Read Online The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls by John Lekich - Free Book Online Page B

live in a big city, things get very quiet. Evelyn has stopped playing the piano and gone to bed. There is no whoosh of traffic or stirring of branches. Sometimes I will look down and see the pink plastic table and empty little chairs that Evelyn’s grandchildren used to play with. On the table, there is a dusty little tea set, just waiting for some long-lost kid to pour pretend tea for Evelyn. When you think about it, nothing feels emptier than a chair that somebody used to enjoy sitting in.
    It’s funny how the mind works. I mean, I’ll look at that empty little chair and I can’t help thinking about my mother and the empty chair at table six of Chez Maurice. Eventually, I will start wondering what she would make of my current situation. This wouldn’t be so bad, except that I always end up thinking about how much I miss her.
    This may sound weird, but when things get really bad, I take out my mother’s bottle of Springtime in Paris and spray a little in the air. It doesn’t put me to sleep any faster. But it does make me think of those gentler days with Old Maurice. The days of napkin swans and pretend champagne at table number six. When my mother’s chair was never empty for longer than it took to wish she’d come back.

FIVE
    E ver since I was a kid, being even a little bit hungry has given me bad dreams. The past couple of nights I’ve dreamed that a police car was taking me away in handcuffs. Both times I’ve woken up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. This is so upsetting that I have to calm myself down by closing my eyes and visualizing the inner workings of various locks. This is a talent I learned during my advance training at the Walter Gurski School of Lock Picking. I find it very soothing during times of stress.
    Mind you, the police-car dream is not my only problem. Things haven’t been going so great when I’m awake either. Try as I might, I have not been fortunate enough to steal much more than small change. This is disturbing enough as it is. But when I looked out the window of my tree house this morning, who did I see at Evelyn’s back door? None other than Mr. Cookie Collito. It was enough to make me graduate to full-fledged panic.
    Cookie’s real first name is Orville. But he has such a sweet tooth that even the police call him by his nickname. Under normal circumstances, I would be delighted to see him. Cookie is the person who taught me how to drive as soon as my foot could reach the gas pedal. Plus, he has taken me to many enjoyable horse races over the years.
    In addition to his passion for sweets, Cookie can never resist anything that’s free. He is a dedicated coupon clipper who is always entering contests to try and get something for nothing. When he isn’t clipping coupons or entering contests, Cookie is busy stealing.
    Cookie specializes in stealing golf carts. He dresses up like an avid golfer and hangs around with a group of guys playing a round. When they are all preoccupied with the game, he drives off with their golf cart. He knows someone who will buy the carts, no questions asked.
    Don’t get me wrong. Cookie is skilled enough to steal an armored tank if he wanted to. But he says he prefers taking golf carts because of the fresh air and pleasant social interaction.
    Cookie has done so well liberating local golf carts that he has been on vacation in Palm Springs, California, for the past couple of months. He sends Uncle Andy postcards about how relaxing it is to actually play an entire round of golf without worrying about the pressures of work. Cookie and my uncle are very good friends. So I knew the first thing Cookie would do when he got back into town was pay a visit to my uncle in jail.
    It didn’t take me more than a few seconds to figure out that Uncle Andy had sent Cookie around to check out the Hendersons. Cookie is very diligent when given a task. I knew he’d keep coming back to Evelyn’s