Molly Moon's Incredible Book of Hypnotism (22 page)

A
t two thirty exactly, Nockman knocked at Molly’s door. He looked smart in the brown-and-gold doorman’s uniform with its matching cap that the receptionist had given him. He shuffled obediently into the room, and Molly and Rocky studied him. His hair was still a straggly black mane, and his face, although clean and shaven now, was bloated and unhealthy looking and he had a scabby red rash under his chin.

“A haircut, I think,” said Rocky. Molly put a towel around Nockman’s shoulders while Rocky found some scissors.

Without his tail of hair, Nockman looked much better. Bald as an egg at the front with a fringe of hair around the back, he looked like a monk.

Rocky gave him a banana. “For a few days you will eat nothing but fruit. It will do you good. And you will give up smoking.” Nockman tore open the banana and stuffed it into his mouth. Bits of banana fell out all over the floor.

“What about his manners? They’re
revolting
,” Molly pointed out.

“Okay,” agreed Rocky. “From now on, Nockman, you will eat like …”

“Like a queen,” suggested Molly.

“Er, could I have a napkin and a finger bowl please?” Nockman asked.

“And his accent must change,” said Molly. “A Chicago accent might get us caught. From now on, you will talk in a … a German accent.”

“Okay, I vill do zat,” Nockman agreed.

After Nockman had finished his banana, Rocky asked him to stand up. Rocky and Molly walked around him again and observed his slouched back, his squashed neck, and his double chin.

“Couldn’t we make him look a bit friendlier?” asked Rocky. Experimenting, he demanded, “Look like a puppy.”

Nockman immediately stuck out his tongue and raised his hands like paws. His eyes were wide and eager.

“That’s nearly it. Just put your tongue back in.”
Nockman obeyed. Rocky whispered to Molly, “He’s so weird. I feel sorry for him.”

“Sorry
for him? He’s a rat,” Molly replied.

Nockman began to do a rat impersonation, crouching on the floor, sniffing. “I didn’t say
be
a rat,” said Molly.

“Sorry, Miss Hair Dryer,” Nockman apologized.

“But he’s got no friends,” whispered Rocky.

“Bet he has. Lots of other rats. Let’s ask him. Let’s find out about him. Do you have any friends?” asked Molly.

“No, no. No friends ever,” stated Nockman in his German accent. “Except, I did have a fluffy pet parakeet—once. Eeet used to sing so—beautiful, and fly-around ze garden.” Tears welled up in Nockman’s eyes. Molly was taken aback. The last thing she wanted was to feel was pity for Nockman.

But Rocky was intrigued. “What happened to it?”

“It—vas—killed in—Mr. Snuff’s—rat trap. I found it-dead.”

“How horrible,” said Rocky. “Molly, you have to agree, that is sad … Poor parakeet, poor you. But who was Mr. Snuff?”

“He vas our landlord. Vee shared a garden vith him.”

“And why didn’t you have any other friends?” asked Rocky.

“Because—I—vas veird.”

“Weird? How?”

“Just veird. Unpopular.”

“I didn’t realize. This is awful,” said Rocky. “I do feel sorry for him.”

“I don’t,” declared Molly. “He was really nasty to Petula and very mean to me. Just stop it, Rocky. What’s come over you? The guy’s a jerk.”

“I don’t think he’s mean all the way at the bottom,” said Rocky.

“You don’t? Let’s ask him. Right, mister. Please will you list all the nasty things that you’ve done since your parakeet died.”

Nockman nodded his head and began to talk in a childish voice. “I set a rat—trap and put it under ze table where—Mr. Snuff sat—and it snapped shut—on his foot—just like it had—on—my F-F-Fluff.”

Rocky looked at Molly with a well-that-was-fair-enough look.

Nockman continued, “I tipped ze parakeet food into Mr. Snuff’s cereal box and he ate it.” This, too, sounded fair.

“Okay, okay,” said Molly. “Don’t tell any more nasty things you did to Mr. Snuff, because he obviously deserved it. Tell us
other
nasty things.”

A flood of confessions now tumbled out of Nockman’s
mouth. “I stole Stuart Blithe’s watch—and blamed it on another boy—and he got a beating from ze principal. I scribbled all over—ze homework of Shirley Denning—and I drew all over her best pictures. I made Robin Fletcher eat fifteen—dead flies, and zen ven he was sick—I made him eat ze sick. I pushed Debra Cronly’s head through ze banister in the stairs—and ze fire brigade had to come and cut her free. I stole—children’s candy—and said if zay told, I’d flush zair heads down ze toilets …”

Molly interrupted. “That’s deep-down mean, isn’t it, Rocky?”

Rocky shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“What else?” asked Molly. “And skip a few years.”

Nockman’s voice now sounded older. “I burned Danny Tike’s model airplane zat he’d spent three veeks making. I stretched string—in between two posts near—ze nursing home and tripped up—old Mrs. Stokes so zat she—broke her nose. Eeet vas very funny. Zen I tripped up—ze blind man. Zat vas easy—and I stole his vallet.”

“Stole his wallet?!” Molly was really shocked. “And later?”

“Later.” Nockman’s memory fast-forwarded, past numerous foul deeds. “Later, I learned—to steal else-vare. Zis vas very—useful. Kids’ toys, anything I could
steal. And I learned how—to sell zem—to a secondhand store. Zis vas—ze start—of my career.”

“And how old were you then?”

“Eleven.”

“What else?”

“I stole a girl’s bicycle and locked—her in a storeroom. No one knew she was zare for—a day and a—night. I got small kids to steal from zare parents. If zay told—I beat zem up. I forced one kid to rob—an old man’s house—for me. He fit srew ze—small vindow. Zat vas good—verk.”

“Zat, I mean
that,
was not good work,” Molly corrected him.

“No, no, not good,” said Nockman, his mind suddenly changing.

“What about the recent years?”

“Vell,” explained Nockman, in a flat voice, “I did very vell vunce—ven I managed—to persuade—an old lady—to give me her life’s savings. I told her eet vas for a stray-dog home. She gave me—two hundred and fifty—thousand bucks. I bought my varehouses—and set my business up.”

Rocky made a face as if he’d just swallowed a pickled egg.

“Your business?”

“Yes. I deal in—stolen goods.”

“Not anymore you don’t,” said Molly.

“No,” agreed Nockman. “No.”

“So,” continued Molly, “what do you consider was the highlight of your career?”

“Ah …” said Nockman, his hypnotized eyes going all dreamy suddenly. “Ah—vell, ze best—sing I ever deescovered—vas a hypnoteesum book. Ze old lady-she told me all about eet. Vis ze book—I masterminded ze greatest—bank robbery—of ze world. I robbed—Shorings Bank eetself—een New York.”

“Crumbs,” said Molly, under her breath to Rocky, “he isn’t half deluded.” Then to Nockman, she said, “I’ve just got to stop you a moment there. Let’s get things straight.
You
didn’t rob the bank. Some extremely talented chil—I mean
accomplices
did. Anyway, that’s beside the point, as from now on, you will completely forget the hypnotism book and the trips you made searching for it. You will forget any ideas you had about robbing Shorings Bank. You will forget that it was robbed. Okay?”

“Okay. I forget—now.”

“Right. Any other big bad things you’ve done?”

“Yes,” admitted Nockman. “I sold a car with broken—brakes—to a man. He crashed.”

“Was he killed?” Rocky asked, his mouth agape.

“No, but ze lady he hit broke her leg.”

“Uuurgh, stop,” said Rocky angrily. “This is horrible. I can’t believe you. Why do you do all these things if you know they’re nasty?”

“I like being nasty,” came Nockman’s simple reply.

“But, why? Why?” asked Rocky, completely perplexed. “Why did you
like
being nasty? Why couldn’t you have liked being
nice?

“Never—knew vat—nice was.”

“But weren’t people nice to you?” asked Rocky.

“No—ov course not. Eferybody hated me. My father—he hated me. Even my muzzer laughed when my parakeet—died. She vas nasty. I learned ze nasties—vrom her—not ze nices. I don’t know nice.”

Rocky looked horror-struck. Then his appalled expression turned to one of realization. “Molly, it’s like Mrs. Trinklebury’s lullaby…. It’s what mamma cuckoo
taught
it to do. She taught it that pushing is best.”

Molly slowly nodded, as she too saw both Mrs. Trinklebury’s rhyme and Nockman in a new light. “You’re right, Rock. I almost hate to feel sorry for him, but you’re right. I suppose it’s not surprising that he’s mean, if no one taught him otherwise…. I suppose being kind is a bit like … like reading…. If no one had ever taught me to read, I’d find it very difficult to know how…. I mean, the pages of letters would just
look like a jumble. Being kind must look like a jumble to him.” Then she added, “And you and I thought our lives had been bad.”

“Yeah,” sighed Rocky. “At least we had Mrs. Trinklebury, and each other. Perhaps we can teach Mr. Nockman to be a better person.”

“Mmmmnn,” hummed Molly. “I wonder….” Then she asked Nockman, “Do you feel bad about the things that you’ve done?”

“No, vhy should I?” answered Nockman.

“There’s a problem here,” said Molly to Rocky. “It will be difficult to teach him to be better if he doesn’t see why he should change. He won’t want to be taught. And I’m not sure that just hypnotizing him to be good will fix him. He won’t
really
change until he feels sorry for what he’s done before. He might
want
to change if he realized how much he’d hurt people.”

“But how do we do that?” asked Rocky. “We’d have to make him feel what those people felt.”

“Well, I reckon,” said Molly, feeling like a surgeon about to conduct an operation, “I reckon we tap into the one thing that upset him, the only thing that we know he was upset about.”

“His parakeet?”

“Yup, his parakeet.” Molly turned to Nockman. “I tell you what, um, what’s your first name?”

“Simon. I’m Simon,” said Nockman, reaching inside his green jacket for his passport and offering it to Molly. She took it and studied his photograph, in which he looked more like a goldfish than a person. Or maybe a piranha.

“Well, Mr. Simon Nockman,” she said, “first I want you to do a dead-dog impersonation, on your back with your arms and legs in the air. Yes, that’s right, and now bark.”

“Voof, vooof, voooof,”
barked Nockman from the floor, his legs and arms waving.

“Good,” continued Molly. “Now, while you’re like that, I want you to imagine what it was like for Petula, that pug dog that you stole, to be treated badly by you.”

“Vooof, arf, voooof.”

Molly could see he wasn’t feeling much, so she added, “And if you can’t feel anything, just think about your poor dead parakeet.”

“Aaaaaooouuuuoooo,”
howled Nockman pitifully.

“There. You see,” said Molly, “he’s thinking about poor Petula and mixing it up with his sad feelings about his parakeet. He’s learning.”

Nockman howled again. “Aiaaaouuuuuouoooo.”

“Now,” shouted Molly over his wailing, “whenever anyone says ‘hello’ to you, you will get on your back and howl like this and feel like this and imagine how Petula
must have felt kidnaped by you.” And turning to Rocky, she said, “Every time someone says hello should be often enough to really make the lesson sink in, don’t you think? And doing it this way will mean we don’t have to keep prompting him.”

Then, to stop the noise, Molly told Nockman to get up and hop about like an excited orangutan.

“Oooogh, oooogh uuuugh,” he grunted.

“Now,” said Rocky, getting the idea, “for all your other bad behavior, whenever anyone says ‘good evening’ to you, you will remember the nasty thing you’ve done that
that
person reminds you of, and you will tell them what you did, remembering your parakeet again. Okay?”

“Oooooh, ooogh, uurgh, aah
, okay.” Nockman nodded, absorbing Rocky’s complicated instructions.

“That should get him thinking, shouldn’t it?” said Rocky.

“Most definitely,” agreed Molly. “And,” she ordered, “you can stop being an orangutan. Good. Right. You work for us, Mr. Nockman. You will do everything we ask. We will treat you well and you will be very happy working for us. Now, you may wake up.” Molly clapped her hands.

Then Rocky went to the fridge and poured everyone a glass of Qube.

Preparations to leave began.

Molly had some suitcases sent up from the lobby store, since she had so many new things, and Nockman began to pack her clothes. Rocky made a series of important telephone calls. And Molly saw to the hypnotism book.

She took it from the safe, carefully stowing it away in her knapsack. Then she picked her way through the hotel-room debris, through fan mail and New York souvenirs, through toys, gadgets, and accessories, and she thought about what to take with her. When she saw Petula lying on her old jacket, she decided to leave it behind. She unhooked her new denim jacket from the wardrobe door and went to the window to take a last high-up look at glistening Manhattan.

Rain poured down outside, but the afternoon sunlight was also hitting the buildings, so everywhere brick and steel and glass were shining. Molly still felt small here, because the city was so tall and dense and full of people she’d never meet. But now, instead of finding the city scary, as she had the first morning she’d looked out at it, she now loved the place. She loved the skyscrapers, the noisy streets, the crazy drivers, the shops, the galleries, the theaters, the movie houses, the slick people, the city’s parks and all its dirt. And she knew that, one day, she’d be back.

Petula, after a restful sleep, was woken by the sound of Nockman emptying Molly’s wardrobe. For some reason the man in the room wasn’t as frightening as the one who’d kidnaped her, so she ignored him. She picked up a nice stone and began to suck it.

Finally the hotel receptionist brought up a fat envelope that had been delivered for Molly, and it was time to go.

Molly’s Rolls-Royce was driven to the service entrance. With help from a hotel porter, Nockman loaded it up with luggage. Soon Molly, Rocky, and Petula were sitting comfortably on the car’s leather seats, behind its tinted-glass windows. Nockman was in the driver’s seat as chauffeur, butler, porter, general servant.