The Most Frightening Story Ever Told (8 page)

When Mr. Rapscallion had finished singing his song, the customers on the gallery applauded enthusiastically. Billy had noticed some of them joining in the chorus, which made him think that they must have heard the song before. Mr. Rapscallion himself stood up and took several bows, as if he had been onstage in a concert hall.

Billy applauded as well, although he was just a little shocked by what he had heard. He was well aware that some children were naughty. And that some children from King Herod the Great Middle School could be very bad indeed. It could even be said that, sometimes, they were actually wicked. All over the walls and sidewalks of Hitchcock there was graffiti that had been put there by the KHG. And there was no doubt that much of this graffiti said some very wicked things indeed. Much of it about the KHG principal, Miss Dorkk.

Billy hoped Mr. Rapscallion didn't think he—Billy—was as bad as some of those other children. So he decided to try to make up for their behavior with some exemplary behavior of his own. And remembering that Mr. Rapscallion couldn't even afford to take on a book clerk, he said, “Mr. Rapscallion, sir? I'd love to help out around here. And I wouldn't want any money for it. Helping out here would be a pleasure.”

“Thanks, Billy, I appreciate the offer. But I couldn't let you work for nothing. I'd be taking advantage of your generosity.”

“I could volunteer,” insisted Billy. “Perhaps we could even call it an internship. And since I don't actually buy any of the books, it sounds to me like a fair exchange. Wouldn't you agree?”

Mr. Rapscallion nodded thoughtfully. “All right. It's a deal. When I need some help, I'll let you know. But I'd like to make one thing quite clear, Billy.”

“What's that?” asked Billy.

“The only children I don't like are just a
dozen
or so nasty ones. The kind of children who could make an Egyptian mummy look like a giant pink rabbit. Most children I like. I only ever wanted to scare the kids because I thought they might appreciate it. Kids like a good scare, don't they?”

“Sometimes,” said Billy. “Yes. A good scare is sometimes the best fun there is.”

Mr. Rapscallion nodded again. “I just want you to know that, Billy, in case you think I'm a bad man.”

“I know that,” said Billy. “I wouldn't have volunteered to help if I thought any different.”

When Billy came into the shop the very next day, Mr. Rapscallion said, “Good morning to you, Billy.”

“Good morning to you, Mr. Rapscallion.”

“Billy, I wonder if I could impose on your kind offer of yesterday and ask you to mind the shop for half an hour while I go to the bank.”

“Of course. I'd be delighted.”

“There's just one thing I have to warn you about,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “And it's this.” He placed his hands on Billy's shoulders and steered him behind the metallic brown cash register.

“Is it a ghost?”

“No.”

Up close Billy thought the cash register was the size of a Russian czar's throne and almost as shiny.

“Ever heard of Joe Louis?” Mr. Rapscallion asked him.

“No.”

“Joe Louis was the greatest heavyweight boxing champion in history. His nickname was the Brown Bomber. I call this the Brown Bomber on account of the cash register's oxidized brown finish. And because it has a heck of a right hook. In other words, this register can hit you pretty good if you're not expecting it.”

Mr. Rapscallion moved Billy to one side of the register. Then he reached out and carefully, as if he had been touching something very hot, pressed one of the keys. Immediately the heavy cash drawer shot out like something on the end of a powerful piston. At the same time a bell rang loudly like at the end of a round in a boxing match.

“I still forget sometimes,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “And it catches me in the belly. Which is why I always remember that it's called the Brown Bomber.”

He slammed the drawer shut.

Billy nodded.

“All right.” And then Mr. Rapscallion went out of the shop.

Billy stood proudly behind the cash register. To the book-loving boy, this seemed like a dream come true: him, left in charge of a bookshop. And not just any bookshop—he was in charge of the Haunted House of Books.

The telephone rang. It was a company selling designer kitchens, and although Billy couldn't imagine Mr. Rapscallion being very interested in the company's half-price sale, he took a number anyway and told the salesman he'd pass on a message.

The next thing that happened was that the mailman turned up. The mailman wasn't a man at all, but a woman, and she seemed pleased to see Billy and talked to him for several minutes before handing the boy an important-looking envelope with the letters “IRS” on it.

As the mailwoman walked out of the door, a girl walked in and gave the place a dim once-over before approaching the cash register and Billy. Her face was pretty and round with big eyes, only she was dressed older than she looked. She was wearing jeans and a skirt, a hoodie and a pair of sneakers. Over her shoulder was a fisherman's bag and on her head was a green cap with a picture of Che Guevara.

“Hi,” she said brightly. “Is my dad around?”

Billy shook his head.

“Good,” she said.

“You must be Altaira,” said Billy. “I've heard a lot about you.”

The girl winced. “Nobody calls me that.”

“What do they call you?” asked Billy.

“Redford,” said the girl. “Like the famous movie star.”

“Sounds a bit like your dad's name,” said Billy. “Rexford?”

“That's not why I chose it,” she said stiffly.

“But isn't that a man's name?” asked Billy.

“I don't think that sort of thing matters, do you?” She wasn't looking for an answer to the question. “Names aren't gender specific. Not anymore. There are models who call themselves Kelly, soccer players called Silvinho and basketball stars called Amar'e and LeBron.”

“I guess you're right.” Billy shrugged. “My name is Billy,” he said. “It's short for William. Your dad stepped out for half an hour to go to the bank.”

Redford pulled a face. “You look kind of young to be working in a place like this.”

“I'm just helping him out. I'm a volunteer. An intern.”

“That sounds just like my dad. Get someone to work for him without paying them any money. What a cheapskate. You're being taken advantage of, do you know that? In case you didn't notice, this place isn't a charity shop. They do expect to try and turn a profit, you know.”

“Actually, it was my idea for me to work here,” said Billy.

“I doubt that. You've no idea how devious he can be.”

“No, really. In the beginning he was against the idea. He took quite a bit of persuading. And I'm the same age as you, Altaira. I mean, Redford. Besides, it's not a bar, it's a bookshop.”

Redford gave the shop a withering look. “Really? You could have fooled me.” She shook her head. “Who buys all this junk, anyway? No, wait, I'll tell you. No one. There's a layer of dust on some of these books that's as thick as an old encyclopedia.”

“As a matter of fact, we have lots of regular customers. There's Father Merrin, of course. Miss Danvers. Dr. Saki. Mr. Stoker. Mr. Quiller-Couch. Mr. Pu Sung Ling. Miss Maupassant. Montague James.”

Redford laughed scornfully. “I've seen them. Those aren't customers. They're just creeps and losers who come in here to get out of the rain, or because there's nowhere else for them to go in Hitchcock. Most of them are even too weird for the library, and that's saying something. Nobody ever actually buys a book in here. They sell more stuff in a funeral parlor.”

“That's a little harsh,” said Billy.

She turned and walked back to the door.

“Do you want to leave your dad a message?” said Billy.

“No,” she said. “Why would I want to do that? Besides, haven't you heard of texts? Email? If I wanted to send him a message, I certainly wouldn't trust a mere intern to do it.”

“Then I don't understand. You said you were glad he wasn't around and you don't want to leave a message. So why did you come in here?”

“You ask a lot of questions for a volunteer, do you know that?”

“I don't mean to pry,” said Billy. “You're right. It's none of my business.”

Redford winced. “Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. I guess I just wanted to know that he's still alive.”

“You're very like him, you know,” said Billy. “Tough on the outside. Not so tough on the inside, perhaps.”

Redford Rapscallion rolled her eyes. “Now I really am going. Before I barf.”

She went out of the shop even as two customers came toward Billy from opposite ends. One was Miss Danvers and the other was Mr. Stoker. Each of them was carrying a book and it seemed clear to Billy that he was about to make his first two sales.

Mr. Stoker, a tall man with a beard, arrived first. He wore a suit that seemed almost too large for him and a tie with little golden symbols on the dark silk. He was also very polite and insisted that Billy should serve the lady first, and Billy took this to mean Miss Danvers.

Miss Danvers was wearing the same dark green leather coat. Underneath it she wore a black dress with a little white collar that made her look a bit like a nun. She handed Billy a copy of
Rigor Mortis: 19
by Esteban Rex and a fifty-dollar bill to cover the $39.99 price.

Carefully, Billy pressed the fifty-dollar key on the register and narrowly missed being struck by the drawer. He put the fifty-dollar bill in the tray for large notes and took out the customer's change.

“Would you like a paper bag?” he asked her politely. “For your book?”

Miss Danvers let out a weary sigh. “Do I look like someone who would want a paper bag?” she asked Billy.

“I don't know,” said Billy.

“The green coat should tell you something, boy,” she said coldly. “I'm
green.
”

“Oh,” said Billy, still none the wiser.

“All bags and packaging in shops have a cost to the environment,” she said. “Didn't you know that?”

“Er, yes,” said Billy.

“Just think of all the trees we can save if we don't have paper bags,” said Miss Danvers.

Billy nodded and then looked uncertainly at the book she had just bought. This was eight hundred pages long. A real blockbuster, thought Billy.

Mr. Stoker seemed to guess what Billy was thinking and said, “Ah yes, but think how many trees might be saved if Esteban Rex never wrote another book.” He chuckled. “That really would save some trees. Not to mention one's arms. Esteban Rex must write the heaviest books in the world. Don't you think so, Billy?”

Without thinking, Billy agreed with Mr. Stoker, which seemed to make Miss Danvers very cross indeed because she snatched up her book and her ten dollars and one cent change and said, “Well, really. I can go somewhere else and be insulted, you know.”

Billy had no idea what this meant and watched her leaving the shop with horror.

“What did I say?” he asked Mr. Stoker.

“Oh, forget about her,” said Mr. Stoker. “She's always been a bit touchy.”

He handed Billy his purchases: a copy of Deacon Wordz's book
Sick Schloss,
and
On Legs of Lightning
by Phyllis P. T. Barnum.

Billy didn't think much of either of them, but of course he was too polite to tell Mr. Stoker. Besides, that wouldn't have been good business. He'd noticed that whenever Mr. Rapscallion sold a book, he always said how good it was even when Billy knew Mr. Rapscallion thought that the book wasn't very good at all. In the beginning he thought that this was dishonest, until Mr. Rapscallion had told him that the first principle of running a shop was that “the customer is always right.”

“What, even when he's wrong?”

Mr. Rapscallion had shaken his head. “The customer is never wrong,” he said.

“Yes, but what if he is?” asked Billy.

But Mr. Rapscallion had just kept on shaking his head. “It's the trading policy of all good shops that they should always put the customer first in all situations. And that includes a situation when he's talking out of his hat.”

“So what if the customer wanted
Sick Schloss
but insisted that it had been written by Esteban Rex?” Billy had asked Mr. Rapscallion. “Then what do you do?”

“You do what you can,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “You do what you can without making the lunkheaded customer feel small or stupid.”

“And if they are small or stupid?” Billy had asked him. “What then?”

Mr. Rapscallion started to shake his head again, and, inspired, Billy thought of an example of a customer Mr. Rapscallion could hardly disagree was small and stupid.

“What if the customer was Wilson Dirtbag?” he asked, giving the name of one of the bad children who had painted the mummy pink in the Curse of the Pharaohs room. And then some others: “Or Kate Ramsbottom? Or Lloyd Sputum? What if they were the customers? Are they always right?”

Mr. Rapscallion didn't have an answer for Billy.

“How much do I owe you?” asked Mr. Stoker.

“One hundred and twenty-one dollars,” said Billy. The rest of the boy's mind was still occupied with the foolish notion that the customer is always right even when he's wrong. And that was probably why he was standing immediately behind the Brown Bomber when he hit the cash register's one-hundred-dollar key.

The drawer exploded out of the machine like a team of horses in a chariot race and almost took Billy's young head off.

“Yikes!” he said, finding himself on the floor. And, looking up, he saw Mr. Stoker peering over the counter to see if he was injured.

“Are you all right, young fellow me lad?” asked Mr. Stoker.

“Yes,” said Billy, picking himself up. “I think so.” He let out a nervous breath. “Phew! That was close.”

“Close? Close? It looked like yon drawer went straight through you,” said Mr. Stoker. “So it did.”

“I guess I ducked just in time.” Billy grinned sheepishly.

“It's a miracle, so it is. You ask me, you're very lucky to be alive.”

“I don't think it was that bad.”