Jacob Two-Two-'s First Spy Case (13 page)

Within minutes, Mr. I.M. Greedyguts and Perfectly Loathsome Leo were standing at the counter in McDonald's,
placing their orders, unaware that they were being observed, overheard, and recorded by Jacob Two-Two and Mr. Dinglebat.

Mr. I.M. Greedyguts ordered three Big Macs, two buckets of fries, and a large Coke.

“Is that all you're going to have?” asked a disgusted Perfectly Loathsome Leo.

“I'm taking Miss Sour Pickle out for dinner tonight and I don't want to spoil my appetite. What about you, Perfectly Loathsome?”

“Am I paying?”

“Certainly.”

“In that case, I'm not hungry.”

They sat down at a table, and no sooner did Mr. I.M. Greedyguts finish his snack, than he held out his hand and Perfectly Loathsome Leo passed him a fat envelope.

“The bribe money, no doubt,” whispered Mr. Dinglebat, “the five hundred dollars,” and click, click, click went Jacob Two-Two's hidden camera.

Then Perfectly Loathsome Leo moved over to the counter where the little plastic packets of ketchup and mustard were available. He scooped up several handfuls and left.

Mr. I.M. Greedyguts started for the door – hesitated – and turned back.

“Yikes,” said a terrified Jacob Two-Two. “He's heading our way.
What should I say? What should I say?
”

Mr. I.M. Greedyguts stopped immediately before their table. “I beg your pardon,” he said to Jacob Two-Two, “but would you happen to be related to the World's Best Midget Photographer?”

“My friend here doesn't understand English,” said Mr. Dinglebat.

“It's just that he looks so familiar,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts. “Is it possible that I have met the kid at the White House, where I am frequently invited?”

“He's no kid,” said Mr. Dinglebat, pretending to be insulted. “My companion here is seventy-two years old.”

“Holy smokes,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts.

“Let me introduce you to Jacoby Zweizwei, the World's Most-Celebrated Shrinking Man. I brought him out of the jungles of Borneo when he was a strapping teenager, six-foot-six in his bare feet. But the poor fellow was bitten by the notorious zitsy-zitsy fly, and he has been shrinking ever since. Why, when little Zweizwei reaches the age of ninety-two, he will be so
petit
, I will be able to carry him around in my breast pocket.”

“Oh, the poor fellow,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, leaning over for a closer look at Jacob Two-Two.

“
Don't do that!
” shouted Mr. Dinglebat.

“Why not?” asked Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, jumping back.

“Fortunately, I'm immune. But if he bites
your
finger, you, yourself, will start shrinking. It's contagious, you see.”

Mr. I.M. Greedyguts fled, which made Jacob Two-Two laugh. But then he saw that Mr. Dinglebat didn't look pleased.

“I'm afraid we've been outsmarted,” said Mr. Dinglebat.

“How come?” asked Jacob Two-Two. “How come?”

“We never really got to see money change hands. I was hoping Greedyguts would take it out of the envelope and count it, but he didn't, darn it!”

“What do we do now?” asked Jacob Two-Two.

“Why, if at first you don't succeed, you try, try, and try again. I will put on my thinking cap and come up with something. Count on it, Jacob.”

“I do,” said Jacob Two-Two. “I do.”

CHAPTER 23

he following Tuesday, which was
OFFICIAL SUPER-DOOPER TREASURE HUNT NIGHT
, Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse and his miserly mum were hard at work as usual in the furnace room, rummaging through their tenants' garbage bags.

“Zowie,” called out Perfectly Loathsome Leo, “I just found a used toothbrush.”

“And I've got some cabbage leaves that will do very nicely for tomorrow's soup,” said his mother.

“Look at this,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo, “some sheets of stationery
that have been written on only on one side
.”

“How many, my pumpkin?”

“Seven.”

“It warms my heart to see you so happy again, my dumpling, but tell me why you didn't play poker as usual last Friday night?”

“Jacob Two-Two's mother put her foot down. I am no longer welcome there. But do you think I care? No. Why, I hear they're working Jacob Two-Two, that little stinker, so hard after school, that he now has dark circles under his eyes. Har, har, har.”

The bell rang.

“You get it,” said his mother.

“What if it's the health-department inspector?”

“Wait a minute,” she said, leaping out of her rocking chair, “while I empty all the mousetraps.”

The bell rang again.

“What about the cockroaches, Mummy?”

“Why, we'll tell them we keep them as house pets. Now answer the door, sweetums,” she said, even as she arranged her hair.

Perfectly Loathsome Leo did as he was asked, and he was so nervous he failed to notice the police car parked across the street, three officers keeping watch in the dark.

Perfectly Loathsome Leo and his miserly mum had two visitors. A bent-over old man trailing a long white beard and holding the hand of a fat, freckled little boy with curly red hair, possibly a wig, and red button nose that just might have been false. “Let me introduce myself,” wheezed the old man. “You are looking at a world traveler. In my time, I have kept a dog in the town of Moose Jaw, in Canada, and eaten mooseburgers on the Isle of Dogs, in England. In days gone by, I survived on sardines in the city of Kiev, in the Ukraine, and went on to feast on chicken Kiev on the island of Sardinia. To make a long story short, I am a gourmet, an internationally known food expert, and this is my grandson, Jacov Shtyim-Shtyim.”

“And we hear,” said the freckle-faced little boy, “that you and your mother prepare absolutely delicious meals.”

“So we do,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo's miserly mum.

“We are looking for somebody who can cater a dinner for one hundred distinguished guests,” said the old man.

“Price is no object,” said the boy, just as he had been told to say.

“In that case,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo, beginning to pant with excitement, “you have certainly come to the right place.”

“But there's nowhere to sit down,” said the old man, heaving a great sigh.

“Leo,” said his miserly mum, “take our guests into the parlor and, um, switch on the lights and turn on the heat,” she added, handing him the key.

“Do you realize what you are saying, Mumsy?” asked Perfectly Loathsome Leo, because the parlor was seldom used.

“This is a special occasion,” she said.

The parlor was a sight to behold. There was a bushel basket filled with little plastic packets of mustard, another overflowing with ketchup packets, and a third spilling over with plastic knives and forks. Sardine tins served as ashtrays. A plastic Javex bottle had been made into a lampstand, with no lampshade covering the light bulb. The ancient sofa was bleeding stuffing, and springs popped through the seat of the only armchair. A rickety table, standing on a tar-paper rug, was strewn with broken cups and saucers, some of them already mended with glue. Over the mantelpiece there hung a photograph of a witch wearing a
tall, cone-shaped black hat, a black cape, and riding a broomstick. Underneath, there was a lighted candle.

“Who's that?” asked the boy. “Who's that?”

“Why, this parlor is also our very own museum,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo's miserly mum. “And what you are looking at is a memorial to the Bad Witch of the North, who was unjustly murdered by Dorothy, who struck her down with a flying house in
The Wizard of Oz
, then went on to rob the dead woman of her ruby slippers.”

“Gosh,” said Jacob Two-Two, tightening his grip on the old man's hand.

“And have you seen this, child?”

It was a riding whip mounted on the wall.

“That is the real whip that was used to beat lazy Black Beauty, when he was employed as a cart horse.”

An apple was mounted on a pedestal.

“That is an exact replica of the apple that Snow White, that tiresome child, foolishly took a bite out of. I wish she had eaten all of it, don't you?”

A shotgun was mounted on a wall.

“That's the actual gun that a hunter aimed at Bambi.”

“Unfortunately, he missed,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo.

“But we are being such inconsiderate hosts,” said his miserly mum. “Can we get you something?”

“A glass of water, perhaps?” suggested Perfectly Loathsome Leo.

“Or possibly the two of you might like to share a peanut,” said his miserly mum.

“No, thanks,” said Mr. Dinglebat. “But do you think you will be able to cater our dinner party?”

“Certainly!”

“Excellent!
Formidable! Bravissimo!
” said Mr. Dinglebat. “But now I must take my grandson home, and put him to bed. I will leave you this deposit of five hundred dollars as a measure of our good will, and I will be back next week to discuss the menu and costs.”