against its owner.
“Correct on all counts, Amelia. Extraordinary scenes indeed, as the sports commentators say!” the Baron pronounced. “Which means that young sonny here has delivered the goods.” He stood up and faced Jonah. Clicking his heels together, he raised his hand in the flat-handed salute Jonah had seen all the traders give to him the day before. “I am impressed.”
Jonah smiled nervously back as Amelia presented him with his own box, giving him a conspiratorial wink, her lips pursed, trying hard to conceal her own smile. She turned to the Baron and presented him with the bill.
Jonah’s stomach plummeted as the reality of what he’d done sunk in.
“Your receipt Mr. Baron. One hundred and ninety three pounds and thirty-five pence, service not included,” announced Amelia to the whole trading floor.
“How much?” cried the Baron, grabbing the leather folder she was proffering him. The Baron’s face reddened as he opened the check case. “What is the meaning of this?”
Here goes
, thought Jonah, his heart quickening.
Do or die time.
“Well,” he piped up, “you said I was to get something for myself. And you said you could afford it. So …” He stood up and extracted a plastic container from his breakfast box. “I bought myself an iPod!”
The Baron was speechless. The rest of the Bunker, however, was in an uproar as guffaws of laughter exploded from the mouths of the traders.
“Hey, Milkshake!” shouted Dog. “That’s a ton you owe me!”
Franky yelled out, “I reckon we’ve got his nickname now. He’s IPOD!” There was even more laughter, and a chant of “iPod, iPod, iPod” started up.
“You cheeky little f—” the Baron started and then stopped, con-trolling himself and nodding. “But nice. Very nice. Chutzpah indeed. Chutzpah indeed.” He peeled off four fifty-pound notes from a gold money clip and handed them to Amelia as the chanting of “iPod! iPod! iPod!” continued. “You’ll be needing some music for it, though. I might be able to help you there,” he added, turning back to Jonah.
Jonah glowed. It had worked. He felt the same as he had at school after the candy incident—accepted, appreciated, valued. He looked toward Drizzlers’ Den wanting to tell his dad what had happened, but he was hunkered away on his phone, oblivious to the two Neanderthals throwing a ball of paper to each other back and forth over his head.
Jonah glanced down at his brand new iPod and back up at the Bunker Boys, who were even now dancing around him, shouting their approval. If Jonah had been ever so slightly confused before, now he was filled with absolute certainty—he was no Drizzler.
CHAPTER 7
At eight thirty A.M. precisely, the Bunker went into overdrive. The comms screen in front of Jonah lit up like a cruise ship leaving port: lights flashing quickly; lights flashing slowly; lights on constantly. Everyone on the desk was attached to a phone: murmuring, cajoling, buying, selling. It was clandestine and secretive, and Jonah found himself at the center of the action.
He was sitting to the right of the Baron, as he had been the day before, but this time he was the keeper of the trades. Franky would bring him the trading tickets that the traders filled out, and it was his job to input them on the computer. First, he’d enter the stock’s ticker code—every stock had a code—then the price and then the amount. If it was a buy order, he gave it a plus number; if it was a sell order, a minus number.
The biggest trades came from the Baron. He was a general who led from the front. He had two phones in his hands at all times, and somehow he could carry out two conversations at the sametime, flicking the mute switches alternately with his thumb. Every now and then, he would add his cell phone into the mix, always holding it a few inches away from his ear. His concentration was intense, but his voice gave nothing away to the person at the other end of the phone. He might have
“Correct on all counts, Amelia. Extraordinary scenes indeed, as the sports commentators say!” the Baron pronounced. “Which means that young sonny here has delivered the goods.” He stood up and faced Jonah. Clicking his heels together, he raised his hand in the flat-handed salute Jonah had seen all the traders give to him the day before. “I am impressed.”
Jonah smiled nervously back as Amelia presented him with his own box, giving him a conspiratorial wink, her lips pursed, trying hard to conceal her own smile. She turned to the Baron and presented him with the bill.
Jonah’s stomach plummeted as the reality of what he’d done sunk in.
“Your receipt Mr. Baron. One hundred and ninety three pounds and thirty-five pence, service not included,” announced Amelia to the whole trading floor.
“How much?” cried the Baron, grabbing the leather folder she was proffering him. The Baron’s face reddened as he opened the check case. “What is the meaning of this?”
Here goes
, thought Jonah, his heart quickening.
Do or die time.
“Well,” he piped up, “you said I was to get something for myself. And you said you could afford it. So …” He stood up and extracted a plastic container from his breakfast box. “I bought myself an iPod!”
The Baron was speechless. The rest of the Bunker, however, was in an uproar as guffaws of laughter exploded from the mouths of the traders.
“Hey, Milkshake!” shouted Dog. “That’s a ton you owe me!”
Franky yelled out, “I reckon we’ve got his nickname now. He’s IPOD!” There was even more laughter, and a chant of “iPod, iPod, iPod” started up.
“You cheeky little f—” the Baron started and then stopped, con-trolling himself and nodding. “But nice. Very nice. Chutzpah indeed. Chutzpah indeed.” He peeled off four fifty-pound notes from a gold money clip and handed them to Amelia as the chanting of “iPod! iPod! iPod!” continued. “You’ll be needing some music for it, though. I might be able to help you there,” he added, turning back to Jonah.
Jonah glowed. It had worked. He felt the same as he had at school after the candy incident—accepted, appreciated, valued. He looked toward Drizzlers’ Den wanting to tell his dad what had happened, but he was hunkered away on his phone, oblivious to the two Neanderthals throwing a ball of paper to each other back and forth over his head.
Jonah glanced down at his brand new iPod and back up at the Bunker Boys, who were even now dancing around him, shouting their approval. If Jonah had been ever so slightly confused before, now he was filled with absolute certainty—he was no Drizzler.
CHAPTER 7
At eight thirty A.M. precisely, the Bunker went into overdrive. The comms screen in front of Jonah lit up like a cruise ship leaving port: lights flashing quickly; lights flashing slowly; lights on constantly. Everyone on the desk was attached to a phone: murmuring, cajoling, buying, selling. It was clandestine and secretive, and Jonah found himself at the center of the action.
He was sitting to the right of the Baron, as he had been the day before, but this time he was the keeper of the trades. Franky would bring him the trading tickets that the traders filled out, and it was his job to input them on the computer. First, he’d enter the stock’s ticker code—every stock had a code—then the price and then the amount. If it was a buy order, he gave it a plus number; if it was a sell order, a minus number.
The biggest trades came from the Baron. He was a general who led from the front. He had two phones in his hands at all times, and somehow he could carry out two conversations at the sametime, flicking the mute switches alternately with his thumb. Every now and then, he would add his cell phone into the mix, always holding it a few inches away from his ear. His concentration was intense, but his voice gave nothing away to the person at the other end of the phone. He might have
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