough demeanor thawing. Just call me Lyle.

I shook his rough hand and said, Archie Crane. Just call me Archie.

Crane, you say? Hmmm. Nice to meet you, Archie.

He turned and ambled back to his favorite spot, leaning against the third parking meter from the corner. He began most nights there, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, occasionally combing back his raven hair with a steel rat-tail comb. His face could easily be on a billboard advertising hair cream. His friends would pull their cars over so he could duck in the windows to talk and laugh. When they were done, he would slap his palm on the roof and the car would roar off.

One time he came over and leaned against the brick wall of the hotel and we talked--that is, I would talk. Today, I learned his name. He was a man of few words, preferring to listen, usually saying hello or good-bye. Fine by me. The few times I sat shining shoes amidst the passing strangers and drunks, I felt a whole lot safer with him nearby. No one messed with him even though many of the hotel patrons were factory workers and bigger men. Everyone gave him a wide berth.

Having bought the shine spot only a week or so ago from Willy Lederski, I was still new to the streets. Willy's starting price of fifteen bucks was high, but I whittled him down to twelve, blowing every penny I'd saved from my birthday and leftover Christmas money.

Not a bad deal, especially with all the shine supplies, but it still bothered me how he seemed to be in an awful rush to sell. He swore on a good night I could make two bucks; a lot of shines on a lot of shoes, but every nickel added up. I had yet to see one of those nights.

Willy didn’t say much until my cash dropped securely in his pocket and his shine kit was in my hands--a done deal. Then, we rode our bikes over to the Station Hotel where the manager, Mr. Brasford interviewed me. He was a burly, hairy-armed man with thick caterpillar eyebrows that matched the skids of black hair on each side of his baldhead. His white apron hid an enormous watermelon-sized stomach.

Treat my customers good, Archie--no cheating. You got to be here Friday and Saturday nights 'cause the men take their women dancing. I don't want you here after ten, place gets too rowdy. I get ten percent of your take for your spot.

That last bit--the fine print--wasn't mentioned by Willy. At that point in the meeting, Willy hustled for the door. I filled out a slip giving my address and telephone number and shook hands with Mr. Brasford. Still, I biked home happy, practicing my spiel.

Shii-ne! Get yer sh-hine! Nickel a shine! Gonna look fine! Just like a carnival barker pacing at a game booth at the county fair.

It was the last time I remember smiling.

Guys don’t look after their shoes as they should. That’s where I come in. I get their attention and then point to their shoes. Reckon I got a better chance of getting some work than standing there quiet as a mouse.

It had been a slow Thursday night. The clock on the fire station tower down King Street said nine-o'clock so I figured I would pack up early. I didn't need any more excitement.

A long line of traffic sped past, coming up from the nearby Broadway Bridge where they'd just waited for a Laker to pass along the Welland Canal. The canal cut through the city two blocks directly behind me. Some of the ships went all the way to Chicago through the Great Lakes.

I had some studying to do for June exams and didn't want my mom to catch me coming home with the kit in my carrier. She'd flip if she found out, not at all pleased to see me making money this way. It’s no secret I wanted to see my father. Mom and I never discussed it. He lived way up north in Timmins, in ‘the sticks’. Anytime I mentioned his name, she withdrew into an angry-type silence. End of conversation.

I decided against delivering papers because it was an everyday job after school. Like in show biz, 'the show must go on' the paper must be delivered. Forget about cutting grass; I hated the noisy, smelly machines. Beyond pulling the start cord, the whole motor-thing was a mystery.

Some guys in my grade-seven class worked as pin-boys at the bowling alleys; setting up pins for a nickel a game--non-stop hard work--jumping up and down and over to the lanes. Occasionally one had to dodge the balls purposefully rolled down; ankle-breakers. I was too young to work in a store or at the lumberyards building pallets. Jobs cleaning machine shops went to boys whose fathers worked there.

Welland, Ontario, a small city, was a smoggy, stinky, industrial town. Summer days were hot and sticky with a flat white haze pretending to be a sky. Sometimes, late at night, the Union Carbide factory would cover my end of town with thick smog, soiling the clothes my Mom left overnight on the clothesline.

Winters were the worst; slush, ice storms, freezing rain--what a panic. At least up north when it snowed it stayed snowed for a clean white winter. After a snowfall, the northern sky would clear to a sharp blue and the sun would beam with unmatched brilliance. It had been so long since I'd lived there I forgot the flavor of the pine-scented air.

Factory workers were gruff, crude men who I thought had complete control and confidence in their lives. But overhearing them as they hung out in front of the hotel made me realize their everyday world could be as much trouble as mine. They often spoke about problems with their boss or other stuff at work. Their wives seemed to be unpredictable women and their children sounded like maniacs. I always kept an ear attuned as I worked.

The Station Hotel sat diagonally across from an abandoned train station. A double railroad track ran between them. The crossing gates stopped traffic on King as the Toronto, Hamilton, and Buffalo freights roared by. Drivers waited impatiently for a train to pass, all the while gawking at the people milling about the hotel.

Just south of the tracks sat Belasky's Café, where I discovered I could get a fat juicy burger; the best anywhere. Old Mrs. Belasky, better known to all as Ma, looked and dressed like a fortune-telling Gypsy. She would pour me a forbidden coffee and point out the people I should steer clear of: ex-cons and

Reviews for Archie's Gold

[Gloria · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A tale of a courageous boy who finds himself in a lot of trouble when a gold coin ends up in his can. It's a time when boys had shoeshie jobs or pinsetters in bowling alleys. I think they were a lot tougher then