and devices hooked up to his person. He is very old and very sick, but still frightening. The boy detective begins: “Good afternoon …”
“Who is this?”
“Hello, good day; my name is Billy Argo with Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International. I was wondering—”
“Did you say Argo? Billy Argo?”
“Yes sir, with Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International. I was wondering if I could take up a few moments of your time?”
“I’d say you already took up most of the time I had, Billy Argo.”
“Pardon me?”
“You took up almost all of the time I was given and now there’s not much left. Don’t you remember my voice, Billy Argo?”
“No. I’m sorry, I wish I did.”
“Sure, sure, you and your brat sister and your little fat friend got me locked up about ten years ago. The Case of the Pawn-Shop Kidnapper? Sure, sure, the boy detective solves a string of strange, mysterious kidnappings. Sure, sure. That was me.”
“Killer Kowalzavich? When did you get out?”
“Just a few weeks ago. Just in time to sit in this lousy room by myself and die.”
“I’m … I’m sorry it ended up like this for you. I … I never wanted to see anybody—even you—get hurt. Only I know they would have gone easier on you if you had told them what happened to Miss Daisy Hollis. You know, they … they never found her.”
“I told them I had nothing to do with that girl. What kind of kidnapper do you think I was? Sure, I tried to pawn the other girl’s fancy belongings, but that Hollis girl, they couldn’t ever pin that one on me. I’ll take that, and, well, a whole string of things with me to the grave. Boy detective, huh? You wouldn’t know the half of it.”
“I’m done speaking with you.”
“Sure, sure, but before you go, be swell and tell me, how’s that sweet little sister of yours?”
The boy detective slams down the phone. He immediately begins crying. Larry crosses the aisle and helps Billy to his feet, gently rubbing the back of his neck.
“First-day jitters is all, kid. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix. Get a good meal and turn in early. Tomorrow, you’ll be back among the living, good as new.”
“OK,” Billy says, and realizes he is still holding the phone.
The boy detective, at the bus stop, prevents himself from calling his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Argo. He imagines they are, at that particular moment, too busy to talk to him. He thinks his father is probably pounding a great wood table, calling out some objection in naval court, and the judge is shouting back, “Objection overruled!” His mother is either working on a new substitute for plastic or painting a masterpiece reminiscent of some Flemish work of art. He stands in the telephone booth and stares down and sees a strange brown shape near his feet. His heart stops beating: It is someone’s hair. There is a clump of human hair just lying there in the corner of the phone booth. The boy detective, at this moment, thinks: The world has gone mad. The world is broken and falling apart and completely mad. He finds his small bottle of pills and pops three Ativan into his mouth, his fingers trembling.
The boy detective hangs up the phone and then is running awkwardly down the street, toward the bus stop, small tears streaming down his cheeks.
ELEVEN
The boy detective always returns to the case of the Haunted Candy Factory:
Caroline, sitting in her hiding spot beneath the white wood porch, wrote the clue in her gold-colored notebook again and again. It was now a bet—who could discover the meaning to the phantom’s riddle first—and Billy, listening to her fuss beneath the wood slats, only laughed at her struggle, then feeling bad, he was quiet. After a good few hours, he climbed beneath the porch and took the pencil and paper from her hand, revealing:
EVERY DEAD GHOST IN A FACTORY IS BENT
which easily became the anagram:
EATING CANDY IS SO VERY BAD FOR TEETH
Caroline smiled, shaking her brother’s hand. “But golly,
“Who is this?”
“Hello, good day; my name is Billy Argo with Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International. I was wondering—”
“Did you say Argo? Billy Argo?”
“Yes sir, with Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International. I was wondering if I could take up a few moments of your time?”
“I’d say you already took up most of the time I had, Billy Argo.”
“Pardon me?”
“You took up almost all of the time I was given and now there’s not much left. Don’t you remember my voice, Billy Argo?”
“No. I’m sorry, I wish I did.”
“Sure, sure, you and your brat sister and your little fat friend got me locked up about ten years ago. The Case of the Pawn-Shop Kidnapper? Sure, sure, the boy detective solves a string of strange, mysterious kidnappings. Sure, sure. That was me.”
“Killer Kowalzavich? When did you get out?”
“Just a few weeks ago. Just in time to sit in this lousy room by myself and die.”
“I’m … I’m sorry it ended up like this for you. I … I never wanted to see anybody—even you—get hurt. Only I know they would have gone easier on you if you had told them what happened to Miss Daisy Hollis. You know, they … they never found her.”
“I told them I had nothing to do with that girl. What kind of kidnapper do you think I was? Sure, I tried to pawn the other girl’s fancy belongings, but that Hollis girl, they couldn’t ever pin that one on me. I’ll take that, and, well, a whole string of things with me to the grave. Boy detective, huh? You wouldn’t know the half of it.”
“I’m done speaking with you.”
“Sure, sure, but before you go, be swell and tell me, how’s that sweet little sister of yours?”
The boy detective slams down the phone. He immediately begins crying. Larry crosses the aisle and helps Billy to his feet, gently rubbing the back of his neck.
“First-day jitters is all, kid. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix. Get a good meal and turn in early. Tomorrow, you’ll be back among the living, good as new.”
“OK,” Billy says, and realizes he is still holding the phone.
The boy detective, at the bus stop, prevents himself from calling his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Argo. He imagines they are, at that particular moment, too busy to talk to him. He thinks his father is probably pounding a great wood table, calling out some objection in naval court, and the judge is shouting back, “Objection overruled!” His mother is either working on a new substitute for plastic or painting a masterpiece reminiscent of some Flemish work of art. He stands in the telephone booth and stares down and sees a strange brown shape near his feet. His heart stops beating: It is someone’s hair. There is a clump of human hair just lying there in the corner of the phone booth. The boy detective, at this moment, thinks: The world has gone mad. The world is broken and falling apart and completely mad. He finds his small bottle of pills and pops three Ativan into his mouth, his fingers trembling.
The boy detective hangs up the phone and then is running awkwardly down the street, toward the bus stop, small tears streaming down his cheeks.
ELEVEN
The boy detective always returns to the case of the Haunted Candy Factory:
Caroline, sitting in her hiding spot beneath the white wood porch, wrote the clue in her gold-colored notebook again and again. It was now a bet—who could discover the meaning to the phantom’s riddle first—and Billy, listening to her fuss beneath the wood slats, only laughed at her struggle, then feeling bad, he was quiet. After a good few hours, he climbed beneath the porch and took the pencil and paper from her hand, revealing:
EVERY DEAD GHOST IN A FACTORY IS BENT
which easily became the anagram:
EATING CANDY IS SO VERY BAD FOR TEETH
Caroline smiled, shaking her brother’s hand. “But golly,
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