Dad’s getting fired has a lot to do with why we sold our house. Mom says it was partly a blessing in disguise because Dad’s always talked about starting his own business, and now he’s finally done it. So far he only has three customers. Or clients, as he calls them.
The basement has bumpy gray walls and a few lightbulbs hanging down from the ceiling on neon-yellow cords. There’s a line of garbage cans against the far wall. Dad and I stack the bags of paper in the recycling area.
Next to the last garbage can, there are two doors. One of them says SUPERINTENDENT. There’s a pad taped to it, with a stubby pencil hanging from a string, and a Post-it that says: DATE YOUR WORK REQUESTS.
The second door has something stuck to it too—a piece of loose-leaf paper with words scrawled on it:
Spy Club Meeting—TODAY!
I can’t tell how old the paper is, but it’s a little curly around the edges.
Dad is studying it. “What a ridiculous sign.”
“I know—dumb.”
“I mean, how are we supposed to attend the meeting if they don’t announce the time?”
“Ha, ha.”
“I’m serious.” Dad takes the pencil-on-a-string from the superintendent’s door and stretches it over to the Spy Club notice. It doesn’t quite reach, so he has to write along the very edge of the paper:
WHAT TIME?
When Dad gets an idea into his head, it’s no use trying to stop him. So I just watch him do it. Dad writes with these perfectly even block letters. They teach you that at architecture school.
“Can we go now?”
Upstairs, Dad has me flatten a stack of empty boxes while he puts the books on the bookshelves. I catch myself thinking about that Spy Club sign, and how some kid might get excited that someone is actually coming. But that sheet of paper has probably been stuck up there for months. Years, even.
“I should probably take some of these boxes downstairs,” I say.
“Want me to come?” Dad is looking at the bookshelves, deep in thought, deciding exactly which book should go where. Once, Mom came home from work and discovered that he had turned all the books around so that the bindings were against the wall and the pages faced out. He said it was calming not to have all those words floating around and “creating static.” Mom made him turn them back. She said that it was too hard to find a book when she couldn’t read the titles. Then she poured herself a big glass of wine.
“I can handle the basement,” I tell Dad. “You finish the books.”
Downstairs, I prop the boxes against the wall and glance over at the Spy Club notice.
Under Dad’s WHAT TIME? something is written in orange marker:
1:30?
Great. Now Dad has gone and raised the hopes of some kid in the building. I stand there for a minute, then stretch the stubby-pencil string over to the paper the way Dad did.
OK, I write.
When I get back upstairs, Dad has a book in each hand and he’s just staring, like his life depends on which one he picks. He’s surrounded by five boxes, all still full of books. He’ll never be done.
“The blue one,” I tell him.
He nods and puts it on the shelf. “I was leaning toward the blue.” He stands back. “What do you think so far?”
“Looks good. And it’s less echoey in here now.”
“You want to call Mom at the hospital? We can fill her in, tell her how it’s going.”
“Maybe later.” I don’t like the way Mom’s voice sounds at the hospital. Tired.
“I need lunch,” Dad says. “DeMarco’s?”
I say yes to pizza. “But can we make it quick?” I ask. “I have a meeting downstairs at one-thirty, thanks to you.”
Dad stares at me for a second and then bursts out laughing. “Seriously? The Spy Club? I was sure that sign was ten years old!”
But of course he loves that I’m going through with it.
“What if it’s a seven-year-old or something?” I complain on the way to DeMarco’s.
“Only one way to find out,” Dad says cheerfully. As if he isn’t to blame for the whole situation.
Spy Club
I get to the basement at 1:31 p.m. The Spy Club door is open, just a crack, and there’s light coming from inside. I’m holding a little bag of crumpled-up newspaper, for camouflage, in case it is a seven-year-old.
I carry my bag down to the last trash can—the one closest to the open door. Making as much noise as possible, I open the lid and dump my “garbage” in. But no one comes out of the room.
I stand in front of the door and listen. There is no sound at all. I push the door with one finger, so that I might have just accidentally bumped it. It swings wide open.
It’s a tiny little room, almost a closet, with dingy walls, a concrete floor, and one lightbulb dangling from the ceiling in a way that’s slightly creepy. There’s a tiny painted-over window high up on the back wall that lets in some light from outside. But not much.
The only thing in the room is a folding table with spindly metal legs. Sitting cross-legged on the table is a girl with short dark hair and bangs that draw a straight line across her forehead. She looks about seven years old.
“You came!” she says. She’s wearing fuzzy pink slippers. There’s an open book in her lap.
“Uh, no. I was actually just throwing out some garbage,” I say. “Look, I’m sorry. My dad thinks he’s funny, and he was the one who—”
“Don’t worry,” she interrupts, “it’s not my stupid club.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. I’m just here to get paid.”
“Paid for what?”
“I’m a scout.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, you know.” She closes the book and dangles her legs off the front of the table. I can now see that her fuzzy pink slippers have little ears. And eyes. I think they might be pigs. “Scouts look for traps, setups, that kind of thing.”
“How old are you?” I say. “And what kind of traps?”
“Older than I look. And who knows what kind of traps? I told you, I’m doing this for the money. I make fifty cents every thirty minutes. That’s a dollar an hour. Do you think I’d be doing this for free? For a dollar I can get a pack of Chicks, Ducks, and Bunnies SweeTarts. They only sell them in April and May. That’s what I’m doing later. My mom is taking me to the Chock-Nut.”
I realize she means Bennie’s, where I’ve gone almost every day of my life after school to buy a snack. Bennie has a faded blue awning that says CHOCK-NUT, but nobody actually calls it that. When I was in kindergarten and first grade, Bennie would slide a plastic milk crate under the counter for me to stand on so I could see the candy better. I wonder if he does the same for this girl. I think how Bennie is a good guy.
She hops down from the table, landing silently in her pig slippers. “But once I get there, I might go for a Cadbury Crème Egg instead—that’s another seasonal candy.”
“But—who’s paying you?” I ask.
“Safer is paying me.”
“What’s Safer?”
“Safer is not a what. He’s the twelve-year-old human standing right behind you.”
I whirl around and find myself standing nose to nose with the dog boy.
“I’m Safer,” the dog boy says.
“One dollar, please!” The girl holds out her palm.
Safer takes a folded dollar bill out of his back pocket and hands it to her.
“Wait,” I say. “You were sitting there for an hour?”
“Fifteen minutes,” she says. “Plus forty-five more on the lobbycam during lunch.”
“The lobbycam?”
“Yup. Watching you and your dad go out for pizza. It took you exactly forty-three minutes, in case you’re wondering.”
Before I can ask her what the heck she’s talking about, Safer pushes her out the door. “Goodbye, Candy,” he says to the back of her head. “Tell Mom I’ll be up in a little bit.”
“Wait,” I say
when he’s closed the door behind her. “Her name is Candy?”
Safer looks at me. “Yeah.”
“And your name is—Safer?”
“Yeah.”
I smile. I have a strong feeling that I’ve just met two kids who will never make fun of my name.
Safer
“Coffee?” Safer asks.
He takes a flask—an actual flask—out of his back pocket. I know what a flask is because Dad has two of them. Dad doesn’t use his, though. He just likes to look at them. They’re really old (of course), and one of them belonged to his grandfather. It even has his initials on it.
Safer unscrews the top slowly, puts the flask to his lips, and tips it back. He swallows and then holds it out to me.
“No thanks,” I say. “I heard coffee stunts your growth.”
Safer shrugs, screws the top back on, and shoves the flask back into his pocket.
“Let’s get started. Question number one: How many garbage cans are lined up outside that door?”
We’re kind of leaning against the table from opposite sides, and he’s looking right into my eyes.
“Was that your sister?” I ask.
Safer blinks. “Yes. How many garbage cans?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “Do you want me to count them for you? Or you could, you know, count them yourself. Are you asking me to count them?”
“No. I’m not asking you to count them. I assume you can count. I’m asking you to remember.”
“Oh.” I realize it’s a test. “Eight, maybe?”
“Ten. How many buttons on your shirt? Don’t look.”
I have an almost-irresistible urge to look down. I stare at the lightbulb on the ceiling to stop myself.
“Seven?”
“Eight.”
“Okay. So—what’s your point?”
“My point?” He pulls the flask out again, takes a drink, and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “My point is that we have a lot of work to do.”
Safer takes the spy stuff very seriously. He tells me that there’s this guy in the building, who he calls Mr. X, who is almost definitely up to something evil. He says that—evil—like it’s something he deals with every day. Just another day, fighting the world’s evil forces. I like it.
Mr. X wears black all the time, Safer tells me: “All. The. Time.” Black pants, black shirt, black shorts in the summer. He’s always moving these suitcases in and out of the building. And they look heavy.
“Wait,” I say, thinking of that morning in the elevator, “does he wear a baseball cap with a fish on it?”
Safer snaps his head around to stare at me. “No. He does not wear a baseball cap with a fish on it.”
“Oh. I thought maybe I saw him. My dad talked to a guy with two big suitcases in the elevator this morning. But he was wearing a fish hat. It was yellow.”
Safer looks annoyed. “That couldn’t have been him. If Mr. X wore a baseball cap, it would be black.”
“Oh, right.”
“And another thing is that Mr. X doesn’t talk.”
“He doesn’t talk?”
“He doesn’t talk.”
“Wait—you mean, never?”
Safer leans toward me and shakes his head slowly back and forth. He’s giving me the willies, and I’m not sure I want to be here anymore. But I’m not sure I want to leave, either.
Safer begins to pace. The room is so small that he’s basically just walking around the table in a circle. Every time he gets to where I’m standing, he does an about-face and walks in the other direction.
“If we’re going to work together, you have to learn to focus—try to notice things.”
“What things?”
“It doesn’t matter what things. Anything. Buttons. Garbage cans. Stay in the moment. I get the feeling your mind wanders.”
I don’t say anything. It does.
“You’re a very important part of this case, you know.”
“I am?”
“You are.”
“Why?”
“Because you live in the apartment right below him.”
“Below who?”
“Below Mr. X.”
“I do? But I haven’t even told you what apartment I live in.”
He crosses his arms and looks at me. “I can tell you’re smart, you know. Even though you ask all those questions you know the answers to.”
Sure, I’m smart. And sometimes I do ask questions I know the answers to—Mom calls it stalling. But honestly, it’s just hard to follow Safer’s conversation.
“No one can know about this, of course. Not yet.”
“About what?”
“Mr. X. Us. The Spy Club.”
“Oh. What about Candy?”
“Candy won’t tell. You didn’t say anything, did you? To your dad?”
“No—well, he knows about the Spy Club sign—he was actually the one who asked what time the meeting was.”
Safer blows out his cheeks in exasperation and throws his arms toward the ceiling. “Great! Now he knows something is up!”
“You’re the one who put the sign up! What was I supposed to do? Spend twenty minutes throwing out the garbage? He’d come down here looking for me.”
“It’s okay,” Safer says. “Calm down.”
“I’m calm.” I don’t point out that he’s the one who started throwing his arms around.
“Just tell him that no one showed.”
“What?”
“Tell him you came down and waited, but no one showed up. You can do that, can’t you?”
“I guess, but—”
“Good.”
“Can I ask you a question? Why did you take those dogs down here? This is where those stairs lead, from the lobby, right? To the basement?”
“It’s a job. I’m a dog walker.”
“You walk them in the basement?”
“In the courtyard—there’s a door.”
“Why don’t you take them outside?”
He waves a hand at me. “I had some trouble. I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“Oh.” I nod toward the elevator. “So, you heading upstairs?”
“Go ahead,” Safer says. “I never use the elevator. Too easy to be taken by surprise.”
“Seriously?”
“And there’s only one exit.”
“Okay, well, I’ll see you, I guess.”
He nods. “At the next meeting.”
“When’s that?”
Safer cups one hand under my elbow and steers me to the door. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Should I give you my phone number or something?”
He taps his head. “Not necessary.”
Fortunes
Dad is all smiles when I open the apartment door. “How’d it go?”
“No one showed,” I say.
The smile drops off his face. “Oh. I’m sorry, bud.”
“I don’t mind,” I tell him.
“You were waiting all this time?”
“Yeah—it was fine, though.”
“You sure you aren’t disappointed?”
Why do parents ask questions like that?
“Seriously, Dad. I’m one hundred percent fine.”
Except that I have just lied. I hate lying. And I don’t even know why I did it.
Dad says, “How about we go to Yum Li’s for dinner tonight?”
Yum Li’s is one of my favorite restaurants of all time. I feel kind of guilty because I know he’s suggesting it to cheer me up about something that didn’t really happen, but I say, “Yeah, Yum Li’s sounds good,” and let Dad squeeze my shoulder and pat me on the head.
“Why don’t you get started on your room,” he says. “I’ll finish up these bookshelves.”
When I think of all the work Dad put into our house it’s pretty sad. But mostly I feel sorry for myself, because the coolest thing about it was my room. A long time ago, Dad took apart a fire escape—a real fire escape, from a building that his office was
demolishing—and he rebuilt the bottom level of it inside my bedroom. He bolted it to the wall, and even attached the original ladder. I had a bed up there, and he made me these built-in cubbies for all my stuff. I had the most excellent room of any kid I know, and we had to leave it behind.
“It’s built in,” Dad explained. “Part of the house. And the buyers love it.”
So do I, I wanted to tell him. But I didn’t, because he looked so miserable.
At our new place, I have Dad’s old bedroom furniture from when he was a kid—a bed, a desk, and a bookshelf, all made out of the same dark wood. His mom kept it in her garage all these years, and a couple of weeks ago Dad drove it to Brooklyn in a rented van.
I start to unpack my boxes, wondering whether there’s a kid in my room at this very moment, climbing up and down my ladder and putting his stuff in my cubbies.
We’re crossing the lobby on our way to Yum Li’s when I see Candy and a woman who must be her mom coming in through the front door. Candy’s lips are stained bright blue.
“Hello,” the woman says, smiling and holding the door for us. Dad says hi back and I wave at Candy, but she stares straight ahead as if she doesn’t even see me. I forgot that we’re not supposed to know each other.
“They must live in the building,” Dad says when we’re outside. “I wonder if that little girl has any older brothers or sisters.”
“She does.” Oops.
“She does? When did you—”
“I mean, probably she does. She looks like the little-sister type.” Now I’m feeling guilty again.
He gives me a funny look, and so I do what Candy did—just stare straight ahead and act as if I don’t notice.
At Yum Li’s, I forget all about feeling guilty. Just looking at the food on other people’s tables makes my mouth water. We order soup, scallion pancakes, cold noodles with sesame sauce, and spicy shredded beef with broccoli.
Yum Li’s isn’t like most Chinese restaurants, where they rush the food out right away. Here, you have to wait. No bowls of crunchy noodles and orange goop, either. It’s just ice water and the smell of other people’s dinners.