The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls (19 page)

“What do you expect me to do about it?”

“I don't know,” said George, looking even more forlorn. “I guess I just didn't expect you to be so…ordinary.”

It sounded so bad that I felt the need to defend myself. “I never used to be ordinary,” I said hopefully. “I used to steal fast cars and go to the opera in the middle of the day and eat French pastry for lunch.”

“How does that help me now?” asked George.

“I'm on probation, George,” I explained. “Being ordinary is my only choice right now.”

“At least you have a good excuse,” he said. “I know what everyone out there says about me, you know. You think I like being responsible all the time?”

“Everybody jokes around,” I lied. “It's nothing personal.”

“You know there's a rat around here somewhere,” said George. “I've seen it. At least I think I have. And that's no joke.” Then he looked at me sorrowfully and added, “You don't think I'd enjoy doing something totally fun and irresponsible?”

“So why don't you?” I inquired.

“It's no use,” he answered. “You just don't understand the burden that comes with entrepreneurial leadership.”

At this point, I was frantically trying to think of something that would make George feel better. “Cheer up,” I said. “The monster truck rally is coming soon and the Devil's Dumpster will be parked in your gramma's garage.”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “All I can do is watch somebody else have all the fun.”

He sounded so depressed that I finally gave up trying to cheer him up. Cutting to the chase, I asked, “Isn't there anything else I can do to be promoted from Grease Pig?”

Much to my surprise, George replied, “I'll think about it.” Then he snapped back into manager mode—telling me to straighten the bill of my cap (“The Top Kow manual states that your horns should be properly aligned at all times.”) before doing a surprise inspection of my fingernails.

You might think, How can Henry's life get any worse? But somehow it managed to do just that. At first, I didn't think that being a volunteer reader for Mr. Harley Howard was going to be so bad. I mean, it had to be less stressful than standing up to my armpits in hamburger grease. Then I met Harley Howard. “There's only one thing I respect less than a thief,” he said, by way of introduction. “And that's a thief who's stupid enough to get caught.”

It turned out that Harley Howard was by far the richest man in Snowflake Falls. Charlotte told me that he was a businessman who had made a lot of money and then retired and had come to live in Snowflake Falls because it was his wife's hometown. Then his wife died and he became the town hermit, wasting away in this big old mansion.

Harley Howard's house was extremely untidy, full of overflowing ashtrays and layers of dust. But even the dust couldn't hide the value of all his possessions. Everywhere you looked, there was something that would have made my friend Lenny dance for joy. I noticed that he had the most expensive stereo system I'd ever seen. “Touch anything and you're toast,” said Harley. “That goes double for my record collection.”

“What would I want with a bunch of old records?” I asked.

“They're extremely valuable collector's items,” said Harley. “Among other things, I have every recording Frank Sinatra ever made. I don't suppose you know who Frank Sinatra is?”

It so happens that Frank Sinatra was a great singer of the kind of music my mother liked to play on the piano. I know this because my mother liked to talk about how great he was all the time. “I know who he is,” I said.

Harley Howard snorted. “So name three songs he liked to sing.”

I named four songs and then stopped. Harley Howard looked amazed. “My mother liked him,” I said.

“Your mother had good taste,” he said. Then he looked at me and didn't say anything for a while. I thought he wasn't going to talk at all until he said, “I had one hell of a singing voice, you know. They used to call me the Frank Sinatra of Snowflake Falls.”

“Did you participate in the Christmas sing-along?”

“Participate? I was the Christmas sing-along. But that's ancient history.”

“You don't sing anymore?”

“What for?” he said. “There's nobody around to listen. Nobody who matters anyway.”

It was hard to imagine Harley Howard singing. Or having any kind of fun at all, for that matter. He had a couple of wisps of gray hair sprouting from the sides of his head. Because he couldn't see very well, he squinted a lot. This made his face resemble an unhappy prune.

Harley Howard's favorite expression was “bullcrap,” which he used to punctuate some of his most sincere thoughts. “Losing your sight is one bullcrap of a deal, Holloway,” he observed. “I'm just sitting here watching everything fade away. You know the worst part? It's the boredom. When you're going blind, they say your other senses get stronger,” he said. “So you end up hearing like an owl. So what? It's a load of bullcrap.” He thought about this for a moment and gave a laugh that sounded like somebody walking through a pile of dry leaves.

It turned out that I was Harley Howard's fifth volunteer reader. Everybody else had quit because Harley was known for miles around as the crankiest man in town. Plus, he lounged around all day in the world's most expensive bathrobe while smoking the worst-smelling cigars on the planet. His library featured a whole bunch of dusty wedding and anniversary photos of Harley Howard and his late wife.

Harley looked very happy in all the pictures. After a while, he noticed that I was looking at them. “That's my wife Vivian,” he said. “Everybody in town loved her, and she loved every last dumb hick in this town.” He coughed dryly. “I still don't know what the hell she saw in me.”

“Maybe she liked the way you sang,” I said.

“Don't sass me, kid. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's sass from a juvenile delinquent.” I was going to tell him that I didn't mean to be disrespectful when he asked, “Can you read?”

I figured it was best to keep my answers short. So all I said was, “Yes.”

My major duty was to read to him from a thirty-volume series of leather-bound books entitled The Universal Library of Immortal Literature. Harley Howard explained that the books had been a gift from Vivian. “Before Vivian passed away, I made her a solemn promise that I would read every single volume,” he said. “Vivian felt that I was basically an overgrown kid with no taste for refinement or culture whatsoever.”

Harley Howard blew a perfect smoke ring with his cigar. “She was right, of course,” he added. And then, as the smoke ring disappeared wistfully into the air, he said, “She was right about everything.”

“I'm sorry she died,” I said before I could stop myself.

“Who asked you?” snapped Harley Howard. And then he let out a deep sigh and said, “You know something? I'm not sure I want a thief hanging around my house.”

I said, “I guess you think I'm going to rob you blind, huh?”

Maybe you are thinking, Why would Henry say such a stupid thing? Well, for one thing, Harley Howard made me more nervous than anyone in Snowflake Falls—and that is saying a lot.

Of course, I wanted to take the comment back as soon as I said it. But before I could apologize, Harley Howard actually laughed his walking-through-dry-leaves laugh again. “What's that expression supposed to mean anyway?” he asked. “I mean, how can anybody but God have the power to rob a person blind?” He didn't wait for me to answer. “Maybe God's a thief too, eh, kid? That would explain a lot.”

Just the way he said it, made me think of my mother. “I guess maybe it would,” I agreed.

Maybe Harley could tell I was thinking about someone I missed because his voice got a little softer for a moment. “This town is full of people who want something from me,” he confessed. “They all think I sleep with a million dollars stuffed under my mattress.”

“Do you?” I asked, unable to keep the sound of hope out of my voice.

“You wish,” he said sourly. “Not that I couldn't if I damn well felt like it.”

“Really?” I said, getting a little excited at the thought of my number-one burglar fantasy coming true.

I guess Harley Howard thought this was amusing. Because he just about smiled. “Did you notice that stretch limo parked in front of my house?” he asked. “It's the sweetest ride in town. And I park it on the street so everyone can see it's mine.” When I asked if he actually drove it, he said, “Don't be ridiculous. Harley Howard doesn't drive. Harley Howard gets driven.”

I asked him how rich a guy would have to be to have his own chauffeur. “Let's just say that I've lost more money through the hole in the pocket of my pants than you'll ever see in your lifetime.” He snorted. Then he softened up again and asked, “You like money, huh, kid?”

“Just the kind I find lying around,” I said.

“What do you know?” he said, his voice filled with surprise. “A teenage thief with a sense of humor.” Then he got all serious on me. “Before you get any ideas, I have an excellent security system,” he warned. “Not even your devious little mind could figure it out.” He waved his cigar at me and said, “Aren't you even a little curious about the setup?”

“Not in the least,” I lied.

“That's a wagonload of bullcrap,” he said. “Right this second you're thinking, I wonder if the old guy has sacks and sacks of money lying around the place? I wonder if his hobby is rolling around in piles of loose cash?”

“Maybe I'm a little curious,” I confessed.

This made Harley Howard laugh so hard he broke into a hacking cough. “Tell you what, kid,” he said. “I'll make you a little wager. If you can break into this house without disturbing anything, I'll owe you a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” I asked.

“Any kind you want. And let me tell you something else. In this town, a favor from Harley Howard is money in the bank.”

“What's the catch?” I asked.

“If the alarm goes off, you become my personal slave,” he replied. “That includes cleaning out everything from the toilets to the ashtrays.”

Personally, I was very offended at the thought of cleaning somebody's house in any manner without having burglarized them first. “Don't take this the wrong way,” I replied, “but I can see why nobody in this town likes you.”

Harley Howard acted as if I had paid him a great compliment. “Make up your mind, kid,” he said, blowing another leisurely smoke ring. “Do you want money or do you want people to like you? Because, in my experience, the two things just don't go together.”

After that, Harley Howard requested that I read a poem called “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” As I started to read, I couldn't help but think that Harley Howard was having a good time picturing me scrubbing his floors.

That night, while listening to my roommate's buzz-saw snores, I kept thinking about what the old man had said to me about making a choice between money and people. I was just about to decide that maybe money was the right choice when I thought I heard the sound of a tiny pebble against the windowpane. When I heard it again, I went to the window and opened it.

Standing down below, were none other than Cookie Collito and Wally Whispers. At first, I thought I was dreaming. But then Wally whispered, “Don't worry, Henry. You are not dreaming.” Naturally, I wanted to join them, but Wally said they would talk to me in the morning. While we made arrangements to meet, I asked if they knew their way around town. Cookie told me not to worry. “We'll find you eventually,” he said. “Word on the street is that you are riding a very girly bike.”

THIRTEEN

I
n the early hours of the morning, I met Wally and Cookie on my paper route. There was an empty house on my route that was up for sale. First, we made sure nobody was watching us. Then Wally kindly offered to pick the backdoor lock. “Since this is your turf, you should rightly do the honors,” he said, shortly before we made ourselves at home in the empty kitchen. “But I do not want you tainted by any criminal activity while you are under government surveillance.”

It turned out that Uncle Andy had been sharing my letters with his associates, so both Wally and Cookie were pretty much up to speed on my recent activities. I must say I was very glad to see them both. Naturally, I assumed they had come to take me home.

But Wally pointed out that they were staying at the Friendly Neighbor Motel and would leave town without yours truly as soon as Snowflake Falls wore out its welcome. “I do not have a home to take you to,” apologized Wally. “Unless you count my most recent stay as a guest of the penal system.”

Having been kicked out of his cranky cousin's apartment, Cookie volunteered that he was also without a permanent address. Cookie said he thought it was a shame that a nice town like Snowflake Falls did not have a golf course big enough to be worthy of his talents. “I fear that I will have to look for temporary employment of an honest nature,” he said, looking very downcast.

I asked them why they were hanging around town in the first place. “We are here at the request of your beloved uncle,” explained Wally. “Given his current lack of mobility, he wishes to confirm once and for all that you are in the proper domestic environment.”

“Also to make doubly sure that you are not actually staying with some make-believe family who bakes invisible bread,” added Cookie, sounding very hurt that the Hendersons did not actually exist.

When I apologized very sincerely to Cookie for deceiving him about the Hendersons, he assured me that all was forgiven. He confessed that his return visit to Evelyn's house had been an unexpected surprise, mostly because he encountered Evelyn. “Fortunately, I was able to improvise some story about inspecting the premises for cockroaches,” he explained. “Evelyn was deeply concerned. Until I offered my professional opinion that her house was probably not yet infested.”