Jacob Two-Two-'s First Spy Case (7 page)

CHAPTER 12

'm going to fix that brat, that lousy little cheater, that eight-year-old swindler!” bellowed Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse when he got home after the poker game. “If it's the last thing I do!”

He was speaking to his eighty-five-year-old mother, with whom he lived in the basement of an apartment building they owned in the old neighborhood. The sign outside read:

Old Mrs. Louse was seated in her rocking chair in the furnace room, the only well-heated room in the entire building. “How much money did you win tonight, my sweetie-poo?” she demanded eagerly.

“I lost ninety-seven of our hard-earned dollars,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo, tears rolling down his cheeks, and he explained how Jacob Two-Two, that boy criminal, that unspeakable stinker, had so upset him with his trickery, that he had been unable to concentrate on his cards.

“Why, that's terrible,” said Mrs. Louse, even as her fifty-two-year-old son climbed onto her lap, sniffling and sucking his thumb. “My poor uggams,” she said, stroking his shiny bald head.

It was just about impossible to move within the crowded furnace room. There was a mound of their tenants' green garbage bags, which they hadn't had time to go through yet, searching for treasures. All the magazines they found, for instance, were stacked in a special pile until they were at least a month old, by which time they became acceptable to doctors and
dentists, who bought them for a few pennies each to be placed in their waiting rooms. There were also ceiling-high stacks of old newspapers waiting to be sold, and empty Coca-Cola, Pepsi, and beer bottles lined up here, there, and everywhere.

Once a year, Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse and his mother went on their annual Spring Harvest Holiday. After the snows had melted, they rode through the neighboring mountain country to search the roadside ditches for empty deposit bottles that skiers had flung from their speeding cars the previous winter. They would ride in Perfectly Loathsome Leo's truck, remembering to switch off the ignition and coast down all the hills, saving gas. It was the panel truck with the sign printed on both sides:

The secret of Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse's popularity with private schools was his discovery, early on, of their golden rule: the more expensive the school fees, the worse the food they served to the children.
On Monday morning, Perfectly Loathsome Leo was still brooding about his losses at the poker table, which he blamed on Jacob Two-Two. That child swindler, that under-age cheat. But he found some comfort flitting about his enormous kitchen, preparing the day's school lunches, with the help of his mother. Testing a spoonful of soup, spitting it out, he said, “This won't do, Mumsy. It's almost tolerable. Let's fill a pail with stagnant dishwater, pour it in, and bring the broth to the boil again.”

“Oh, what a wonderful idea, my sweetums,” she said.

Dipping a finger into a tub of mashed potatoes, he growled, “Why, this tastes almost decent. Our reputation could be ruined!”

“Think of something,” she said.

“I've got it,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo, and he fetched an emergency bucket of gray, almost raw potato lumps that he kept in the refrigerator, and emptied it into the tub. “Stir it well, Mumsy.”

“Hee hee hee,” she said, “you are a genius, my truly loathsome one.”

Ever watchful, Perfectly Loathsome Leo moved on to a stack of sausages. “Just as I feared,” he said,
“these aren't sufficiently greasy. Let's drown these sausages in hot bacon fat, and cool the pile before delivery.”

“You know something, Perfectly Loathsome,” his mother cooed, “sometimes I wonder if I really deserve to have been blessed with such an enchanting son.”

Perfectly Loathsome Leo was delighted with his mother's five-foot-long meat loaf. “One hundred and ten per cent terrific, Mumsy. You can actually taste the sawdust in it. Where's it going?”

It was going to Privilege House, Jacob Two-Two's school.

“Good-o!” exclaimed Perfectly Loathsome Leo. “Wonderful!” And he danced his mother round the kitchen.

But Perfectly Loathsome Leo's joy was short-lived. That evening as he and his mother sat in the furnace room, counting their rent money for the umpteenth time, he again recalled his hard-earned ninety-seven-dollar loss at the card table, all because of Jacob Two-Two, and he began to moan and groan.

“Whatever can be the matter, precious one?” asked his mother.

“That Jacob Two-Two humiliated me. He made
me look like a monkey in front of my friends. I lost all that money only because of him. How am I going to get my revenge?”

“You'll think of something, my heart's delight. Something mean mean mean. Mummykins is counting on you,” she cooed.

It was beginning to grow dark.

“But now we had better go tucky-byes, my snookums. Or else,” she said, her eyes filled with horror at the thought, “it will be time to switch on the lights.
Burning electricity!
WASTING MONEY
!”

CHAPTER 13

urprise, surprise. After school that same Monday Jacob Two-Two had actually been invited into the
CHILD POWER
Command Tent.

“Good to see you,” said the intrepid Shapiro.

“Care for a swig of wine?” asked the fearless O'Toole, reaching for the bottle on the table.

“It's only cranberry juice,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Tell us how you worked the Clairvoyant's Gamble,” said the intrepid Shapiro.

“And
CHILD POWER
will help you at Privilege House.”

“I can't,” said Jacob Two-Two. “I can't.”

“Why not?”

“It's a secret.”

“In that case, you are on your own,” said the fearless O'Toole, and he was invited to leave the tent.

It turned out to be a bad week all around. The school lunches, which were either tasteless, horrible, or disgusting, depending on the day of the week, were now absolutely vile, but at least he didn't have to eat double portions any longer. One day it was fish pie, made more of skin and bones than anything else and paved with a crust you needed an axe to break. Another day it was spaghetti, all the strands stuck together, with a sauce that was obviously boiled ketchup. Miss Lapointe whispered to the boys at her table, “I have written a letter to the editor of the
Daily Doze
to complain about conditions here.”

“Will he do anything?” asked Mickey Horowitz.

“We can only hope,” said Miss Lapointe.

Meanwhile, the dreaded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts feasted on roast leg of lamb, or a side of poached salmon, or a mound of veal chops, passing on the bones to Miss Sour Pickle.

“Oh, you're too kind, Your Excellency,” she would say, blushing.

Every afternoon after school an increasingly sad Jacob Two-Two stopped at his secret mail-drop on Mr. Dinglebat's front lawn, made sure there were no watchers in sight, and then dug into the narrow slot in the maple tree, hoping for a message. Nothing was there. Finally, on Friday, he found a note:

Jacob Two-Two immediately tore the note into tiny bits, dropping the pieces into two separate waste-bins, as he had been instructed. But he was confused. Ottawa rules, Moscow rules, Washington rules, all jumbled up in his head. Then he remembered that Ottawa rules meant the park. So, at the appointed time, he slipped out of the house and headed for the Ottawa-rules bench in the nearby park. An old tramp was already lying on the bench, snoring, the sports
section of the
Daily Doze
spread over his face. “Wake up, Mr. Dinglebat,” said Jacob Two-Two, tugging at the big toe that stuck out of a torn running shoe. “Wake up, it's me.”

“Darn it,” said Mr. Dinglebat, “I was sure I could fool you with this get-up.”

“Where have you been all week?” asked Jacob Two-Two twice.

“Since you last saw me, dear boy, I have met with a lady called Martha on Prince Edward Island, and conferred with Prince Edward on Martha's Vineyard. A master spy's work is never done.”

“Gosh,” said Jacob Two-Two.

“Now I have hit upon a plan that will be the undoing of both the unspeakable Mr. Louse and the dreaded Mr. Greedyguts. You had better read this,” said Mr. Dinglebat, handing him a sheet of paper.

It was a note to Miss Lapointe, written by Mr. Dinglebat but signed with the name of Dr. Magnum Frankenstein, a dentist, excusing Jacob Two-Two from classes on Monday afternoon.

“I hope you're not expecting me to hand this in at school,” said Jacob Two-Two, alarmed.

“Yours not to reason why,” said Mr. Dinglebat.

“But if my mother ever found out, I could get into bad trouble,” said Jacob Two-Two. “I could get into bad trouble.”

“Trouble is our business,
amigo
. Monday afternoon we're going on what is known in our trade as a fishing expedition. But, don't worry, I'll have you outside Privilege House in time for your mother to pick you up.”

“Where to?” asked Jacob Two-Two. “Where to?”

“Time will tell.”

“And what's your plan of action?” asked Jacob Two-Two.

Mr. Dinglebat frowned. “Remember what I told you about ‘need to know'?”

“In advance of a dangerous mission,” recited Jacob Two-Two, “a spy is told only what he needs to know, nothing more, so that if he is captured by the enemy, and tortured, he cannot reveal vital information.”

“See you anon,” said Mr. Dinglebat, leaping up from the bench and starting home, walking backwards.

After dinner, Jacob Two-Two, a very worried little boy, went out to mow the front lawns. First Mr. Dinglebat's, true to his promise, and then his own.
As the poker players began to arrive, they all greeted him warmly, except, of course, Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse.

“Keep out of my way tonight, you little cheater,” he said. “You're bad luck.”

Perfectly Loathsome Leo was greeted with guffaws at the card table.

“Don't you want to place another bet with Jacob before we start?” Jacob Two-Two's father asked him.

“Just deal the cards,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse, his face burning red.

“I dunno,” said one of the players. “If I were you I'd phone the Clairvoyant before placing any bets.”

Everybody laughed.

“Well, I can handle my own cards,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo, and then he saw Jacob Two-Two enter the room.
Brat
, he muttered to himself.

“Hey, Jake,” one of the players called out, “pull up a chair. Leo looks like he's going to need help.”