Agent Angus (4 page)

A clicking sound comes from the store. I turn to find the lights have been switched on and the Closed sign has been replaced with an Open one. More metallic sounds follow. “They've unlocked the door,” I say. “Let's go.”

We charge through the door and come to an abrupt stop. The store is eerily silent, and it smells funny. It's a chemical cleaner odor, like bleach, only not. The store is chilly and appears almost empty. An expanse of gray floor stretches before us. Only when I look toward the back of the store do I find glass display cases. A man stands motionless behind the farthest one. He's dressed entirely in black, and he's watching us.

“Hey,” I croak.

He blinks. He nods, ever so slightly. And he continues staring. There's no hello or even the standard, “Can I help you?”

I exchange glances with Shahid, and we shuffle toward a side display case. We lean our elbows on the glass and peer in. Spaced at precisely equal distances are a variety of objects. All of them are black. Black binoculars, pens, tiny cameras.

“No sunglasses,” Shahid whispers.

“Maybe they're on the other side,” I whisper back. I don't know why we're whispering. But there isn't even music playing to cover our voices. I swear I can feel the man's menacing gaze boring into my back.

We shuffle over to the display case on the other side of the store. Still no sunglasses. That leaves only the back case. The one with the creepy watchman.

Shahid murmurs, “Maybe we should forget this. We can just order online.”

There is no way I'm going to be scared off so easily. I shake my head and hiss, “We already decided that would take too long.” I straighten my shoulders and motion for Shahid to follow me. I start walking toward the back, doing my best to appear confident.

“What are you doing?” Shahid asks.

I answer him from the side of my mouth. “Walking. What does it look like?”

“It looks like…I dunno. Like you've got the runs and you're afraid you won't make it to the can.”

The Watchman emits a sound. It's very close to a burp and yet, not a burp. I risk glancing at him directly, but as far as I can tell, nothing has changed. He's still doing his stare.

I turn to Shahid and mouth the words, “Shut up.”

Shahid lowers his brows, and mouths, “What?”

I roll my eyes, and mouth, “Forget it.”

And the Watchman almost-burps again. Loudly. It's so bizarre that Shahid and I freeze in place. I even freeze my eyeballs. What is with this guy? He reminds me of one of those bullfrogs that make huge sounds without changing their faces. But then more sounds emerge from the Watchman, and it takes a moment for me to realize he's laughing. Laughing! At what? Icy fear grips me as I realize he may be insane. I unlock my eyeballs and slide them toward Shahid. His eyes are goggle-wide. The part of my brain that is still operating realizes that Shahid's face displays terror.

We should run.

“Mwaahaahaa,” goes the Watchman. And then he forms words. “You guys. Please tell me you're here for someone else.”

“Wha…?” My voice fails. I take a breath and try again. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, “
you're
not planning to spy on anyone, are you?”

“As a matter of fact…” A movement from Shahid makes me pause. Down low at his side, he's waving a hand. Why? Then I understand. He's saying we shouldn't tell the Watchman anything. “As a matter of fact,” I repeat, “that's right. We came to pick up some sunglasses for…a friend.”

“Is that so?” he asks. “Then step this way. The sunglasses are right here.” He raps a knuckle on the case in front of him.

“Oh. Good.” I square my shoulders and approach the case. There they are, three whole pairs of them.

“Do you want to try them on?” the Watchman asks. He's still smirking.

“No. No, that's fine.” I unzip the pocket on my cargo shorts and pull out my wallet.

“I only have size large in stock,” he says.

“That's okay. My, uh, friend has a big head.”

“Uh-huh.” He shrugs and removes a pair from the case. He rolls them into a sheet of tissue, places them in a bag and says, “That'll be thirty-three dollars and sixty cents.”

“Thirty-three sixty? Oh. Right. I guess there's tax.” I forgot about tax. I won't have enough money left to take the bus home. I look at Shahid and remember he too had just enough for the bus. Past shakedowns for lunch money have trained us to carry the bare minimum. I peer hopefully into my wallet, but nothing extra has appeared.

“Tell you what,” says the Watchman. “Seeing as you're short of cash, if you'll give me your story, I'll forget the tax.”

I flinch, then look at him narrowly. “How do you know I'm short of cash? And our
story
? What story?”

“Kid, I couldn't be in this business without knowing a thing or two about reading people. You guys are so obvious.” He sighs. “Let's just say I like a good…story. If you want to save yourself the tax, tell me why you want the glasses. What are you planning to do?”

I look at Shahid. He shrugs. Now that the Watchman has started talking, he doesn't seem so bad. And this seems like a clear-cut bargain. So I tell him about Ella's stolen sketchbook and Mr. Wilder.

He doesn't say a word the entire time. When I'm finished, he just stands there with a funny twitch in his throat. Then he reaches under the counter and pulls out a roll of Life Savers candy. He puts them in the bag with the sunglasses and says, “Thanks. That'll be thirty dollars even.”

I hand over the money and take the bag. “Uh. Thank you.”

“Life Savers?” Shahid mutters.

“I give them to my special customers,” the Watchman says. “Good luck, boys.”

“Thanks,” we say together and leave. As the door closes behind us, we hear him almost-burping again. Loudly.

Chapter Seven

“Maybe we could try duct tape,” I say.

“You want to tape them to my head?” Shahid's voice is shrill. “No way.”

When the Watchman told us the sunglasses were large, we should have asked
how
large. I don't believe anybody has a head that big. These shades would be oversized on a gorilla. They make Shahid look like an alien. Or like those magnified pictures of houseflies with their big bulbous eyes. That wouldn't be so bad, but if he makes the slightest movement, the glasses fall off.

“I've got a better idea,” Shahid says. “What if
you
wear them over your regular glasses? We could use twist ties to attach the arms together.”

We try this, and it works—sort of. The only problem is that the frame of my regular glasses blocks the rearview mirror on the sunglasses. We make adjustments with the twist ties and lower the sunglasses so the mirror is visible below my frames.

“All right.” I give Shahid thumbs-up. “Let's practice.”

We start practicing with my mother. She's in the kitchen, talking on the phone. I back up to the doorway, and Shahid stands in front of me. The idea is that I'll watch my mother in the mirror and tell Shahid what I see. He'll watch her too and confirm that I'm seeing clearly.

“All I can see is the ceiling,” I say. “The angle of the mirror is all wrong.”

We retreat to our lab downstairs and adjust the twist ties again. This time, we raise the sunglasses so that the mirror sits above my regular frames.

We return to the kitchen doorway and take up our places.

“Now all I can see is the floor,” I complain.

“Try lowering your head,” Shahid advises. “And raise only your eyes to the mirror.”

I try this. “It's a strain on my eyeballs, but I can see her,” I tell Shahid.

“Excellent. What is she doing?”

“She's talking on the phone,” I report. “And now she's…”

“Angus?” Mom says. “What are you boys up to now? And why are you holding your head like that? Is something wrong with your neck?”

“It's fine, Mom,” I mutter. I straighten up to prove this and add, “We were just leaving.”

Back in the lab, we're silent for a time. I remove the sunglasses and catch Shahid gazing fondly at Gordon. Gordon doesn't have eyes, but he has a pair of adapted webcams for visuals.

“Maybe after we find Ella's sketchbook,” I say, “we can put a reverse gear in Gordon. Then we can put the sunglasses on him so he'll have a rearview mirror.”

“You think?” Shahid grins. “That would be sweet.”

I nod. “It would. But for now, what if we put a rubber band around your head to hold the sunglasses on?”

The look on his face tells me he's going to refuse. Briefly, I think I
can
read some things.

“You could fluff your hair over the elastic so it wouldn't be obvious,” I add.

“
Fluff
my hair?”

“You know what I mean. Comb it over. Whatever. Come on, Shahid. It's only for a day or so. I'm sure the sunglasses will speed up the investigation. Then we can get back to work on Gordon.”

“What about Ella?” he asks.

“What about her?”

“She might take…” He stops. He looks again at Gordon and sighs. “Fine. I'll try the elastic.” He does, and we are operational.

After Shahid has gone home, I email Ella a link to the site that exposes Mr. Wilder. I try to think of something clever to write as well, but I can't. I simply sign the email
Agent
Angus
and press
Send
.

Immediately, I'm sick with regret. Agent Angus? How lame is that? What was I thinking?

Nineteen minutes later—not that I was waiting and checking every minute or so—I receive a reply. My heart literally skips a beat as I see Ella's name in my inbox. My hand trembles as I open the message. She writes:

Hey Agent Angus,

I'm happy 2 hear from u! It's so
great that u r helping me. Thank you!
But i think u should check out this link
to Mr. Wilder's blog.

C u soon!

Ella

I click on the link and read:

Many years ago, I was accused of
presenting another artist's work as my
own. Rightly so. I did place someone
else's painting in a gallery showing of
my work. I did it because that artist
begged me for this favor. She was
young and fragile, and she was afraid
to show her work. She feared the harsh
comments of the critics. At the same
time, she wanted to see if her work
would be appreciated by others.

Somehow, our trick was exposed.
I made apologies. But since I refused
further comment, many leapt to the
conclusion that I'd stolen the work.
She wanted me to save face and tell the
world the truth, but I could not. You see,
I was in love with her. I wanted to protect
her. Eventually, I convinced her to be my
wife. I took up teaching and delighted
in spending time with creative young
people. With summers free, my wife and
I were able to travel North America
and paint to our heart's content.
We enjoyed twenty blissful years together.

Last fall, my wife passed away
peacefully. Her peace came in part
because I promised her I would at last
tell the truth. So here I am, keeping that
promise. Nothing further need be said.

Sincerely,

Kel Wilder

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. I feel like a first-class fool. How could I have been so wrong? I was certain that Mr. Wilder was a dirty rotten thief. In less than a day, I'd convinced myself and Shahid of this. I'd gone on to tell the Watchman and he too believed…something. Thinking about the Watchman reminds me of the Life Savers. The remainder of the roll is in my pocket. I pry off a candy and pop it in my mouth. I get lemon, my least favorite flavor.

I deserve lemon. I
am
a lemon. I suck on the Life Saver and try to sort out my thoughts. I need to figure out where I went astray so I don't do it again. It's complicated, because I'm still in shock over how I misread Mr. Wilder. I'd built a false reality in my mind and—whoa! Maybe that's what mentalists mean when they say reality is in our head?

I call Shahid and tell him I'm a mentalist.

He groans so loudly, I have to hold the phone away from my ear. When he finally stops, I get a chance to explain. He doesn't respond right away. And then he says, “So I guess that's it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You're going to tell Ella the truth?”

“Are you kidding?” I ask. “No. I'm going to find out who stole the sketchbook.”

There's another space of silence before Shahid speaks. “We're going to spy on Gaga Girl, aren't we?”

He's right. When isn't he? “I'll have a plan in place by tomorrow,” I say.

Chapter Eight

I may not know Gaga Girl, but I know where she hangs out. I've seen her at the skate park almost every day for the past month. I pass it on my way home from school. She is not a skater. She's more like an accessory to skaters, because she simply stands about and looks decorative.

I'm trying to convince Shahid that she also spends her weekends being decorative. “It stands to reason that she'll be there on a Sunday,” I say. “People have habits, also known as patterns of behavior.
Ergo
, if she's at the park after school, why not today too?”

“Okay, okay. We'll go,” Shahid says. His grumpy tone tells me he's anything but okay with going.

“Good man.” I make
my
tone cheery. “I'll explain the plan in detail when we get there. For now, all you need to know is that you'll be wearing the sunglasses, and I'll be taking notes.”

Shahid pesters me for the details all the way to the park. I refuse to tell him more. This isn't really because I don't have more details. It's just that they're unpredictable. I know our objective is to observe Gaga Girl. Then, if our observations show evidence of her guilt, we may have to interrogate her. I think that detail may worry Shahid. It's best if I get him to the park first, then see what happens next.