Christopher Paul Curtis (23 page)

She slammed the phone down so hard that I bet the plane's pilot had to make an announcement about unexpected turbulence and turn on the Fasten Seat Belts sign. I bet a air marshal jumped up with his gun drawn.

I headed up to the office.

Who did she think she was talking to? It's a good thing she was on that plane because if she was anywhere within thirty miles of Flint I'd hunt her down and lay some real serious pain on her and her little rent-a-thug.

I opened all three of the office's locks and went in to get
the petty cash and the safety deposit key. The key and the petty cash were kept in a Bible inside her desk drawer. She'd always said that if you wanted to hide something from a thief all you had to do was put it in a book, especially a Bible, so she'd had me take a razor blade and hollow out a little secret compartment. I'd sliced out all the way from Genesis to the first parts of Revelations.

I was so mad I snatched at the drawer where she kept the hollow Bible and it flew across the room like a Frisbee. The drawer landed upside down on the floor.

There was a piece of duct tape pressed to the bottom of the drawer. I peeled it back and there was the safety deposit key, stuck in the tape.

This was strange. She forgot to tell me she'd moved the key's hiding place. So if it hadn't been for my little temper tantrum how'd she figure I'd get into the safety deposit box?

Maybe I'd just pretend I didn't find it and couldn't make those deposits, then we'd see how old Miss Never Make a Mistake liked that.

I turned the drawer over and started putting back all the things that had fallen out.

When I picked up the Bible and took the cash out, there the safety deposit key was in its usual place.

Hmmm, the one that was in the duct tape was probably a spare. I taped the spare key back under the drawer and put the regular one in my pocket.

I got all the Sarge's other junk back in the drawer and slid it into the desk.

That's when it hit me. I may be slow, but if you give me enough time I'll figure most things out.

I took the safety deposit key out of my pocket and looked at the number on the top, V 581.

I pulled the drawer completely out, untaped the key and looked at its number, R 441.

I stood there staring at the keys. This other key could only mean that the Sarge had another safety deposit box that was so secret she even kept it from me!

I always thought that there were whole tons of records that I hadn't seen and here they were. This secret safety deposit box was probably where she kept my education fund deposit book.

I couldn't believe it. Not that she had other records— she's always keeping track of anything that has to do with her money. If there was a way she could get a tax deduction out of it I bet she'd've kept track of how many times Mr. Baker farted in 2002.

What was hard to believe was that she'd be so sloppy that I'd find out where she was keeping these records. Maybe she
was
softening up in her old age. Too bad I wasn't going to be around to check out the New Improved Compassionate Sarge.

I put both keys in my pocket and slid the drawer back. I picked up the weekly receipts briefcase and redid all three office locks.

It looked like my visit to the bank might be more interesting than I thought.

The cab let me off in front of the bank. As soon as I got in I headed over to the office that had Elaine Jones, Personal Investments Counselor written on the door.

She was looking at a computer screen when I knocked.

She smiled. “Luther, how are you today?”

“I'm fine, thanks, Elaine.”

She went to a safe and got the bank's key for the safety deposit box. I followed her to a vault and we both put our keys in door number V 581. She slid the drawer out and walked it over to a privacy booth.

She started to close the booth's door. “Thanks, Elaine.”

“You're quite welcome. If there's anything you need, let me know.”

“OK.”

When she'd closed the door I took all of the Sarge's logbooks and receipt records and put them in their proper folders and logged what I'd done. I got the deposit slips written out for Elaine and closed the box back up.

“I'm all done.” I handed her the slips and the cash.

“Great. Let me get my key, and we'll see you next week, Luther.”

Not unless you're planning on visiting the Patrick House of Mortuary.

I slapped my head just like I'd practiced and said, “Ooh! I almost forgot, she wanted me to get into the other box too.” I reached the secret key toward her and held my breath.

“Oh.” She took the key from my hand. “It's over in the rollaways, I'm going to need your help, Luther.”

“Sure.”

We headed into an area that only had five or six storage
boxes. They were all on wheels and the size of the safes that you see in the cartoons.

“We'll take it into there, Luther, the B room.”

I got behind the box and started pushing it.

Elaine said, “Wow, Luther, you're quite strong. It usually takes me and Mr. Dixon both to move this one.”

Darnell! It seemed like I was the only one that this secret box was a secret to.

“Uh, yeah, I guess I am. I've been hitting the weights a little lately.”

We horsed the box into the room.

“Thanks, Elaine.”

I closed the door and held my breath. I don't know why but my hands were actually shaking as I put my key in next to the one that Elaine had put in.

I took a deep breath and opened the safety deposit safe's door.

No poisonous gas, no genie of death, not even a corpse that the Sarge and Darnell were waiting to ditch once the coast was clear.

Just a pile of folders, some bankbooks, a metal box and a bunch of the same ledger books that she had me make entries in every week.

I started with the metal box.

Bingo! It had a little over $50,000 in fifties and hundreds, and they looked and felt real. I put them back in the exact same order I'd found them.

Then I started with the folder on top.

Inside it were the titles to the Sarge's Benz, the pickup
truck, the cube van, the snowplow and a certain brand-new white-on-white-in-white Riviera, along with the power of attorney forms she'd signed over to me. I could understand the Benz, the pickup, the cube van and the plow, but Darnell's Rivy Dog?

When I saw that the title was in the Sarge's name it all got clear. No wonder Darnell Dixon was making minimum wage but could afford a new Riviera every two years, she was buying them for him!

I couldn't believe it! But maybe this was part of some deal they'd worked out, maybe it was like me getting all my wages put in the education fund instead of in my hand.

The next folder had FNL written on it. I could tell from the columns and numbers inside that that stood for Friendly Neighbor Loans. The names of the people who'd borrowed money were all in initials, but I could figure a lot of them out.

Next to the names of the people who'd had problems repaying their loans in what the Sarge called a timely fashion were the initials D.D. These had to be the poor broke-fingered, banged-up-kneecapped, bloody-nosed folks that she'd turned over to the Darnell Dixon “I Bet Your Trifling Soul Won't Be Late Again” Collection Agency.

Two lines in the ledger were highlighted in yellow. One was from a couple years ago and had the initials P.T. and the number 1500, and the other one was dated from exactly a year ago and had the initials B.S. and the number 1700 written next to it. In a red pen the word FORGIVEN was written through both of the lines.

B.S. had originally borrowed $1200 but had let the interest run it up to $1700.

So this was how much my victory in last year's science fair had cost. B.S. had to be Ms. Scott, she was on the hook to the Sarge. The Sarge had stole the science fair results by letting Ms. Scott not pay her loan back. I felt like I'd been gut-punched.

No wonder I was nervous about opening this box. The P.T. must've been for Peter Thompson, the guy from the Secretary of State's office.

The next three folders had the deeds to what looked like fifty houses in Flint. The first folder had ACTIVE printed across the front of it. Inside were all the houses that she was still collecting payments for.

The second folder had a big X written across the front. Inside of it were all the houses that she'd let go for taxes or that the city had demolished, including Marcel Marx and Poofy's house.

The next folder had the deeds to the three group homes.

The next folder had D.D. in big blue letters across the front of it. Inside were the deeds to ten or eleven houses. I peeped out what was happening real quick from the addresses. At least six of them were the houses that Mr. Baker, the Human Torch, had been transferred to. And all of them had gone up in flames.

I restacked the folders just like they'd been when I took them out. No need for the Sarge to know I'd busted her.

I started riffling through her bankbooks, trying to keep
a running total of the balances. It's funny how a couple of twenty thousands here and a couple of forty thousands there add up real quick. I finally lost track. I couldn't believe how much money she had off the books. I couldn't believe how cheap she was being with my crew, with all the other aides and with me.

The last bankbook made me get all nervous again. My education fund.

I picked it up and pulled the book out of the little envelope it was in. That was a good sign, at least it was still in my name.

On the first line of the first page was the original $900 deposit we'd made together on my twelfth birthday. On the second line of the first page was absolutely nothing. A sad story that repeated itself all the way to the end of the book.

$900.

Years of all those hours for $900. That probably worked out to about a penny an hour.

I stood there holding the stupid book.

I thought about what the Sarge had told me once about ideas and language, about how if an idea was clearly thought out and well reasoned the words you needed to express that idea came to you real easy and plain. You didn't have to do any fumbling around to find words to describe what you were thinking, they just came.

What was happening to me now was a lot like that. I had a problem and the solution to that problem came to me as clear as anything. Everything I needed to do was just there, like I'd been thinking about it for years, not for just
the few seconds since, surprise!, I'd seen the nearly empty education fund bankbook.

Just like that I knew everything I had to do.

I could feel all my worries lift off my back. Instead of putting all the Sarge's folders back in the safety deposit vault I put them in the weekly receipt briefcase along with my education-fund bankbook and the $50,000 that'd been floating around.

The Sarge and Darnell had better be ready, they weren't the only ones who had four days to plot revenge. If they thought Luther T. Farrell was going to roll over and play dead they had another thought coming.

A great philosopher, whose name escapes me at the moment, once said, “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” And I was about to get seriously chilly on the Sarge and Darnell Dixon.

When six o'clock came I told the Crew, “OK, gentlemen, we've got to turn the cartoons off for a minute, you're going to get a chance to see your favorite health care professional on the news.”

Mr. Foster said, “I wouldn't get so excited, Luther, finding yourself on the six o'clock news usually isn't a real positive thing for a young black man.”

“Maybe not, but you might get excited when you see what a genius some people think this young black man is.”

“Luther,” Mr. Foster said, “there's no way possible for you to be more of a genius in my eyes than you already are.”

Mr. Baker said, “You mean we don't get to watch
Teamo Supremo
just 'cause you're trying to be a genius?”

I told him, “Don't worry, Mr. Baker, it should only be a few minutes, it'll probably be the first story.”

None of them looked too happy.

The newspeople always liked to tease you before they went to the first set of commercials, and the anchorwoman said, “Tragedy strikes on Dayton Street. A happy reunion, maybe? School cuts worse than predicted, and a no-go on that new truck. This is Karen Russell with all the news that matters plus the first in a new series on the positive things some of our local youths have been up to along with Flint's most accurate, up-to-date weather and sports reports coming up next on
TV Twelve News.”

The first story wasn't me. The reporter said, “Flint is on pace for a record year in homicides as three bodies were discovered in this abandoned North End house … bla, bla, bla.”

The next couple of stories weren't me either.

After the first bunch of commercials Mr. Baker said, “Where were you? Did we miss you, Mr. Big-Shot Genius?”

“Just hold on, they like to get the bad news out of the way first.”

With this being Flint I should've known they'd have about twenty more minutes of bad news to get out of the way, but this was ridiculous. It was already 6:29.

Maybe there was going to be a special report on the science fair, maybe they were going to delay the national news to show the report on me.