The Dragon in the Ghetto Caper (8 page)

“Too hot for you?” he asked.

“No,” Andy answered, “but if that's your contribution to Sister Henderson, she said to hold it for her.”

The two men looked at each other and shrugged. “That's what she said,” Andy repeated. They said nothing, and Andy didn't know whether or not he was supposed to leave. To cover his awkwardness he said, “Well, it was nice
meeting you two.” They still said nothing. Andy felt himself begin to blush. “It's nice to meet someone who reads the
New York Times
right here in Gainesboro. My mother, now, my mother likes to read the book reviews in the
New York Times.
She says that it saves her from having to read the books. That's what my mother says. Of course, she says it about the Sunday
Times
mostly.” The men folded their arms across their chests, both of them staring at Andy and saying nothing. But they were smiling. Andy cleared his throat. “Now, as for the local paper, I prefer the Thursday edition. It's got more in it in the way of ads, paper towels and stuff.” They still said nothing. “Uh,” Andy said, “what do you most enjoy about the newspaper?”

The man behind the adding machine folded his arms across his chest, tilted back on his chair and said, “When it comes to newspapahs we mostly enjoys the
New Yo'k Times
Friday editions. What we mostly enjoys has mo' t' do with makin' book than with readin' them. Now, you tell Sistah Hendahson that nex' week she to bring huh own. Y'heah, son? You tell that t' Sistah when you sees huh. Now, so long t' you an' don' forget t' tell Sistah like Ah tole you.”

“Well, then, so long,” Andy said. He waved limply, not cool. He walked down the steps and waited for Edie on the porch. But he wasn't comfortable there. He decided to walk to the main road to meet her. She seemed to be taking an awful long time. A normal sidekick would be a better judge of time, using as a measure all the other times
they had stopped at Brother Banks's. As he walked, he kicked the dust in the rut. He was walking and kicking and thinking when the oleander that lined the sides of the road parted, and a man jumped into his path.

“Hold it a minute, son,” the man said. He stood spread-eagled across the path. He lifted his chin, keeping his eyes on Andy. The oleander on the other side of the path parted, and a second man appeared. This one stood behind Andy.

Andy was furious. How could such a cool, tough detective-in-(high) training get himself caught in such a primitive trap? “Whadya want?” he snarled. His heart was pounding; his eyes seemed to have suddenly developed blisters, and something was hammering at his head from the inside. Everything was hot, very, very hot.

“Take it easy, fella,” the first man said. “We would just like for you to empty your pockets.”

“A man's pants are his castle. You got a search warrant?”

“Listen, kid, suppose you just tell us what you carried into that house.”

At that moment the man turned. Edie had raced into the road from the highway, her horn blasting. She pulled to a screeching halt, just pennies short of hitting the first man. She opened the door to the car, jumped out and yelled
Catch!
at the same time as she threw a five pound sack of rice toward him. The man turned and held out his arms and caught it. She leaned back into the car, took out a second five pound sack, yelled
Catch!
again, and the second man did the same. While they were clutching the stuffings of Mary Janes pillow, Andy used the time to dive toward the car and get in. Edie didn't give the men a chance to have even first thoughts about what they would do with their catch. She got into the car a second behind Andy, shifted into reverse and zoomed out of the drive, like a comic motion picture run backward.

“Well, boss,” Edie said after they were safely driving in the right-hand lane of the Interstate, “how'd we do?”

“Aw, for God's sake, Edie, you go around acting like a rough and tough mess-'em-up kind when I expect to be cool. I was handling everything perfectly all right. I had told them that a man's pants are his castle and…”

“Those guys had guns, Andy.”

“Oh, sure. Yeah. Yeah. Sure they did.”

“I saw them.”

“Well, that doesn't make sense. You were there just a second, and I was there longer, and I am a trained observer.”

“Actually, I didn't know until they caught the rice. And actually, I didn't see the guns.”

“Aha! It is dangerous to jump to conclusions, Yakots. Very dangerous. Besides, a sidekick isn't supposed to make conclusions, let alone jump to them.”

“They had guns, all right. They were in shoulder straps or harnesses or whatever they're called.”

“Oh, those straps. I noticed those. They were under their jackets. I thought it was funny that they should wear suspenders when they had belts, too. My father only wears suspenders when he wears a tuxedo.” Andy fell back against the seat and whistled. “For God's sake,” he said. And that was the last thing he said until they pulled up in front of his house, and he said, “So long, Yakots.”

I
f Andys nerves were bad that evening at supper, no one noticed. Because everyone's nerves played second string to Mrs. Chronister's. She came to the supper table with her nerve endings hanging out like a box of moist excelsior that had suddenly been opened and allowed to dry. Every day closer to the wedding it got worse. As of that Thursday, Mrs. Vivian J. Chronister of 8129 Serena Road, Foxmeadow, Gainesboro had 4,326 extra feet of nerve endings that no one could stuff back into her five-foot-four-inch frame.

“The caterers are coming tomorrow,” Mrs. Chronister began. She didn't even wait for the preliminaries:
And how was your day, dear? Just delicious, and how was yours?
It was like starting a basketball game without singing “The StarSpangled Banner,” for God's sake. “The caterers are coming, and so are the tent makers. The caterers are going to set up the tables, and the tent makers are going to set up the tent.”

“The detectives will be coming also,” Mr. Chronister said. “Everyone can take a tour of the premises together. You can have a preparty party.”

“Detectives?” Andy asked. “What do you need detectives for, for God's sake?”

“To guard the gifts and the furs.”

“What furs? In May, for God's sake?”

“Many of our guests will be wearing fur wraps. It gets chilly in air conditioning. Your father, at my suggestion, has hired two off-duty city detectives to guard them.”

“Why do you need the fuzz to guard the furs when you've got me? I'm going to be a detective.”

“But,” said Mr. Chronister, “you will be busy with our guests. You and I must be gracious hosts.”

“If the people that you have invited are our friends, then why do you have to guard against them?”

“Oh,” Mrs. Chronister said, “whatever made you think that a person invites only friends to a wedding? Heaven knows, we had to invite relatives, too, and we have as many of your father's business acquaintances and clients coming as we have friends. Besides, this wedding has had so much publicity in the society columns that everyone knows our place will be as loaded with jewelry as a bank vault. It would take only one carload of crooks to fleece everyone who comes to dinner. Old Tim Feagin wouldn't know a carload of crooks from a carload of your father's relatives. And we can't ask him to check everyone to see if he has an invitation. We wouldn't want our guests to feel that we don't trust them.”

“What I want to know,” Mary Jane said, “is how we're going to fit in two odd males? Two men no one will know. Where will the caterer seat them?”

“Now, that's the last thing that you have to worry about,” Mr. Chronister explained. “They won't look odd at all. No one will know that they're here. One will help park the cars; he'll keep an eye on things on the outside. The other will be dressed as a waiter; he'll keep an eye on things on the inside, the furs, the guests and the wedding gifts.”

Andrew could stand it no longer. He exploded. “Do you mean to tell me that you hired two detectives when you have me, Andrew Jackson Chronister, available? What kind of parents are you, showing no faith in your son? Your son who has been in training for months and months and practically a year?” He glared at his father. “I'm sitting out this whole wedding.”

“That's fine with me,” Mr. Chronister said, “providing that you sit it out first at the church and then very quietly here at home. And that you smile while sitting it out.”

Andy left the table in disgust. His fury at his father was piled on top of his rage at Yakots. What kind of a sidekick saved a cool, tough detective by throwing five pounds of rice and yelling
Catch!
Not once but twice. No human being could be expected to survive as much heat as he felt. He would have to ditch Yakots. He would have to ditch his father, too. Someday. After he had finished Emerson, high school, and college.

Why would his father hire two detectives when he already had Andy? He could easily handle security at the wedding. He could recognize a shoulder holster now. He could tell one even if the person were also wearing a tuxedo and suspenders.

Of course, when he was famous, he wouldn't have to be involved with rough-'em-up types. He would just make appointments to solve famous but dignified murders.

He went up to his room and saw the pysanky on his desk. He took the basket and put it in the trash. Very carefully. Then he took down a piece of drawing paper and drew dragons. He drew (maybe) a hundred dragons, all chasing each other around the page and off it. In one corner a dragon was sitting at a table eating (supper) and in another corner two were driving a car. He colored the car gray.

Andy stopped at Edie's the next day after school, even though he usually didn't on Fridays. He had thought about it the whole night and the whole morning and the whole day at school, and he had to do something. He would give her back the Easter eggs. (He had taken them out of the wastepaper basket the night before, immediately after he had made up his mind. Or maybe immediately before.) Today he would tell Edie that she was dismissed. He would go it alone for a while. He would return the pysanky. Edie would be fired, and that would be that. After all these weeks she still had no idea of what a cool detective really did. Or how a sidekick worked. He certainly didn't need her talking about life and art and dragons instead of helping with his training. Even though sidekicks weren't supposed to help with the training, they certainly weren't supposed to discuss life and art and dragons. And he certainly didn't need her yelling
Catch!
and leaping into cars and making
him follow. Of course he had had to follow, how else could he have gotten home?

Edie answered the door and began talking a stream. “I bought more rice, and I stayed up until two o'clock in the morning finishing. And laurel is bay leaves, so I bought some at the same store I got the rice, and I found a penny from the year that Mary Jane was born, and do you want to hold or pour?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Sure, Andy,” Edie said. She dropped everything and sat with her hands folded across her lap, ready to listen. “What do you want to talk about, boss?”

“This business of your being my sidekick.”

“Yes?”

“Well, you're ruining my reputation as a cool detective.”

“I thought that a person had to
have
a reputation before he got it ruined.”

“That may be so,” Andy replied, “but if you insist on being the punch-'em-up, fast getaway,
Catch!
type, I can't go along with it. My style is to be cool and smooth. You can't solve a mystery if you don't stay cool.”

“But you can't find one if you do,” Edie answered. “You have to find the mystery before you can solve it. Sometimes finding it is all there is. Sometimes you never solve it.”