The Odds Get Even (6 page)

“Get outta the road, kid!” the driver barked as he drove by.

Boney looked at the crushed flashlight with dismay. He tried to pull himself upright, but Snuff still clung to his pant cuff, growling and snarling. “Go on!” Boney shouted, giving him a quick kick and sending the dog skittering backwards to the curb.

“I’ll get his doggie treats,” Itchy’s mother called out, running into the house.

Snuff geared up and rushed again, but this time Boney stepped quickly out of the way and began running back to the clubhouse to warn the other Odd Fellows that the falling flashlight was not the official signal. He raced back to the tree, arms waving, Snuff barking and growling behind him.

“I said GO ON!” Boney screamed at the dog as he hit the old rubber tire at the base of the tree, stumbling
wildly. He flailed to the ground and was suddenly splashed by a cold shower of sticky honey water. The spotlight blasted on. The Polaroid flashed. There was a horrible shriek followed by a thud as Itchy-Elvis leaped from the tree, feathers exploding everywhere. The blood capsules burst, gushing red goop from Itchy’s mouth as his chin hit the ground, the special-effects eye popping from its socket and rolling into the dirt. The Polaroid whirred and a picture appeared from the camera, the image of Itchy in mid-flight slowly coming into focus. The light at the side of the house turned on and there stood Boney’s aunt and uncle, with looks of shock and horror on their faces as the feathers from the exploded pillow floated gracefully down, adhering to Boney’s honey-covered clothing. The whole mess was highlighted like a vaudeville show by the spotlight, still faithfully manned by Squeak.

“That stupid old tire,” Boney moaned from the ground.

Boney’s aunt took one look at Itchy and fainted. Itchy’s mother could be heard calling for Snuff down the street.

“Is…is that his eye?” Boney’s uncle asked, pointing to the fake eye in the mud.

Boney retrieved the eye from the ground. “It’s okay. It’s only a fake.”

He held the dripping eye in the air, the eyeball bouncing on the end of its spring. His aunt fluttered awake, took one look at the eye, and fainted again.

“Come, now, Mildred, it’s only a fake,” his uncle tried to console her, tapping lightly on her hand. He turned to Boney. “You’d better clean this up quickly and hope your aunt doesn’t remember a thing after she wakes up.” He gathered his wife and took her inside.

Boney pushed the eye into his pants pocket and leaned over to see if his friend was all right. He shook Itchy’s arm.

“Itchy…are you okay?”

Snuff trotted up to his master and began licking the fake blood from his mouth and cheeks.

“Snuff, cookies!” Itchy’s mother called from the street.

The dog tore from the yard, racing to get his treat.

Itchy groaned, his eyes blinking. “What happened?” he asked, raising his head shakily. He looked up at the feather-covered Boney. The spotlight streaming behind him made him look like an angelic chicken. “Am I dead?” he gulped.

“You jumped too soon,” Boney-Chicken explained. “The flashlight was a false alarm. And I tripped over your old tire.” He helped Itchy to his feet.

“Oh no,” Itchy said, looking at the blood-stained Elvis outfit. “My dad’s going to kill me.”

“We’ll get it dry cleaned,” Boney said, supporting Itchy around the waist. “Squeak—douse the light.”

Squeak turned off the spotlight, then slipped down the escape pole to where Boney and Itchy stood.

“My dad’s going to kill me,” Itchy moaned again, looking at the red-stained suit.

“I’m pretty sure those blood capsules are water soluble,” Squeak said, handing Itchy the Polaroid snapshot. “It’s a good picture…if that’s any consolation…”

“We’ll have the Elvis costume cleaned and back in the closet before your dad notices it’s gone,” Boney said.

Itchy just shook his head. “Bad idea,” he mumbled. “I knew it was a bad idea from the beginning.” He crumpled the snapshot in his hand.

B
oney and Squeak helped Itchy into Boney’s house and sat him on a chair in the kitchen. Boney unfastened the strap on the hockey helmet and worked it off Itchy’s head. They could hear Boney’s aunt wailing hysterically from her bedroom upstairs, and Boney’s uncle softly consoling her.

“Wait here,” Boney told Itchy. “I’ll get you some clean clothes from upstairs.”

Boney reappeared moments later with a bundle of clothes from his bedroom. He handed them to Itchy, then guided him to the bathroom off the kitchen. When Itchy reappeared he was wearing one of Boney’s old Superman T-shirts and a pair of his faded old jeans. His face was newly scrubbed, but there was still a light stain on his cheek where the fake blood had been.

“At least it’s better than the shirt Squeak lent me,” he said. He surveyed the ruined suit, his face crumpling
in anguish. “I may as well just run away and join the circus.”

“It’ll be okay,” Boney reassured him. “We’ll take it to Mr. Martini’s cleaners. He’s open late on Thursday nights.”

Itchy looked up, a spark of hope glimmering in his eye then fading again at the sight of the blood-stained costume. He shook his head, burying his face in his hands. “I’m done. This is a disaster.”

“It’s going to be okay,” Boney insisted. “I promise.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Itchy groaned into his hands. “As soon as you start making promises, everything goes horribly wrong.”

Boney ignored his friend. “It won’t take more than an hour.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” his uncle said, appearing suddenly in the kitchen and trying to look stern. “Your aunt is upstairs with a sick headache. Go home, boys. Boney is grounded for the rest of his life. Do you understand?” he said, raising his voice so his wife would hear. “The rest of his life!”

The boys rose obediently.

“But Uncle!” Boney protested.

“Please, Boney, not another word,” his uncle said as Itchy and Squeak slunk out of the house, the screen door slapping lightly behind them. “I want you to…uh…
clean yourself up then go to your room and think about what you’ve done.”

Boney dragged the dirty costume up the stairs to his room. He threw the costume on his bed, and slumped down beside it. Grounded for life? It seemed like a harsh punishment given the circumstances. After all, no one got really hurt.

Boney moped for a while, then found some clean clothes and shuffled across the hall to the shower. There was so much honey, and so many feathers in his hair, he needed half a bottle of shampoo just to get it clean. What’s more, he had to keep unclogging the feathers from the shower drain.

When Boney returned to his room, Squeak’s voice drifted over the Tele-tube. “Is anybody there?”

Boney removed the towel and pressed the tube to his lips. “We really messed up this time.”

“It was simply a malfunction,” Squeak consoled. “The plan was a good one…if it had turned out the way we imagined.”

“We didn’t get revenge on Larry Harry. The whole thing was just a big failure.”

“There’s still the Invention Convention and the ghost at the mill.”

“I’m grounded for life,” Boney said.

“You’ve been grounded for life before,” Squeak reminded him.

“My aunt fainted twice.”

“She fainted three times over the parachute caper.”

“True…”

“What are we going to do about Itchy’s dad’s costume?” Squeak asked.

Boney leaned his chin in his hand. “I have to get it to Mr. Martini’s or Itchy will never speak to me again. If he hadn’t left that stupid old tire at the bottom of the tree, things might have ended better.”

“Uh, yeah…”

“Anyway, I’m going to wait until my aunt and uncle are asleep, then sneak out and bike the costume over to the cleaners.”

There was a pause as Squeak considered Boney’s new plan. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“It’s our only hope. If Itchy’s dad comes home from his show and finds his spare Elvis costume missing, Itchy is going to run away and join the circus.”

“It’s too bad we don’t have a robot,” Squeak said. “We could send it to the cleaners with the Elvis costume instead. That way, nobody would get in trouble.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Squeak sighed, “joining the circus might not
be so bad. Itchy likes animals. At least, he’s always eating animal crackers in class…”

There was a sudden flurry of footsteps outside the bedroom door.

“Got to go!” Boney whispered, throwing the towel over the Tele-tube and leaping into bed. He turned off the light and shut his eyes as though asleep.

The door to his room flew open. His uncle stood frowning in the doorway, his long shadow stretching across the floor. He surveyed the room, then closed the door with a click.

BONEY WAITED until he was sure his aunt and uncle were asleep before slipping from bed. He pushed his feet into his sneakers then crept across the room. Opening the door a tiny crack, he shut it just as quickly. His uncle had fallen asleep on the couch watching TV. He could see him from the top of the stairs.

Boney checked the alarm clock beside his bed. It was after ten o’clock. Itchy’s father was due home at midnight. That left less than two hours to get the costume to the cleaners and return it. Boney scratched his head. He had to get out. But how?

He eyed the window, where the Tele-tube lay concealed
beneath the towel. He would have to get out that way, he decided. There was no other choice with his uncle sleeping on the couch in the living room.

Boney uncovered the Tele-tube. “Squeak, are you there?” he whispered.

There was a soft rustling at the other end of the line.

“I’m here,” Squeak’s sleepy voice answered.

“There’s a slight glitch in the plan,” Boney reported. “Uncle is snoring on the couch. I’m going to Plan B.”

“What’s Plan B?” Squeak asked.

“Operation Window.”

“As in…
climbing
out the window?”

“Roger that.”

“I’m not sure I like the smell of this,” Squeak said. “It sounds very prickly.”

“It’s not prickly at all,” Boney countered. “I have to save Itchy from the circus.”

“It seems rather drastic. Our windows are quite a ways up.”

“It’s getting late,” Boney said. “I have no choice.”

“Boney…” Squeak’s cautious voice filtered through the tube. “Be careful.”

B
oney pulled a sweater over his T-shirt, emptied his piggy bank into his pockets, filled his Triple-X Turbo Blaster water gun that he’d got for his birthday the year before with water from the large glass next to his bed, folded the stained Elvis costume into a pillowcase, and unlocked the window. Raising the sash slowly, Boney was careful not to disconnect the Tele-tube from its housing in the frame.

He stuck one leg over the sill, dangling it tentatively over the ledge. He paused, gathering his courage. The air felt cool against his skin. Bending forward, he pushed his head and shoulders through the opening. Squeak’s worried face peered back at him from across the divide that separated their two houses. He pointed down with concern.

Boney looked down. The ground seemed a lot farther away at night than it did in the daylight. But he couldn’t turn back now. He gave Squeak the thumbs-up, at the same time measuring with his foot the distance to the trellis that supported his aunt’s precious climbing roses. Lowering himself down, his sneakered foot probed for a foothold, the thorns of the roses scratching and clawing at his leg. When at last he found his footing, Boney grabbed the wooden trellis and lowered himself out the window.

Moving slowly, Blaster in one hand, pillowcase in the other, Boney desperately tried to avoid the sharp claws of the roses. They pulled at his pants and his shirt, tearing at the fabric. More than once, he had to stifle a cry as a thorn pierced his hand. “I hate roses,” he cursed through clenched teeth as he picked his way down to the living-room window. Looking through, he could see his uncle on the couch, his chest rising and falling, his moustache billowing in and out with each breath. Boney ducked out of sight as his uncle snorted and jumped, rolling like an old walrus onto his side.

When he was sure it was safe, Boney continued his descent. Everything was working beautifully. He was just about to congratulate himself on his stealth when the pillowcase containing the stained costume caught on a big thorn. Boney tugged. The pillowcase wouldn’t
budge. He tugged again. Still nothing. Then he yanked, and the pillowcase ripped along its seam, sending Boney crashing in a heap to the ground, the Triple-X water blaster bouncing from his hand, the wind knocked with a loud grunt from his lungs. He lay there in agony, terrified to move lest his uncle appear.

Squeak’s window rattled open. “Are you okay?” he whispered down.

“I’m fine,” Boney answered, rubbing his ankle. He waved Squeak off, retrieved the water gun and pillowcase, and pulled himself to his feet, making his way across the lawn to the garage.

Inside the garage, Boney knelt down, removing the playing card and clothespin he kept pegged to the spokes of his bike. Normally, he liked the noise the card made, but tonight, silence was essential. Setting the card and pin aside, he grabbed the pillowcase and wheeled his bike noiselessly from the garage. Just to be safe, he walked the bike to the street before slinging his leg over the crossbar and pushing off.

As he pedalled past Itchy’s house, he heard the familiar sound of Snuff’s nails scrabbling down the concrete walkway in pursuit. Snuff raced up to the bike, but before he could attack, Boney aimed the Blaster gun and hosed the dog in the face, sending Snuff skittering with a yelp back to the porch.

Boney pedalled faster, tucking the gun in the pillowcase, the pillowcase bumping wildly against his knee. When he reached the cleaners, he skidded to a stop and rested his bike against the wall of the building.

The door jangled loudly as Boney entered the store, the smell of chemicals and scorched cloth jumping into his nose. Mr. Martini stood like an undertaker behind the counter, a thin, grey-haired wisp of a man with thick, black-framed glasses even bigger than Squeak’s goggles. Boney thumped the pillowcase onto the counter

“I need this outfit cleaned right away.”

Mr. Martini slowly extracted the blaster gun and the Elvis suit. He placed the pistol to one side with a questioning look, then began carefully poring over the blood stains with his thick lenses. He fished a magnifying glass out from behind the counter and continued to study the stains, the clock on the wall ticking loudly over his shoulder. After what seemed like an excruciatingly long time, he finally raised his eyebrows and stared at Boney. “Should I call the police?”

Boney gave a nervous laugh. “It’s okay. It’s only fake blood. But I need the costume cleaned right away,” he said, hoping Mr. Martini would pick up the pace.

Mr. Martini studied Boney’s face. “Why? Are you going to a convention or something?”

“It’s really important.”

Mr. Martini slowly craned his neck, gazing at the clock on the wall as he performed some mental calculations. “It’s going to take at least an hour to get these stains out.”

Boney frowned. Mr. Martini considered him thoughtfully.

“Do your parents know you’re out this late?”

Boney tried to sound as adult as he could. “Yes, of course. I’ll be back in an hour, then.” He grabbed the pillowcase and Blaster gun and strode toward the door. As he reached for the handle, Mr. Martini called after him.

“You forgot your ticket stub. You can’t pick up your dry cleaning without a ticket stub.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks.”

Mr. Martini fumbled with a giant roll of tickets, the roll uncoiling impudently each time he tried to tighten it. He struggled to tear a ticket from the roll. When at last he did, he slowly ripped the ticket in half and gave one side to Boney, but not before studying the number closely through the magnifying glass.

“And just to let you know,” he said, “it’s seven dollars to clean soiled Elvis costumes after 10:30 p.m.”

Boney nodded, took the ticket, and slipped through the door. Seven dollars?! he thought angrily. What a rip-off. But he had no choice. If he wanted to save Itchy from the circus he would have to shell out. And now he had
an hour to kill. He thought about going to the diner next door for a cup of hot chocolate, but that would cost even more money, so he decided to ride his Schwinn around instead. He checked his watch: 10:45. That gave him just enough time to get the suit cleaned and return it before Itchy’s dad got home from his show.

Boney placed the blaster gun in the pillowcase and rolled it into a ball, stuffing it between the sissy bars on his bike. He mounted the bike and rode aimlessly through the streets for the longest time, not sure where to go. He looked in store windows and watched a cat hunting a mouse in front of the pet shop. He rode back and forth through the streetlights. He biked in circles in the Top Drawer Insurance parking lot. When he checked his watch again it was only 11:25. If he kept riding straight, he could ride all the way to the train tracks. To the right, he could loop around through town and back toward home. To the left lay the river and the haunted mill. Boney turned left.

After several minutes, he found himself rolling down the street toward the river. He cycled slowly, and the haunted mill eventually came into view. The moon was bigger now, throwing more light on the old ruins.

Boney dismounted, leaning his bike against some tangled bushes. He stepped cautiously to the edge of the stones and stood, peering into the walls. The crickets chirped loudly. Several bats fluttered from the trees
overhead, diving in and out of the moonlight after moths. The night breeze tickled the hairs on Boney’s arms, raising goosebumps on his skin. He thought about the ghost, the way it had risen, shimmering, from behind the pile of stones across the mill. Boney’s breathing grew shallow and light. He looked over at his bike, glistening against the dark bushes. A chill ran up his spine. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to be here all alone so late. He swallowed hard.

“Is anybody there?” he called.

There was a rustling sound, and then silence.

“Is anybody there?” Boney called out again.

A low moan rose over the stones, and then an eerie voice growled. “Get out! Get out of my mill!”

Boney streaked to the bushes and jumped on his bike, pedalling like a madman up and over the hill until he skidded to a halt outside the cleaners. He dropped his bike to the ground, grabbed the pillowcase, and burst breathlessly through the door.

Mr. Martini stared indifferently back, his hands folded on top of the counter. “What’s the matter? Seen a ghost?”

Boney shot a look over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t in fact been followed. Then he glanced at the clock on the wall: 11:46! Less than fifteen minutes to return the suit before Itchy’s father got home.

“I’m in a big hurry, Mr. Martini,” he said.

Mr. Martini stared at him expectantly.

Boney stared back.

“I can’t give you the item without a ticket stub,” Mr. Martini said.

Boney fished the ticket from his pants pocket, his hands still shaking as he handed it over the counter. Mr. Martini stared at the ticket through the magnifying glass.

“Late for your big Vegas tour?” he said as he shuffled over to the clothes rack and pressed a large black button on the wall. There was a loud clunk from somewhere in the back of the store. The dry-cleaned clothes lurched forward and began crawling slowly along the rack.

Boney drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter as the second hand of the clock seemed to whiz around.

The clothes continued to crawl. Mr. Martini cocked his head thoughtfully.

“A lot of people love Elvis, but I’m more of a Johnny Cash man myself. Less glitter and fanfare.”

At last the Elvis costume appeared. Mr. Martini pressed the black button again, stopping the racks with another loud bang from the back of the shop. He slowly pulled the costume from the rod and hung it up on a hook behind the counter, carefully checking the ticket
stub to be sure it matched the ticket on the costume. When he was sure everything was in order, Mr. Martini lifted the costume from the hook and handed it carefully to Boney, who immediately stuffed it into the pillowcase, coat hanger and all.

“That’ll be eight dollars,” Mr. Martini said.

“But you said seven before!” Boney protested.

“Those blood stains were difficult to remove. I had to use extra-strength chemicals. They’re more expensive.”

Boney scowled as he crashed the entire contents of his pockets onto the counter, dimes and nickels rolling every which way. It was a good thing he hadn’t purchased hot chocolate, he thought, as he quickly counted out the correct change and handed it to Mr. Martini.

Mr. Martini took the change and slowly counted it again, while Boney drummed his fingers more loudly than before. When at last Mr. Martini reached eight dollars, Boney snatched the rest of his coins from the counter and bolted out the door with the costume.

Jumping on his bike, Boney zipped away, pedalling nearly as quickly as he had when escaping the ghost at the mill. By 11:58, he was ditching his bike in the bushes beside Squeak’s house and throwing rocks up at Itchy’s window, whispering hoarsely for him to come down and get the suit. When the door
whooshed open, a horribly deranged Itchy stood on the stoop. His skin was blotchier than usual and his hair looked like a bush fire. He had a knapsack on his back, stuffed with clothes, as though he was preparing to run away.

“It’s about time,” he moaned.

“I’m sorry,” Boney said. “I ran into some trouble.” He produced the costume from the pillowcase.

Itchy grabbed it and bolted up the stairs, just as his dad’s blue Mercury Cougar pulled into the driveway.

Boney leapt over the rails of the porch so as not to be seen, and ran smack into Snuff coming around the corner from the other side. He pulled the Triple-X Turbo Blaster from the pillowcase and pointed it at the dog, cocking the lever.

“Stay back…”

Snuff growled, inching slowly backwards. Boney held him at bay with the gun, long enough to mount his bike and streak down the sidewalk. He skidded up to the garage in a shower of stones, jumped from the bike, and pushed through the door. Racing to the back of the garage, he parked his Schwinn, engaging the kickstand with a sharp kick of his sneaker.

He peeked out the door, Blaster at the ready in case Snuff decided to make an appearance. When he was sure the coast was clear, Boney stepped from the garage and
silently closed the door. As he approached the house, he could see from the living-room window that his uncle had gone up to bed at last. Creeping along the walk to the kitchen door at the side of the house, he turned the handle, only to discover it locked.

“Darn,” he cursed, sneaking to the front of the house. That door was locked too. Boney sighed. He had no choice but to scale the rose trellis.

“Better just get it over with.” He resigned himself, pushing the Blaster into the waistband of his jeans before pulling himself up.

But climbing down had been much easier than climbing up turned out to be. Boney grunted with the effort as he fought through the thorns and branches of the rose bushes. He’d nearly made it to the top, sneakers squashed between the wooden diamonds of the trellis, hands fumbling over razor-sharp thorns, when he heard a loud crack. And then another. And another and another until all at once the trellis tore away from the wall in a thunder of hollow applause. Boney shouted as he and the trellis and his aunt’s precious rose bushes came crashing to the ground in a horrible heap, tearing his sneakers from his feet, the Blaster emptying the rest of its water down Boney’s pant leg. Lying on the ground in a tangle of rose bushes and splintered trellis, Boney looked up to see
Squeak’s horrified face staring down at him from his bedroom window.

In a moment, Squeak was standing over him in his blue flannel space pyjamas, pulling Boney free of the wreckage.

“I told you the whole thing was prickly.”

“Uuuuggghhhh,” Boney moaned, yanking the Blaster from his waistband.

“Why didn’t you just ask me to unlock the door?” Squeak asked.

Boney rubbed his head. His face and hands looked as though he had lost a fight with a dozen angry alley cats. “What are you talking about?”

Squeak held up a large paper clip. “I can unlock any door. I’ve been practising.”