I Got a D in Salami #2 (8 page)

“I can't,” said Emily. “I just polished my nails, and they're still wet.” Emily has this habit of polishing each of her nails a different color. She thinks it's part of her “look.” If that's her look, I think she should look elsewhere.

“Emily,” I said. “I'm going to count to three and then tell Mom. One . . . two . . . ”

“Okay, you don't have to be so bossy about it,” Emily said, lifting Katherine up and putting her on her shoulder.

I put my jacket on fast. I was worried that I was going to be late. Then I grabbed Cheerio and opened the door to leave. I turned to say good-bye to my dad. Suddenly, Katherine, who must have fallen in love with my jacket, jumped off Emily and ran across the living room after me. She grabbed onto my pants and crawled up my leg and onto the jacket, digging her claws into the fabric as if it were her long-lost mother or something. I got scared and yelled so loudly that Mrs. Fink came running out of her apartment into the hall. She was in her big pink bathrobe, and she didn't have her teeth in.

I spun around like a madman, trying to unhitch Katherine from my back. It must have worked, because the next thing I knew, Katherine had jumped to the floor. She looked around for a place to go and saw someplace she liked. Unfortunately, that place was Mrs. Fink. Katherine leapt onto the bottom of her big pink bathrobe and crawled all the way up Mrs. Fink until she stopped about three inches from her face.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!”
Mrs. Fink shrieked in a voice that sounded like a wild hyena I once heard on a National Geographic special.

My mom was the first one out in the hall.

“Emily!” she screamed when she saw Katherine hanging off Mrs. Fink's chest. “Come out here right now.”

“I'm polishing my nails,” Emily called back.

“Now!” shouted my father, who had joined the group in the hall.

The doors of the other two apartments on our floor flew open. Little Tyler King stuck his head out from behind his mother. He was wearing his Spider-Man pajamas.

“Mommy! Mommy!” he screamed, when he saw what was going on. “There's a big rat on Mrs. Fink's boobies.”

Mr. Park from apartment 10D came out and tried to help. He reached out for Katherine, but when she saw him coming, Katherine whipped out her tongue and waved it in front of him. He jumped back, like any sane person would if they saw that long, ugly tongue.

“Call the police!” cried Mrs. Fink.

“Call the fire department!” called Mr. Park.

“Please be calm, everyone!” said my mother. “Katherine won't hurt you.”

By now, Emily had arrived on the scene. “Ohhh, she likes you,” Emily said to Mrs. Fink.

“Well, I don't like her!” screamed Mrs. Fink.

“She doesn't go to anyone she doesn't like,” Emily said.

Emily came over to Mrs. Fink and slowly reached out for Katherine. But Katherine liked it there on Mrs. Fink's chest, and she refused to go to Emily. She dug her claws into the bathrobe and hung on. It was a pathetic sight. Poor Mrs. Fink was pressed up against the wall, her arms spread out like giant eagle wings. She was too scared to move. The only things she moved were her eyeballs, and they were popping out of her head like something you'd see in a cartoon. She looked down at Katherine and whimpered.

“Nice lizard. Go away now.”

Katherine stared at Mrs. Fink with her beady eyes, then suddenly stuck her tongue out. Then Mrs. Fink, for some unknown reason, stuck her tongue out at Katherine. Katherine did it back to her. Mrs. Fink stuck her tongue out again, this time a little farther. Katherine waited a second, then shot her tongue right back at Mrs. Fink.

“Look,” Emily whispered to me. “They're communicating. It's like a dance.”

“The tongue tango.” I moaned. “That's so gross, Emily.”

“I think it's sweet,” Emily said, “and if you didn't have a brain the size of a pea, you'd think so, too.”

“I have to go,” I said to Emily. “I'm meeting Papa Pete downstairs, and I can't be late.”

“You can't go now,” Emily answered, grabbing onto my sleeve to stop me. “Look! They're having a breakthrough.”

I couldn't believe what I saw. Katherine stuck out her tongue out and actually licked Mrs. Fink on the cheek. Mrs. Fink touched Katherine's head with her index finger and smiled, showing her pink gums. I guess that's something that appeals to iguanas, because Katherine's tongue shot out and licked Mrs. Fink again.

“Look, Mommy! They're kissing,” said Tyler King. “
Eeewww
, that's so yucky!”

“I think it's the sweetest thing I've ever seen,” said Emily. She sounded like she was going to cry.

This was too much for me.

“Check, please,” I said.

“Where are you going?” Emily asked.

“Listen, I'd love to stay and get all mushy with you reptiles, but Cheerio and I have important business with Papa Pete.” I looked at my watch. “Gotta run!”

I really was late. Katherine's little hallway adventure had cost us ten minutes. I grabbed Cheerio and ran as fast as I could down the stairwell.

I'VE KNOWN MRS. FINK all my life, and I think she's a nice lady. But watching her and Katherine doing the tongue tango was just more than any guy should ever have to see.

Ashley, Frankie, and Robert had already met up with Papa Pete outside. The four of them were waiting for me under the awning of our building.

“You're late, Zip,” Frankie said. “What happened to you?”

“Our iguana fell in love with Mrs. Fink,” I answered, knowing that would shut him up, and it did. He just grabbed his stomach and pretended he was going to throw up.

“Let's go,” said Ashley. “We're late.”

“Excuse me, lady and gentlemen. May I ask what it is we're late for?” asked Papa Pete.

“We have to go to the deli,” I told Papa Pete. “I don't have time to explain now, because we have to get there before Carlos leaves on his delivery run.”

“He leaves at ten,” said Papa Pete. “That gives us exactly five minutes.”

We took off down 78th Street toward Broadway. Cheerio tried to keep up with us. His four short legs moved as fast as they could, but they didn't cover much ground. He looked like he was on one of those treadmills people use at the gym. When we came to our first red light, I picked up Cheerio and tucked him under my arm. We waited. It was the longest red light in the history of electricity.

“Don't look at it,” Ashley said. “I swear it makes it stay red longer.”

We all turned away. When we looked back, it was still red.

I turned to Frankie in desperation.

“Say your magic words,” I begged.

Frankie faced the light, put his hands in the air, and said, “Zengawii.” The light changed from red to green.

“I am all-powerful,” said Frankie, half believing it.

“Actually,” said Robert, “the light is set for a minute and twenty-two seconds depending on traffic flow.”

“Shut up, Robert,” we all said, as we always do.

We crossed Broadway and ran the last block to The Crunchy Pickle. It was one of those crisp, cool New York mornings, a perfect morning for running. In the summer in New York, you don't feel like running because it's hot and you get all sweaty before you even start. In the winter, it's so cold that when you run and breathe hard, the air stings the inside of your nose. But when you run on a fall morning, boy, it feels just right.

We got to the deli, and I pushed the glass door open. Carlos wasn't there, but Vladimir was working behind the counter, putting toothpicks into cheese squares. Vladimir Olefski is our weekend cook and sandwich man. He's from Russia, and he speaks English with a thick accent. I was scared of Vlady at first, because he never smiles and also he has a lot of reddishblondish hair growing out of his ears. It's not actually that much hair, but as far as I'm concerned,
any
hair growing out of your ears is a lot. I remember thinking that Vlady reminded me of a werewolf I saw once on a late-night movie when I slept over at Frankie's. Papa Pete tells me not to look at his ears. He says that when a man can stuff a cabbage like Vlady can stuff a cabbage, what's a little ear hair?

Vlady had his back to us, and he was singing this Russian song he always sings. It is the saddest song you've ever heard. Once I asked Vlady what it was about.

“A man looks for fish in Volga River,” he said. “No fish there, so he must eat only snow and stale bread. My family sings this song at parties, and we cry like babies.” Those Olefskis must be some really fun party animals.

“Hi, Vlady,” I said. “Where's Carlos?”

“He is left,” Vlady said.

Oh, no! “How long ago?”

“Many minutes before,” Vlady answered in his thick Russian accent.

We had counted on following Carlos. How else could we get to Mr. Gristediano's? We didn't even have his address.

“This is bad,” said Ashley. “A real fly in the ointment.”

“No flies here,” Vlady snapped. “I keep place clean.”

“Vlady,” said Frankie, saying every syllable very clearly. “Do you know the address where Carlos went?”

“He write on paper,” Vlady said, pointing to a pad of paper we keep by the phone to write down deliveries.

Ashley grabbed the pad. The top sheet was blank. Obviously, Carlos had taken Mr. Gristediano's address with him.

“Another fly in the ointment,” Ashley muttered.

“Pardon, Missy,” Vlady said, his blue eyes squinting at Ashley from under his big red eyebrows. “I say
NO FLIES
.”

Frankie looked at the blank pad.

“Carlos must go through a lot of pencils,” he said. “He writes hard. Look, every word leaves an impression on the paper underneath.”

That was all I needed to hear.

“Vlady,” I said, “can I borrow your pencil?”

He took the pencil from behind his ear and handed it to me. I wiped it off quickly, to make sure it didn't have a loose ear hair on it. Then I laid it on its side and began rubbing the lead back and forth over the blank piece of paper. The paper turned gray, except the parts on which Carlos's pencil had written the address, which stayed white. As I shaded over the whole page, little by little the address popped out.

“I got it,” I yelled, looking at the piece of paper. “Five-forty-one Riverside Drive, apartment 4B.”

I ripped the page off the pad.

“Let's jet,” I said. I looked around for Papa Pete. He had slid into one of the booths with a cup of coffee. “Come on, Papa Pete. We've got to hurry.”

“I just got myself a Danish,” he said.

“Can you take it to go?” Frankie asked.

“Is it absolutely necessary?” asked Papa Pete.

“Abso-one-hundred-percent-lutely,” said Frankie.

“In that case, I think I can,” said Papa Pete. He wrapped the Danish in a napkin and shoved it in his pocket.

“Papa Pete, you are the greatest,” I said, dashing to the door and holding it open for him.

“Is someone going to tell me what all this is about?” he asked.

“No time now,” I said. “Later.”

“Okay, Hankie,” said Papa Pete. “The mystery continues.”

“Close door,” Vlady called after us. “No flies.”

I tucked Cheerio under my arm, and we tore out onto the street and headed down toward Riverside Drive. It was about four blocks to Mr. Gristediano's apartment.

“We'll never get there before Carlos does,” Frankie said.

“I think we have a chance,” I said. I happen to know that Carlos is not the fastest delivery guy in town. He is the nicest and the best dressed, but not the fastest.

“I hope I don't get an asthma attack,” said Robert, panting hard.

Ashley turned to him and said, “You don't have time, Robert.”

“Oh, right,” he said.

It may sound amazing to you, but Papa Pete had no trouble keeping up with us. He's in great shape. He's big, but he's solid muscle.

“It's from the bowling,” he always says. “Keeps a man fit.” I'm sure that walking up and down the stairs to McKelty's Roll 'N Bowl doesn't hurt, either.

We reached 541 Riverside Drive. It was a fancy building with two carved lions out in front. The doorman was leaning on one of them, picking his teeth with a toothpick. He didn't look friendly.

I walked up to him, but before I could open my mouth, old Robert butt in. “Excuse me, Mr. Riverside,” he said.

Frankie whipped around and stared at Robert.

“What do you think you're doing?” he whispered.

“I'm calling the man by his name,” said Robert. “It's good manners.”

“That's not his name, numbskull,” said Frankie. “That's the name of the building embroidered on his coat.”

“How was I supposed to know?” asked Robert. “I'm only in third grade.”

Right. Now he was in the third grade. When he wants to bore you with the name of every mountain range in Asia, he's a college professor, but when he screws up, he's just a third-grader.

I turned to the doorman.

“Has the delivery from The Crunchy Pickle arrived yet for apartment Four-B?” I asked.

“No.”

Just as I had thought. Carlos was late. Do I know my delivery guys or what?

“That's excellent,” I said, “because we have a very important matter to discuss with the delivery person who's bringing Mr. Gristediano's platters.”