“We’ll have,” said Law.
“– three Big Macs,” said Order.
“– with fries,” said the Officer-in-Charge.
Happily, once they had been served, Law, Order, and the Officer-in-Charge got right back into their car and drove off, and Jacob Two-Two began to breathe easier.
Then Mickey, Chris, and Robby were heard from: “Perfectly Loathsome Leo seems to be heading your way. Wait. He has just stopped at the corner.” There was a pause. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“He’s not coming,” said Jacob Two-Two. “He’s not coming.”
“Sh,” said Mr. Dinglebat.
Mickey continued: “There is an old man seated on the pavement, wearing a sign saying HELP A POOR BLIND MAN, and there is an upsidedown hat held between his knees, filled with coins. Perfectly Loathsome Leo stopped in front of him — looked right — looked left — and then stooped and dug some coins out of the blind man’s hat. He is now heading your way fast.”
Finally an excited O’Toole reported: “I.M. Greedyguts has just stepped out of Ben and Jerry’s, licking a triple-scoop cherry ice cream. The suspect is now approaching the target area. Be careful, Jacob.”
Within minutes, Mr. I.M. Greedyguts and Perfectly Loathsome Leo were standing at the counter in McDonald’s, placing their orders, unaware that they were being observed, overheard, and recorded by Jacob Two-Two and Mr. Dinglebat.
Mr. I.M. Greedyguts ordered three Big Macs, two buckets of fries, and a large Coke.
“Is that all you’re going to have?” asked a disgusted Perfectly Loathsome Leo.
“I’m taking Miss Sour Pickle out for dinner tonight and I don’t want to spoil my appetite. What about you, Perfectly Loathsome?”
“Am I paying?”
“Certainly.”
“In that case, I’m not hungry.”
They sat down at a table, and no sooner did Mr. I.M. Greedyguts finish his snack, than he held out his hand and Perfectly Loathsome Leo passed him a fat envelope.
“The bribe money, no doubt,” whispered Mr. Dinglebat, “the five hundred dollars,” and click, click, click went Jacob Two-Two’s hidden camera.
Then Perfectly Loathsome Leo moved over to the counter where the little plastic packets of ketchup and mustard were available. He scooped up several handfuls and left.
Mr. I.M. Greedyguts started for the door – hesitated – and turned back.
“Yikes,” said a terrified Jacob Two-Two. “He’s heading our way. What should I say? What should I say?”
Mr. I.M. Greedyguts stopped immediately before their table. “I beg your pardon,” he said to Jacob Two-Two, “but would you happen to be related to the World’s Best Midget Photographer?”
“My friend here doesn’t understand English,” said Mr. Dinglebat.
“It’s just that he looks so familiar,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts. “Is it possible that I have met the kid at the White House, where I am frequently invited?”
“He’s no kid,” said Mr. Dinglebat, pretending to be insulted. “My companion here is seventy-two years old.”
“Holy smokes,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts.
“Let me introduce you to Jacoby Zweizwei, the World’s Most-Celebrated Shrinking Man. I brought him out of the jungles of Borneo when he was a strapping teenager, six-foot-six in his bare feet. But the poor fellow was bitten by the notorious zitsy-zitsy fly, and he has been shrinking ever since. Why, when little Zweizwei reaches the age of ninety-two, he will be so petit, I will be able to carry him around in my breast pocket.”
“Oh, the poor fellow,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, leaning over for a closer look at Jacob Two-Two.
“Don’t do that!” shouted Mr. Dinglebat.
“Why not?” asked Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, jumping back.
“Fortunately, I’m immune. But if he bites your finger, you, yourself, will start shrinking. It’s contagious, you see.”
Mr. I.M. Greedyguts fled, which made Jacob Two-Two laugh. But then he saw that Mr. Dinglebat didn’t look pleased.
“I’m afraid we’ve been outsmarted,” said Mr. Dinglebat.
“How come?” asked Jacob Two-Two. “How come?”
“We never really got to see money change hands. I was hoping Greedyguts would take it out of the envelope and count it, but he didn’t, darn it!”
“What do we do now?” asked Jacob Two-Two.
“Why, if at first you don’t succeed, you try, try, and try again. I will put on my thinking cap and come up with something. Count on it, Jacob.”
“I do,” said Jacob Two-Two. “I do.”
CHAPTER 23
he following Tuesday, which was OFFICIAL SUPER-DOOPER TREASURE HUNT NIGHT, Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse and his miserly mum were hard at work as usual in the furnace room, rummaging through their tenants’ garbage bags.
“Zowie,” called out Perfectly Loathsome Leo, “I just found a used toothbrush.”
“And I’ve got some cabbage leaves that will do very nicely for tomorrow’s soup,” said his mother.
“Look at this,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo, “some sheets of stationery that have been written on only on one side.”
“How many, my pumpkin?”
“Seven.”
“It warms my heart to see you so happy again, my dumpling, but tell me why you didn’t play poker as usual last Friday night?”
“Jacob Two-Two’s mother put her foot down. I am no longer welcome there. But do you think I care? No. Why, I hear they’re working Jacob Two-Two, that little stinker, so hard after school, that he now has dark circles under his eyes. Har, har, har.”
The bell rang.
“You get it,” said his mother.
“What if it’s the health-department inspector?”
“Wait a minute,” she said, leaping out of her rocking chair, “while I empty all the mousetraps.”
The bell rang again.
“What about the cockroaches, Mummy?”
“Why, we’ll tell them we keep them as house pets. Now answer the door, sweetums,” she said, even as she arranged her hair.
Perfectly Loathsome Leo did as he was asked, and he was so nervous he failed to notice the police car parked across the street, three officers keeping watch in the dark.
Perfectly Loathsome Leo and his miserly mum had two visitors. A bent-over old man trailing a long white beard and holding the hand of a fat, freckled little boy with curly red hair, possibly a wig, and red button nose that just might have been false. “Let me introduce myself,” wheezed the old man. “You are looking at a world traveler. In my time, I have kept a dog in the town of Moose Jaw, in Canada, and eaten mooseburgers on the Isle of Dogs, in England. In days gone by, I survived on sardines in the city of Kiev, in the Ukraine, and went on to feast on chicken Kiev on the island of Sardinia. To make a long story short, I am a gourmet, an internationally known food expert, and this is my grandson, Jacov Shtyim-Shtyim.”
“And we hear,” said the freckle-faced little boy, “that you and your mother prepare absolutely delicious meals.”
“So we do,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo’s miserly mum.
“We are looking for somebody who can cater a dinner for one hundred distinguished guests,” said the old man.
“Price is no object,” said the boy, just as he had been told to say.
“In that case,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo, beginning to pant with excitement, “you have certainly come to the right place.”
“But there’s nowhere to sit down,” said the old man, heaving a great sigh.
“Leo,” said his miserly mum, “take our guests into the parlor and, um, switch on the lights and turn on the heat,” she added, handing him the key.
“Do you realize what you are saying, Mumsy?” asked Perfectly Loathsome Leo, because the parlor was seldom used.
“This is a special occasion,” she said.
The parlor was a sight to behold. There was a bushel basket filled with little plastic packets of mustard, anot
her overflowing with ketchup packets, and a third spilling over with plastic knives and forks. Sardine tins served as ashtrays. A plastic Javex bottle had been made into a lampstand, with no lampshade covering the light bulb. The ancient sofa was bleeding stuffing, and springs popped through the seat of the only armchair. A rickety table, standing on a tar-paper rug, was strewn with broken cups and saucers, some of them already mended with glue. Over the mantelpiece there hung a photograph of a witch wearing a tall, cone-shaped black hat, a black cape, and riding a broomstick. Underneath, there was a lighted candle.
“Who’s that?” asked the boy. “Who’s that?”
“Why, this parlor is also our very own museum,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo’s miserly mum. “And what you are looking at is a memorial to the Bad Witch of the North, who was unjustly murdered by Dorothy, who struck her down with a flying house in The Wizard of Oz, then went on to rob the dead woman of her ruby slippers.”
“Gosh,” said Jacob Two-Two, tightening his grip on the old man’s hand.
“And have you seen this, child?”
It was a riding whip mounted on the wall.
“That is the real whip that was used to beat lazy Black Beauty, when he was employed as a cart horse.”
An apple was mounted on a pedestal.
“That is an exact replica of the apple that Snow White, that tiresome child, foolishly took a bite out of. I wish she had eaten all of it, don’t you?”
A shotgun was mounted on a wall.
“That’s the actual gun that a hunter aimed at Bambi.”
“Unfortunately, he missed,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo.
“But we are being such inconsiderate hosts,” said his miserly mum. “Can we get you something?”
“A glass of water, perhaps?” suggested Perfectly Loathsome Leo.
“Or possibly the two of you might like to share a peanut,” said his miserly mum.
“No, thanks,” said Mr. Dinglebat. “But do you think you will be able to cater our dinner party?”
“Certainly!”
“Excellent! Formidable! Bravissimo!” said Mr. Dinglebat. “But now I must take my grandson home, and put him to bed. I will leave you this deposit of five hundred dollars as a measure of our good will, and I will be back next week to discuss the menu and costs.”
And then Mr. Dinglebat began to count out the money, very slowly, handing an eager Perfectly Loathsome Leo, first of all, a twenty-dollar bill.
Click, click, click went Jacob Two-Two’s hidden camera.
“What was that noise?” demanded Perfectly Loathsome Leo’s miserly mum.
Jacob Two-Two retreated a step.
“The clicking sound?” asked Mr. Dinglebat.
“Yes.”
“My false teeth,” said Mr. Dinglebat. “Sorry about that.” And then he handed Perfectly Loathsome Leo a fifty-dollar bill, holding it up to the bare light bulb.
And Jacob Two-Two’s hidden camera went click, click, click again.
“I must see my dentist first thing tomorrow,” said Mr. Dinglebat. “But now we must go. Au revoir. Hasta luego, amigos.”
Counting their deposit money as soon as their visitors left, Perfectly Loathsome Leo and his miserly mum were too excited to notice that the bills had been marked with secret signs. Flinging the money in the air, they danced round and round their parlor, chanting, “Let’s raise the rents tomorrow. Let’s raise the rents tomorrow.”
Then the phone rang.
“Is this,” asked the Officer-in-Charge, “number 732–1485?”
“Yes, that’s our phone number,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo.
“That’s all,” said Law.
“– that we want,” said Order.
“– to know,” said the Officer-in-Charge, hanging up.
Outside, a solemn Mr. Dinglebat turned to Jacob Two-Two. “The trap has been baited, Two-Two, and now all we can do is hope for the best.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jacob Two-Two.
“I made secret marks on each of those dollar bills and then photographed them. If that is the five hundred dollars that the Perfectly Loathsome One uses to bribe Mr. I.M. Greedyguts tomorrow evening, we will have the evidence we need. Proof positive that they are both crooks.”
“But what you said last time,” said Jacob Two-Two, “was that all the proof we needed was to see the money change hands. Any money change hands.”
“Quite right,” said Mr. Dinglebat, “but this time, my dear boy, it just happens to be my money and I do want it back.”
“So that’s why you made secret marks on the bills?”
“Yes.”
“But what if he doesn’t use the money you gave him to pay the bribe?”
“Why, in that case, Jacob, I will be five hundred dollars out of pocket.”
“Oh dear,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Oh dear.”
“Oh dear, indeed.”
CHAPTER 24
he following evening was a Wednesday, when Mr. I.M. Greedyguts and Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse had their weekly meeting at McDonald’s. The Perfectly Loathsome One handed over a thick white envelope.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to count the money right here this time,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, narrowing his eyes. “Last week you were short forty dollars.”
But as he started to count the money, a flashbulb popped and popped again. Both men froze. Then, Mr. I.M. Greedyguts smiled happily as he saw two men approach their table, both of them wearing fedoras, T-shirts, jeans, scuffed tennis shoes, and reeking of beer and tobacco. “Ah, there you are again at last,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts. “Perfectly Loathsome, I’d like you to meet a reporter from Ginsburg’s, Canada’s National Magazine, and Mr. Deux-Deux, two-time winner of the World’s Best Midget Photographer Award. They’re going to name me Outstanding School Headmaster of the Year.” Mr. I.M. Greedyguts fished a notepad out of his pocket. “I’ve been making notes for you, gentlemen, about how I triumphed over a very difficult childhood.”
“Why don’t we adjourn to your office,” said Mr. Dinglebat.
“May I come, too?” asked Perfectly Loathsome Leo.
“Yes, please,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Yes, please.”
“Just let me finish these last three burgers first,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts. “Waste not, want not,” and he shoveled them into his gaping mouth, one, two, three.
No sooner were they all assembled in Mr. I.M. Greedyguts’ office than Mr. Dinglebat proclaimed, pointing at Jacob Two-Two, “Voilà Mr. Jacques Deux-Deux, also known as Jacoby Zweizwei and Jacov Shtyim-Shtyim, but actually,” he said, ripping off Jacob Two-Two’s disguise, “none other than –”
“Jacob Two-Two,” exclaimed a horrified Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, his chins wobbling.
“The card cheat,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo, “who was also responsible for the near-fatal heart attack of the good Miss Sour Pickle.”
“And I,” said Mr. Dinglebat, “am none other than X. Barnaby Dinglebat, renowned master spy, also celebrated as Mr. Clairvoyant.” Then, leaning closer to Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse, he added in a low, menacing voice, “The Clairvoyant can catch comets and throw lightning bolts.”
“He can tell you how many miles per hour angels fly on stormy nights,” said Jacob Two-Two twice.
“And can offer you,” said Mr. Dinglebat, “Canadian military secrets at fire-sale prices.”
“Cheaters never prosper,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo, rushing for the office door.
But, lo and behold, his escape was blocked by the intrepid Shapiro and the fearless O’Toole, revealed in Day-Glo blue jeans and flying golden capes, the spine-chilling emblem of CHILD POWER emblazoned on their T-shirts.
“Oh, my God,” squealed Perfectly Loathsome Leo, “it’s The Infamous Two! I’ve read about them.”
“I am O’Toole,” announced Noah.
“And I am Shapiro,” proclaimed Emma, rippling her muscles.
“They’re not – they can’t be – the infamous two from CHILD
POWER?” squealed Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, digging into his desk drawer for a foot-long Toblerone bar.
Then the office door was flung open and in barged Law, Order, and the Officer-in-Charge, thrusting an irate Miss Sour Pickle before them.
“You, Mr. Louse,” said Law.
“– my heart’s delight,” said Order.
“– my sunshine,” said the Officer-in-Charge.
“– phoned the police station,” said Law, “disturbing our beauty rest.”
“And sent us out on a wild-goose chase to Miss Sour Pickle’s apartment,” said Order.
“And that is a criminal offense,” said the Officer-in-Charge.
“Oh, you horrible man,” said Miss Sour Pickle. “There I was in my nightie …”
“You dare to repeat that charge in public,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo, “and I’ll sue you for trillions and ka-zillions.”
“Unfortunately for you, my sweetums,” said Mr. Dinglebat, “my friends in the police station keep a record of all incoming calls, including the phone numbers.”
Perfectly Loathsome Leo began to moan.
“Had you been lucky enough to be trained in spy-craft like me,” said Jacob Two-Two, “you would have made that call from a pay phone.”
“But that would have cost me twenty-five cents,” wailed Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse.
“You saved yourself a quarter,” said Law.
“And now you face,” said Order.
“– a minimum of ten years in prison,” said the Officer-in-Charge.
“Wait,” said Miss Sour Pickle, “I will drop all charges if this hoodlum is willing to pay for my round-the-world cruise, enabling me to while away the long hours dancing the twist, the Highland fling, the hora, the bal masqué, the square dance, the hula-hula, the Charleston, the bossa nova, and the fandango.”
“Would you settle for an all-day canoe trip on the St. Lawrence instead?” asked Perfectly Loathsome Leo. “I’ll paddle and provide homemade sandwiches.”
“A round-the-world cruise,” said Miss Sour Pickle, “first class, on the fabled ship the QE II, or you rot in prison for ten years.”
“Oooh,” moaned Perfectly Loathsome Leo. “Oooh.”