The Seventh Most Important Thing (16 page)

O
n Saturday, Arthur went to see Groovy Jim. He didn't really want to go, but he wasn't sure if Groovy Jim had heard about Mr. Hampton, and he wanted to check what was happening with the garage.

So she wouldn't worry, he told his mom he was going to the library to look up something for a school project.

“What's the project?” she asked.

Arthur scrambled to come up with something. “Parts of the cell.”

His mom didn't look as if she believed him, but she let him go.

“Hey, kiddo, you're here early,” Groovy Jim said cheerfully when Arthur walked in. He was eating a bowl of popcorn, even though it was only ten o'clock in the morning. “What's up?”

Right then, Arthur knew the guy hadn't heard.

Arthur tugged at the front of his hair nervously. Now that he was standing there, he didn't want to be the one to tell Groovy Jim the news. He wasn't even sure how to start. He hated using words like
died
or
passed away.

“It's about Mr. Hampton,” he said slowly.

Groovy Jim looked at Arthur, his face suddenly serious. “What's wrong? Has something happened to him?” When Arthur didn't answer right away, he said, “Jeez oh pete. He's gone, isn't he?”

“Yes,” Arthur mumbled.

Standing up, Groovy Jim slowly walked to the front window of his shop. He stood there for a few minutes, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes.

“When did it happen?” he asked finally.

“Tuesday morning,” Arthur answered.

“Man, I can't believe it,” he said, staring out the window. “I just can't believe it. I hadn't seen Hampton around this week, but I didn't think anything was wrong. That crazy old man was such a good guy. A real good guy.”

Arthur had no idea why he chose this moment to admit what he'd done to Mr. Hampton, but the confession came pouring out before he could stop it.

“You know, I was the kid who hit him last fall,” he blurted out. “That's why I was working for him.”

Groovy Jim's reaction took him by surprise. The guy turned around and gave a sly smile. “Don't worry, kiddo. I knew who you were the minute you walked into my shop back in December. I was in court the day you were sentenced. I drove Hampton to the courthouse. Told him I'd be there to support him.”

Arthur stared at Groovy Jim in disbelief. He'd been in court the day he was sentenced? He knew the whole story?

“Why didn't you ever tell me that?”

Groovy Jim shrugged. “You didn't say anything to me, did you? So I guess we all have our secrets, don't we?”

Arthur had to admit this was true.

There was a lot he'd kept from Groovy Jim.

Groovy Jim went back to his chair behind the counter and sat down, still looking shaken up by the news. Finally, he said, “Well, thanks for coming here to tell me about Hampton, kiddo. I know it wasn't an easy thing to do.”

Arthur reached into his pocket for the piece of paper he had brought along. “I have something else to ask you.” He glanced in the direction of the garage. “I promised Mr. Hampton I wouldn't let anything happen to his artwork. So I was wondering if you could let me know if someone comes to move it or something?” he said, holding out the folded paper. “I wrote my number down for you here.”

Groovy Jim looked surprised. “Nobody knows what's happening with his stuff?”

Arthur shook his head. “No.”

He'd tried asking Officer Billie about it, he told Groovy Jim. The day before, he'd called to tell her again how Mr. Hampton had left some “very important projects” in his garage and was worried about what would happen to them. But she'd insisted there wasn't much she could do. “Unless Mr. Hampton wrote his wishes down, these things are complicated,” she'd said.

“So are there any plans for a funeral or memorial for him?” Groovy Jim asked.

Arthur said he'd heard that there were some relatives in South Carolina, where Mr. Hampton was from, and he might be buried there—but that was all he knew.

Groovy Jim sighed. “Too bad he didn't have family here.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agreed.

There was another long silence.

“So you'll let me know if anything happens, right?” he repeated.

Groovy Jim nodded. “Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on things. The project meant a lot to Hampton. I know you worked hard on it too.”

But Arthur watched nervously as Groovy Jim shoved the folded piece of paper under his cash register drawer. Would he remember where he'd put the number? Would he watch the garage like he said? Would he call?

Arthur knew he couldn't be there twenty-four hours a day. He couldn't stand guard over the artwork. Trust didn't come easily to him, but he had to trust Groovy Jim would do what he said.

A few days later, Groovy Jim kept his promise.

“Someone called for you,” Arthur's sister announced when he came in from shooting baskets outside. She was mixing a pitcher of Tang in the kitchen. Although he'd only been outside for a short time, she'd already managed to spill powder and ice cubes everywhere.

“Who was it?” Arthur asked, getting annoyed by the mess.

His sister looked upward. “I think he said his name was Gloomy Jim.”

It took a minute for Arthur to register what his sister was saying. “You mean
Groovy
Jim?”

She shrugged. “I guess.”

Arthur's heart began to pound. “What did he say?”

“He said you need to come to the garage right away because something is happening.” Barbara put her hands on her hips, squinting suspiciously at Arthur. “Who's Gloomy Jim and what garage is he talking about?”

“I'll tell you later,” he said.

After making his sister promise she'd stay inside while he was gone, he took off running, desperately hoping he wasn't too late.

E
verything had been moved.

Arthur's heart nearly stopped when he reached the gravel alley and saw what was happening.

Mr. Hampton had always said,
Don't. Move. Anything.
Everything in his creation had its place. Everything had been perfectly balanced.

But Arthur could see that the big corrugated metal door at the front of the garage—the door that had never been open—was pushed up. Cardboard boxes of unused foil and glass bottles and mirrors sat on the gravel outside, waiting to be hauled away. The fragile pieces of Mr. Hampton's masterpiece had been moved to the sides of the garage.

“STOP!”
Arthur tore down the alleyway, his arms flailing wildly in the air, as Groovy Jim and another man stepped outside.

“What are you doing?”
Arthur's voice was a shriek. He could feel the veins pounding in his forehead. His face felt like it was on fire.
“Can't you see that is someone's work of art?”
he shouted, pointing at the masterpiece.
“That's heaven! Everything in there is supposed to be heaven!”

Groovy Jim stepped closer to Arthur. “Okay, kiddo, you've got to calm down,” he said as he squeezed Arthur's shoulder. “I know you're upset about the stuff being moved. It wasn't anybody's fault. I only got here a few minutes ago myself. Just calm down a little and I know we can work this out.”

“I don't want to calm down.” Arthur yanked his shoulder out of Groovy Jim's grip. “You were supposed to watch the garage!” he shouted.

“All right, well, let's just talk things over with this guy. I'm sure we can figure something out.” Groovy Jim turned toward the other man and introduced Arthur to him. “Arthur, this is Tony. He's the landlord who owns the garage.”

It took a minute for those words to sink in. The guy in front of him
owned
the garage.

“Hey, kid.” The landlord looked at Arthur uneasily—as if he was afraid he might completely flip out. “I didn't mean to upset you. I had no clue what the things in the garage were. I just came here to clean up the place and get it ready for renting out. I didn't know it was some guy's stuff.”

“It's the Throne of the Third Heaven,” Arthur shot back. “Not ‘some guy's stuff.' ”

The landlord looked like a gangster. Greased-back dark hair. A thick gold chain around his neck. Fake smile. Arthur didn't believe a word he was saying.

“Arthur worked on the project with the man who died,” Groovy Jim explained. “He was kind of second in charge of creating the masterpiece with him.”

The landlord looked at the two of them like they were lunatics. “The thing is made out of junk, right?” he said, glancing back at the pieces in the garage as if he wasn't quite sure they were talking about the same thing.

“First off, it's not junk,” Arthur said, his voice rising. “It started on an island in World War II. With things from an island. It started with Death and War.” His voice grew louder and shakier, and he could tell he was on the verge of losing it.

Jamming his hands in his pockets, he stared at the gravel under his feet. He had to get a grip. He was the Director of Special Projects for the State of Eternity. Mr. Hampton was counting on him. He couldn't fall apart.

“Look,” the landlord said impatiently. “I don't know what the hell the old guy was building here. You say it's supposed to be some masterpiece. I have no idea what's art and what's not. It looks like junk to me, but I'm no judge. You pay the rent and I don't care what you do. You can build whatever crazy stuff you want.”

“The Throne of the Third Heaven,” Arthur said again. “Not stuff.”

“How much?” Groovy Jim asked.

The landlord crossed his thick arms. “Hampton paid fifty a month. But April and May weren't paid up, so I'll need a hundred for back rent. After that, it's fifty a month.”

Arthur's heart sank. One hundred dollars. And then fifty a month after that? Where would he get that kind of cash?

Groovy Jim asked, “If I give you fifty right now, could you give us a week or two to figure out what we want to do next? Given the circumstances and all.”

Arthur's eyes darted toward Groovy Jim. He didn't think he had that kind of money.

“Sure, I'm a reasonable guy.” The landlord nodded.

For a gangster,
Arthur thought.

Feeling guilty that he didn't even have a dollar to contribute, Arthur watched as Groovy Jim emptied all the cash from his wallet and gave it to the guy. Then he had to go and clean out the cash register in his shop and the spare change jar on the counter to finally make it to fifty bucks.

“Take until the end of May to make up your minds,” the man said, shoving the handful of bills and coins into his pants pocket.

The end of May was less than three weeks away.

“And I'm sorry again for messing up the guy's work,” he added. “I'm just a regular guy who rents out buildings. I don't know much about art and culture and stuff like that, okay?”

Arthur almost believed the guy was sorry. He would have believed it for sure if the guy hadn't taken all of Groovy Jim's money.

“You'll leave everything alone until the end of May?” he asked the landlord, just to be sure. “You won't come back?”

“Not unless you burn the place down, kid,” the guy joked.

Arthur didn't even crack a smile.

After the landlord finally left in his rattling truck, Arthur turned to Groovy Jim. “He took all your money,” he said, feeling sick.

Groovy Jim shook his head and laughed. “No big deal. It's not the first time somebody's taken all my money. Probably won't be the last time either. Now, let's get heaven put back together.”

They started rebuilding Mr. Hampton's creation as carefully as they could. The gold throne chair with its big set of shimmering wings was first. Around it, they arranged the dozens of intricate tables and pedestals and pillars. Arthur remembered where a lot of the pieces went, and he thought Squeak, being Squeak, would probably remember even more.

Luckily, a lot of the bigger pieces had wheels on them, which was something he had never noticed before.

Heaven on wheels,
Arthur thought. His dad would have loved the idea.

U
nfortunately, Arthur had no luck asking Officer Billie for help with the landlord. He wasn't sure why he'd bothered. He should have known better.

He called the officer when he got home—after paying off his sister to keep quiet with a box of Good & Plenty candy he'd been saving. He hoped Officer Billie would still be at work, even though it was just after five.

As usual, she answered on the first ring. But she sounded annoyed by his phone call, especially when he told her how he'd run into the landlord at Mr. Hampton's old garage.

“And why were you at the garage in the first place?” she interrupted. “Mr. Hampton's possessions aren't your concern. We've discussed this already.”

“Well, then whose concern are they?” Arthur was surprised by his boldness.

Officer Billie sighed loudly. “I don't know. I told you these situations take a long time. Family members have to be located. The court might need to get involved.”

“But what if the landlord sells what's in the garage? Or throws it out?” Arthur knew he sounded kind of crazed and desperate. “I don't think he cares about Mr. Hampton's things at all.”

“I'm surprised you do,” Officer Billie replied.

Arthur ignored her and kept going. “Could you at least talk to Judge Warner? Maybe there's something he can do to stop the landlord.”

Even as the words left his mouth, he couldn't believe he was asking for Judge Warner's help—the same judge who would have put him in juvie for months, maybe years, if it had been up to him. But judges could make rulings about things, couldn't they? That's what they did in the movies. Arthur knew he was grasping at straws, but he was out of ideas.

“I'll look into it. That's all I'm promising,” Officer Billie said firmly. “I'll be speaking to the judge soon about your probation hours and what we're going to do about them. I'll see what he says. In the meantime, stay out of trouble. Don't take anything that doesn't belong to you, is that clear?”

No. Nothing was clear to Arthur anymore.