Plotnick fanned himself with his apron. “It’s too much for an old man! Hey, Mr. Champion — big deal.”
“Come on, Mr. Plotnick,” coaxed Ferguson. “I definitely have a job, and I can pay you on Friday.”
Our landlord held firm. “For all we know, the world could end on Thursday.”
“What good would money do you then?” the Peach persisted.
“I would die happier.”
Ordering two corned beef on rye, cut in thirds.
* * *
I went to the car wash with Don the next morning, but they only needed one chrome polisher. Too many sub-compacts, not enough chrome. So Don started work, and I picked up the paper and went home.
I had just buried myself in the Employment section when Rootbeer burst out of the broom closet, waving pictures.
“Hey, Jason, check it out.”
Thirty-six high-contrast extreme dose-ups of a cockroach.
“Where — where did you take these?”
“Right in the closet,” crowed Rootbeer, blowing on the prints. “Talk about convenient!”
I emptied half a can of bug spray into the apartment. Even with the window wide open, it hung in the air like fog. Then I remembered what my mother went through the year the ants got in. She had to empty the kitchen cupboards, spray around, wash every dish, plate, cup, saucer, glass, knife, fork, and spoon, check all the food, move the fridge, ditto the stove, poison the drains, and then put everything back. I followed it all, step by painstaking step.
It interrupted my job search for a day and a half. Grunting and groaning, I pushed the refrigerator back into its place and plugged it in.
Rootbeer looked up from the electronic flash he was attaching to his camera. “Seems like a lot to go through for one little cockroach,” he commented — he, who could have lifted the fridge with his little finger and saved me a quadruple hernia.
“There’s no such thing as one cockroach,” I croaked, in a very tired imitation of my mother’s pep talk from the ant infestation. “If there’s one, there are a hundred. And if you give them time to start having babies, forget it.”
“But there was only one. I brought him in myself. Found him in the garbage outside. He looked photogenic.”
Then, to add insult to injury, the photogenic cockroach had the gall to stroll right across the carpet in front of me. After all that bug spray, all those traps, and all that poison, he was perky as anything. Who did he think he was — Rasputin? I hit him with the newspaper, and he perked no more. And by the time I cooled off, it was after two o’clock. A lot of people take off Friday afternoons in the summer. And besides, there were bug guts all over the Employment section. Yech.
* * *
It was payday, and money animated apartment 2C like wind in the sails of a three-masted schooner. It was only Ferguson’s salary plus two days chrome polishing pay from Don, but it meant the end of $5.86 per person per week, and it seemed like a fortune.
Don was bouncing around the place, hooting and laughing, because Ferguson had a date.
“I believe in miracles!” he shouted, spraying his cologne at the Peach, who was trying to get ready. “There is a woman ugly enough and desperate enough to waste a Friday night on Peachfuzz!”
Ferguson just smiled and combed his hair.
“What are we doing tonight?” I asked Don.
Mr. Wonderful reached for the phone. “I think Jessica’s cooled her heels long enough. And maybe she can scare up a friend for you.” He dialed. “Hello, Jess? It’s Don Champion. How’ve you been? …”
Ferguson headed out the door.
“Hey, you want the car?” I offered.
“No, thanks. We can take the bus. See you later.” He leaned back in towards Don and called, “Tell her I’ll be there in five minutes.” And then he was gone.
Don didn’t catch it at all, and it took a few seconds to sink in with me.
“You’ve got plans, eh?” Don was saying. “Well, break ’em.… Oh, you can’t. Well, that’s no problem.… Nah, don’t worry about it. Later.” He hung up. “Bummer. She’s already got a date.”
It was starting to hit me. “I — I think I know who — he said — and she said — uh —” I grabbed Don and we raced into the bathroom to the window. There was the Peach, wending his way up Bathurst.
“Impossible,” said Don firmly. “No chance.” But two minutes later, Ferguson reappeared, hand in hand with Jessica Lincoln.
Don was very calm. “There’s only one explanation. Jessica is insane. Poor girl. Good thing I didn’t get mixed up with her.”
“You didn’t call her all week,” I said in a feeble attempt to defend the Peach. What the hell was going on here? Now she was dating Ferguson? How did that happen? Did I miss something? I sat down heavily on the edge of the bathtub, my hopes for Jessica completely dashed. I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking about, but I knew exactly what she wasn’t thinking about. Me. I must have really caught her eye that night. Maybe my shirt had the same pattern as the wallpaper at Moontrix.
“Well,” shrugged Don, heading back into the living room, “I always knew Peachfuzz was an idiot, but I didn’t think he was a sleazebag. As for Jessica her loss. Now — what are we going to do tonight?”
“Why don’t you stay home and help me with my stamp collection?” asked Rootbeer from the beanbag chair.
“What stamp collection?” I asked, wandering to the sofa and slumping down on it, face first.
“It’s my new hobby. Stamp collecting is a great way to relax and get my mind off all the pressures.”
“But your hobby is photography,” I protested. “What about the darkroom in the broom closet?”
He dismissed this with a wave of his beefy hand. “Can’t see a thing in there. It’s dark.” He shook his shaggy head. “I don’t think this is going to be very relaxing. Everything is so small!” He held up tweezers, which looked like a straight pin in his mammoth paw. “I’m supposed to pick up stamps with this; I can’t even pick up this! I asked the guy to sell me bigger stamps, but he didn’t have any.”
I was stunned. “But — but you were still snapping pictures two hours ago!”
Rootbeer shrugged. “The guy at the pawnshop gave me big bucks for the enlarger.”
“Oh,” I said. Come to think of it, I’d gone out for some air that afternoon, mostly to parade myself up and down Bathurst where stupid Jessica lived. It was half an hour, tops. But somewhere in there, Rootbeer must have left the apartment a photographer, and returned a stamp collector. It boggled the mind but, then again, so did Rootbeer.
On the way out, Don posed the question. “What is he relaxing from?”
“Executive burnout.”
We giggled all the way downstairs.
“I scouted out the perfect place for us to eat,” said Don as we hit the street. “It’s right here on Pitt Street, on the other side of Bathurst. It’s called the Pop Bistro, and the sign says, ‘Blues Nitely,’ N-I-T-E-L-Y. Is that city cool, or what?”
The Pop Bistro was in a building that looked like a nice version of 1 Pitt Street. The paint was fresh, the brick had been sandblasted, and new aluminum windows gleamed.
I turned to Don. “We’d better be careful. I’ll bet this place looked exactly like Plotnick’s until somebody started breaking stairs.”
As we made for the Pop Bistro’s front door, we stopped to admire the pink neon Eiffel Tower on the club’s sign.
Don sighed deeply. “This is going to be great. We should have bought berets.”
As he reached for the door handle, a distant voice called, “No-o-o-o!” We wheeled to see Plotnick rushing across the street after us, waving his meat fork. By the time he reached us, he was gray and gasping. “Mr. Cardone! Mr. Champion! You can’t go in there!”
We stared. “Why?”
“It’s no good! You’ll get gas! And heartburn! And food poisoning!”
I swallowed hard. “Mr. Plotnick, no offense, but we’re going to eat wherever we please.
Two days ago, someone wouldn’t sell us three lousy plates of spaghetti on credit, and he’s not getting another chance. We need to relax tonight, so please leave us alone.”
The meat fork made a dangerous arc in front of my face. “You can’t relax in there! It’s crazy, with people packed like sardines — you’ll come out, you’ll have high blood pressure!”
Don brightened. “That’s what we want. We’re looking for some action.”
“It’s boring!” Plotnick raged. “You’ll hate it! Come have dinner in my restaurant.”
“No way,” I said.
Don looked at our agitated landlord. “Mr. Plotnick, what do you have against this place?”
“It’s owned by a money-grubber!” Both of us stared directly at him. “Not me! Hamish! A no-good, a lowlife! For thirty years I’ve known Hamish, and never once has he done a nice thing for another person! His building and restaurant used to be just like mine, and now look what he’s done with it!”
Don shrugged. “It’s nice.”
“Nice! Nice! That bandit! He gouges big rents from his tenants, big prices from his customers, and he’s making a fortune — I could take poison!”
“I get it,” I said. “You’re jealous.”
Plotnick glared. “I deny this! It’s a filthy lie!”
I set my jaw. “We’re eating here, Mr. Plotnick. And whatever this guy Hamish charges, bandit or not, it’s got to be cheaper than dealing with you.”
With his free hand, Plotnick tore open the Bistro door, screamed, “They’re under-age!” and, with a triumphant look, started back to the deli.
I stared at the sign that read, No One Under 19 Will Be Admitted.
Don gazed with a forlorn expression at Plotnick’s receding back. “We weren’t going in there to drink,” he said sadly. “We just wanted some food and some ‘Blues Nitely.’”
We went back to 1 Pitt Street, picked up the car, and started to cruise the Harborfront area. We found a restaurant that was fairly cool but not too expensive-looking, because our cash was still limited.
No sooner were we seated than Don’s radar was up, scanning the vicinity for a likely female. It took about three seconds.
“Bingo,” he said smugly. “She makes Jessica look like a train wreck.”
I wouldn’t go that far, but she was pretty nice. The problem was she was sitting with her parents.
Don cast her his best Meet Mr. Wonderful look, and she responded with a dazzling, green-eyed, red-haired smile that practically knocked the two of us over in our chairs. I frowned at Don resentfully. It must be nice to attract female attention with one well-placed glance. The girl’s father noticed the romantic communication, and scowled Don down. I beamed my approval. It went on like that all through dinner, she and Don trading vibes, and the parents trying to freeze Don out. I kept score, secretly rooting for Mom and Dad.
I was choking down food like crazy, because Don insisted that we had to pull even with them by the dessert stage, and I was half a chicken behind.
“You could snort all this up your nose, and it wouldn’t do you any good,” I said, mouth full. “Those parents aren’t going to let you anywhere near her.”
“Keep eating and leave that to me,” Don mumbled, while sucking in an entire bowlful of linguini. “Check the table in front of her. She’s had three Cokes. When she heads for the can, she’s mine.”
These Mr. Wonderful strategies — they sound so stupid, but they work! It unfolded just like he said. She disappeared down the hallway to the restrooms, and Don was behind her like a Secret Service bodyguard. Her dad wheeled in his chair and shot me a look that would melt lead.
I shrugged apologetically.
* * *
“Kiki!” chortled Don gleefully. “The Peachfuzzes of this world can only get so far before the real Champions rise to the surface! A Kiki beats a Jessica any day!”
By the dim light of the dashboard, Don pored over a cocktail napkin. On it was written Kiki: 555-2461 in red lipstick. Beside the signature was the glossy red impression of lips kissing the paper.
“Anybody named Kiki has to be awesome, but her — wow! And if I say so myself, it was true artistry getting this number, right under her parents’ noses! Not bad at all.”
“You’d better be careful,” I advised Don. “That father looks like he patrols under her bedroom window with a blunderbuss.”
“He’ll come around,” said Don serenely.
“Yeah!” I snapped. “He’ll come around the corner to see what he shot!”
“Listen, it’s not just the number; it’s the momentum! These things come in waves, Jason! This is just what we needed.” He slapped the note for emphasis. “This is the break that’s going to turn our summer around. Mark my words, from this moment on, everything is going to be perfect!”
Suddenly I was blinded by red lights in the rearview mirror. I craned my neck to see a police car tailing us. I pulled over, and one officer got out and examined the Camaro. When he knelt to check the license plate, it hit me in one instant of exquisite horror — we’d forgotten to call the police to report the “stolen” car had never really been stolen at all.
We were under arrest.
* * *
My gibbered-out explanation of why we were in the stolen vehicle not only made us look like criminals, but stupid criminals to boot. Even Don didn’t believe me, and he knew I was telling the truth. Let’s face it — “Car — Rootbeer — Florida — Joe — alligators — I didn’t do anything!” wasn’t about to convince the police to let us go.
We sat at the desk while the arresting officer spoke on the phone across the room.
Don craned his neck around the station house. “Don’t worry, Jason. We’re definitely the best-dressed guys who got arrested tonight. Good thing we wore our new clothes.”
I couldn’t believe it. “Are you nuts? We’re in jail! What difference does it make what we’re wearing?”
“Don’t be dumb. We’re a couple of clean-cut guys. If we looked sleazy, they’d probably lock us up while they checked out our story.”
Our cop hung up the phone and came over, looking grim. “I’m going to lock you up while I check out your story. Empty your pockets.”
Stunned, we handed over everything we could find in the new clothes that made us so respectable, and would keep us out of the clink.
They took our wallets and watches and Don’s gold chain. They even took the note on the cocktail napkin. Don pleaded with them, but the officer said rules were rules.
“You take good care of that!” cried Don.
Then we were escorted through the dingy, chaotic halls of the police station to a windowless interrogation room, and left there.
I turned to Don. “‘From this moment on, everything’s going to be perfect!’” I mimicked savagely.
“If they lose Kiki’s telephone number,” Don promised, “I’m going to sue the Toronto Police Department!”
“For what?” I snarled.
“Wrongful misplacement of an important document!” Mr. Wonderful declared.
“Napkin-napping would be more like it.”
“I can’t believe they locked us up!” Don moaned. “Don’t they understand it was just a mistake?”
The time dragged. I can’t be sure just how much time, because our watches were with Don’s napkin. It must have been at least a couple of hours. If we hadn’t looked like criminals coming in, we must have by now — wild-eyed, nervous, sweaty, and disheveled.
Don sat on a small wooden chair, whistling “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall” through his teeth. I paced back and forth, wondering why it took so long to find out that the car was Joe’s, and I was Jason, the address matched, and we were on the up-and-up.
Suddenly the door opened, and our cop escorted Ferguson into the room. The Peach had boosted our humiliation up to the next level by bringing Jessica along. It was a moment of perfect agony. Jessica’s eyes were on me at last. Sure. Everybody wanted to get a look at the idiot who got
arrested for stealing his own car. And what about Don? When the guy who moved in on your girl brings that girl to visit you in the slammer, it’s a special kind of pain. I figured Don was going to grind Ferguson into a useless powder in front of every cop in town.
It didn’t happen. Don’s purple face and my red one both had the sense to keep their mouths shut.
The Peach, with his usual perfect logic, had straightened things out for the police in a way that no one else had thought of. He explained to them that they had Jason Cardone in custody for a car theft reported by Jason Cardone. It worked a lot better than what the cops were doing, which was trying to get in touch with the owner of the vehicle.
That meant Don and I could sign for our valuables and leave. “Don’t forget to take our car off the hot sheet,” I reminded the desk sergeant as I put on my watch and pocketed my wallet.
“Front pocket,” Jessica reminded me.
Don was riffling through his pile of belongings with increasing agitation. “All right!” he bellowed.
“Who took my napkin?”
“Relax, kid,” said the desk sergeant. “We’ll get you another napkin.”
Don was red-faced. “But it has to be that one! Where is it?”
“A-choooo!”
We wheeled. Seated at a computer terminal, a constable, watery-eyed and sneezing, blew his nose into a large white —
“Napkin!” cried Don, wrenching the serviette away from the startled policeman’s face. “It’s smeared! Ah, but you can still read the number.…”
Jessica looked around the police station warily. “I wonder how many of these people are muggers.” Suddenly she pointed to a tall, bearded man in a black trenchcoat. “Officer!” she whispered urgently to the desk sergeant. “See that man over there?”
The sergeant whispered back, “What about him?”
“Don’t you think it’s funny he’s wearing a long coat like that in the summer? Maybe he’s hiding a sawed-off shotgun under there.”
The sergeant stood up. “Probably not,” he replied, and by now his whisper was loud enough for all to hear. “He’s the police chaplain.”
We hauled her out of there before she got us rearrested.