Children of the Dark
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Let's face it, Teen agers will get hold of this and read it with avidity as they do Shulman's earlier books. Perhaps it would be just as well to know what the score is and give it to them straight. After all, the book mirrors some of the unsavory aspects of human relations in that typically American middle-class middle-income group. It may be wholly disillusioning to the more naive teen agers -- but only too many of them will recognize the parent to parent, parent to child relationships graphically described in this book, and used as the reasons behind some of the teen age disasters. The story centers around Steve Stark, a new boy in an average mid-western town, and traces the steps leading up to a series of increasingly disastrous episodes he and the gang of kids he runs around with are involved in. There is a fatal motor car race, a revealing evening in a bar, a psychopathic killing. Melodrama yes. But an eye-opener that may strike more familiar notes than we care to recognize.
because the door jammed or he had got caught or had frozen or whatever else could have happened—they would never know. But Chuck had gone over the cliff and Judy was standing in the middle of the bluff, screaming. Both cars, their lights blazing, motors running, wheels spinning, went over the edge, then struck a point of the bluff and blew up. They flared off like rockets and with tails of flame narrowly missed a moving car that skidded to a stop as the flaming wrecks bounded over the road
Bert offered a compromise. “But you’re gonna get up the fifteen,” about this sum he was completely inflexible. “Hey,” the soldier addressed the bartender, “you’re arguin’ and disturbin’ our fun and frolic.” “He owes me fifteen bucks,” Bert explained his annoyance. “Maybe you wanna pay it?” “Me?” the soldier stepped back, then laughed. “I’ve got enough trouble keepin’ from being short-changed. You gotta pay for the drinks, kid,” he said gravely to Steve. “Get back to your army!” Steve shouted
Baxter.” Plato tapped her arm. “My mother’s packing?” “She should be about finished.” The housekeeper looked at the banjo clock. “She has a reservation on the six-oh-five train.” Plato nodded. “Then she’ll have to hurry,” he said solemnly, in a low, level voice that sounded mechanical. “I’ll see if she needs some help.” “Plato,” the housekeeper called after him. “Yes?” “Plato”—she climbed several steps—“you’ll be all right?” “You know I will. I guess I’ll eat out.” “I think I’ll stay,” Mrs.
for automobile service. These strips were located closest to the kitchen in order that the attractive waitresses uniformed as alter-Wien hussars could conserve their energies by limiting their service areas. On the perimeter of the lot were spaces for cars whose occupants preferred to eat at the counters within the glass-walled island. Through the windows, which were illuminated by a strong blaze of light, could be seen several people spaced on the stools and only one or two cars were pulled in
spent in searching for the bomb —and wouldn’t that kick the hell out of the day! Buzzy felt better. The thought was genius. “Didn’t we sorta hit it off right from the beginning?” Plato knew that Steve agreed with him, still he had to press his argument. “And I bet you and I like the same things and have the same interests. Maybe we could collect stamps together.” “Sure.” Steve started Plato for the building because it was senseless to be late. “So let’s get together tonight for a real bull