The Three Musketeers
by Andrew Stancek
They had been TheThree Musketeers ever since that first October day when Jozi moved to the school and at recess two boys stood next to him and he knew that he would be their leader. Kupco and Sulir were followers who longed to be in his gang, to follow his command. Now they could not look at each other.
In the eight months since, they had skipped school together and forged notes, smoked Kupco’s father’s cigarettes, and grinned in the outdoor beer garden, pretending to love beer. But after this Jozi knew they were looking at reform school. His grandma had been predicting handcuffs for him since the day she took him in and Jozi now saw the grounds bordered by chain link fence topped with barbed wire, heard the clang of the heavy gate, felt the teeth of the German Shepherd. If they were older, it would be prison, he thought, but they were not going to put twelve-year-olds in prison.
Last week he was taking a bite out of the apricot which Sulir snatched as they went past the greengrocer’s stall, and Jozi’s heart beat a little faster. His grandma asked him the day before if she should buy apricots for his lunch and he said he did not like them much. The one he was biting into was juicy but after just two bites he threw it into the gutter, calling out, “Too tart.” Sulir was always hungry. His mother often forgot to buy food andsometimes she was not home for three days at a time. He gobbled up his apricot and looked atJozi’s half-eaten one longingly, but had to agree, “Too tart.” Jozi wished stolen apricots were all he had to think about now.
Today was miserable from the very beginning. Houskova, their teacher, raged at them all day, smashed three rulers on outstretched palms, asked five students to have their mother come see her tomorrow, had the whole class stay behind for an hour. By the time The Three Musketeerswere leaving school it was dusk. Joziwas the one who cried out, “The bicycle race! We have to read if Smolik won!” and they trotted down the road to the newspaper kiosk which was sure to still have a copy of The Sporting Daily. Mr. Zajko, the crippled vendor, was grumbling as they came up.
“Third time adding it up, third time, and I am always ten crowns short. Ten crowns! Some hoodlum must have cheated me, must have reached in while I was leaning down to get him cigarettes, or Dikobraz magazine. That’s ten crowns I’ll have to make up. I’m the one they’ll take it out of, you can be sure. The company won’t suffer. I’m the one who’ll be without tea for a week.”
Jozi felt sorry for him. He only had three crowns, thesports daily cost one, and he was thinking he should give Mr. Zajko the rest astip, so he could have his tea. But the man kept grumbling and ignoring them. Sulir and Jozi saw it at the same time. There, stuck between the issues of Rude Pravo, half sticking out, was a ten crown note. A customer must have put it down, gotten his change, the bank note was covered by newspapers and from where he sat, deep down in the kiosk, twisted the way he was, Mr. Zajko couldn’t see it.
“Mr.Zajko,” Jozi began, and then Sulir’shand shot out and grabbed the bank note, nudging Jozi hard from behind. Mr. Zajko looked up for the first time, saw the note disappearing in Sulir’s hand.
“Hey, you. Thieving chmulo. What do you think you are doing? Give me my money!” he yelled, and cluttered out the swinging door, hanging onto the door frame, his cane upraised. Jozi, half off-balance from Sulir’s shove, shoved Sulir right back and Sulir, crashed into the vendor. He squawked, all three of them on the ground; the boys scrambled up quickly. Mr. Zajko did not. His arm was twisted under him, blood quickly pooled by his head.
“Do certa,”Kupco swore. “Must have hit his head on the stoop. Let’s scram before someone comes.” Jozi took a last look. The man was moaning, swearing, trying to get up but his crutch was still inside the kiosk. Someone was sure to need cigarettes or a newspaper soon, Jozi thought. Someone would come and help him. He can’t be hurt bad. But he’d say they robbed him. He followed his friends, knowing the days of The Three Musketeers were over. They never even found out if Smolik won the bicycle race.
Some of Andrew Stancek's recent writing has appeared in THIS Literary Magazine, The Linnet's Wings, Pure Slush, Wilderness House Literary Review, Negative Suck, Istanbul Literary Review, A Twist of Noir, Prime Number Magazine and Left Hand Waving. Contact Andrew.
