Henry & Eva and the Famous People Ghosts

by Andrea Portes

  But the Midwestern Mastermind is poised to make off with millions in stolen art, and I have no doubt in my mind he will do so at any cost.

  I could see it in his cool stare when I was hiding behind the curtain. There’s nothing behind his eyes. Not a soul. Not a conscience. Just someone who is used to a life of betrayal and backstabbing and every man for himself.

  I wonder how a person even gets like that. Why is it that some people veer so crazily off the tracks? Is it in their brains? Baked into the cake? Or is it something that comes from a life of disappointment after disappointment?

  Why do some people become the Midwestern Mastermind and other people become Winston Churchill? Is it a plan? Or is it a process? I wonder . . .

  “We have half an hour to save everyone in that room,” Henry breaks in, nodding toward the wedding guests, still sitting, some lying down, as the guards watch over them.

  “The rugs will slow them down,” Zeb points out.

  “But for how long?” I ask. “For. How. Long?”

  The three of us ponder this.

  “So, what do we do?” I ask. “I mean, divide and conquer is nice but pretty time-consuming. Maybe we should be more aggressive somehow. Considering.”

  Henry thinks.

  But now there is a light down the hill, headlights splitting the rain into sheets. The three of us stare as a truck comes up the hill, hoping it’s one of the parents returning to solve everything.

  We watch the winding truck make its way up the serpentine little road, its wheels bearing into the mud. Clearly, whoever they are, they have super four-wheel drive.

  The truck gets halfway up the hill when a light shines out onto it and one of the guards flags it down.

  We three stare as an interaction takes place. It’s impossible to hear what is being said through the pounding rain, but the Hearst “guard” looks official, casual, nonplussed. He stands in an official way, gesturing back down the road.

  The three of us watch as the interaction comes to an end. The truck driver nods, rolls up his window, and begins to execute a three-point turn, turning back down the road.

  “The guard must have told him it’s closed. Or it’s a private party,” Henry thinks out loud.

  But there’s no need to say anything. We three watch, deflated, as the truck rights itself and makes its way back down the hill, back down the coast, and to whatever little life awaits outside of this dire situation.

  Almost.

  We were almost saved.

  And the three of us lose something watching that almost drive away, back down to wherever almosts go.

  18

  WE WILL HAVE to save the day.

  With whatever means we have at our disposal.

  Which, truthfully? Isn’t a lot.

  SKREEECCCCHH. SKREEECCCCHH.

  The walkie-talkie interrupts this dirge, sending all three of us a foot in the air.

  “Where are you idiots? I told you to meet me at loading dock!”

  The Midwestern Mastermind is at it again.

  “Yeah, we’re coming, boss. We just have to load up the rest of the rugs.”

  Beat.

  Henry, Zeb, and I freeze, waiting to see what will come next.

  “The . . . what?” Midwestern Mastermind tries to control himself.

  “The rugs.”

  “The rugs?! You mean the rugs I told you to absolutely, positively, not to worry about because they are cumbersome, you stupid imbecile!”

  “Yeah, but, boss, you changed your mind and told us we could keep—”

  “No. I did not tell you that.”

  “Did too.”

  “Did NOT.”

  “Did TOO.”

  “DID NOOOOOOOT!”

  Silence.

  “Did too.”

  “Oh sweet Jesus. What could possibly, in the ever-loving name of God be my reason for telling you such a dumb thing that I positively never told you!”

  “Boss, you said we could keep the rugs, as part of the payment. We were . . . we were encouraged by your show of camaraderie.”

  “Camaraderie? There was no show of camaraderie. This is a job, get it? A job that you and your army of nincompoops keep screwing up!”

  “I distinctly remember—”

  “Do you know what this means?! This means we are off schedule! And do you know what happens if we get off schedule? . . . Well, do you?!”

  “Not really.”

  “We get busted! Busted, you hear me?! We are on a strict time schedule and the further we’re off the higher the chance that this whole thing, my whole ingenious plan that I’ve been plotting for years, goes down the tubes!”

  “Wull. Maybe you should have left some wriggle room in the plan.”

  Mastermind loses it.

  “Wriggle room?! What is this, romper room?! No, there is no wiggle room in the plan because the plan is perfect and the only thing that isn’t perfect is you lot of popcorn heads!”

  “That’s mean.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just like so unnecessary to talk to us that way. It’s like really just rude.”

  “Listen to me, you little whiny pinhead, if you don’t get you and your whole crew down here in the next five minutes, I’ll show you just how rude I can be! Got it?!”

  He hangs up.

  On the other line we hear the underling mutter, “It’s just so disrespectful.”

  Then the line goes dead.

  Henry thinks. “We should go down to the loading dock.”

  “But . . . the loading dock? That’s where they’re all going. Hello?!” I plead.

  “Yeah, I mean, shouldn’t we be going in the exact opposite direction?” Zeb asks. “They’re all going there.”

  “Not anymore.” Henry grabs the walkie-talkie, putting it to Zeb’s mouth. Zeb smiles, getting it.

  And now Zeb is imitating the Midwestern Mastermind again.

  “Lookit, it’s too late to meet down at the loading dock. Just stay where you are until I give the signal.”

  “Are you sure, boss?”

  “Yeah, just stay put. Oh and . . . I’m sorry I was so abusive. It’s just . . . this heist is really stressful.”

  “Okaaay. Thanks, boss. We just want to be taken seriously, you know?”

  “Oh, I know. Okay, stay put until my signal. Over and out.”

  Zeb hangs up. Henry is staring at him like a groupie. And again, for some reason, my cheeks flame. I’m all hot. And cranky. What is happening?

  “That was nice how you added in the respect part,” Henry comments.

  “You like that? I just felt kind of sorry for these guys, in a way.”

  “Perhaps they’ll think the Midwestern Mastermind is schizophrenic,” Henry ponders.

  “Perhaps they will. But doesn’t that help? Sow confusion and all?” Zeb adds.

  “Oh, confusion is definitely being sown,” I say. “I mean, I’m practically confused. Between the rugs, the ghosts, the loading docks, and the AWOL guard from Redondo I can safely say this has been quite a chaotic evening. I mean, this is the weirdest wedding I’ve ever been to.”

  And even though I know—like, I know this is a bad idea, I find myself following along, down the pathway around the castle, toward the loading dock.

  19

  THE LOADING DOCK is the only place in this joint that is not gold-gilded. It’s mostly a study in gray, charcoal, white, putty color, and asphalt. Gone are the frescoes on the wall and the damask wallpaper. This is a place of sweat and low wages.

  Henry, Zeb, and I are peering out from the alcove above, as below the many trucks back up, then forward, keeping their lights off, everyone trying to be as quiet as you can be when you are stealing millions of dollars’ worth of statues, paintings, art, and general treasure. The three of us look around for signs of the Midwestern Mastermind, hoping to get a glimpse of him and suss out his escape plan.

  So far though, it’s only about three guys on the loading dock, five guys driving trucks, and lot
s of chaos.

  And whispering. The whispering is us.

  “Do you see him?” Zeb asks me. I am, after all, the only one who has seen our dearest villain in the flesh.

  “No, not yet. Just look for the guy that is skinny as a stick, black hair, and really weird eyes,” I say.

  “Weird in what sense?” Henry asks.

  “Weird in the sense that he kind of looks like he has purple makeup all around his eyes,” I offer.

  “You mean like he’s tired?” Zeb asks.

  “Sort of. But more like he’s tired from . . . his whole life,” I attempt. “Also, his eyes kind of look like he’s in a constant state of surprise.”

  “You mean, as if he’s realized that life is just a series of meaningless gestures leading slowly, inevitably into eternal nothingness?” The voice sounds familiar.

  Henry and I share a look, turning to see none other than our ancestor ghosts. Maxine, Beaumont, Plum, August, and Sturdy. All just standing there next to us in the alcove, casual as can be.

  “What . . . what are you guys doing here?” I ask.

  “Um, who are you talking to?” Zeb still doesn’t see them.

  “Ancestor ghosts,” Henry answers, as if it couldn’t be more obvious. “They just appeared.”

  “Right, yeah. Totally.” Zeb pretends this is normal.

  “Welp, we just wanted to make sure you chickens were fightin’ the good fight!” Beaumont exclaims.

  “And that you weren’t in any danger.” Plum adds.

  “And that you were socking it to ’em but good!” Beau cackles.

  “And that you were being safe,” Plum corrects.

  “And that you were givin’ them the old what what!” Beau does a fighting gesture.

  “And that you were doing it with panache,” August and Sturdy add.

  “And that you were aware that, ultimately, none of this will matter, just as nothing, ultimately, does matter in this charade we call an existence, a life lived in spurts jumping around from one crisis to the next, not realizing that, in the end, it was all just a tale of walking shadows.”

  “Oh, don’t listen to that sad sack! You kids got gumption! Grit, I tell ya!” Beaumont exclaims.

  “And you are here for a reason,” Plum chimes in.

  “Heeeere for a reeeeasoooon,” August says in a spooky voice.

  Sturdy gives him a look. “What’s this?”

  August retorts, “I thought I would embellish. To add . . . intrigue. Ghost it up a bit.”

  “Oh, quite right.” Now Sturdy turns to us. “Heeeerrree for a reeeeassssooon.”

  “Oh, nicely done,” August compliments him.

  “Do you like it? I quite liked doing it,” Sturdy responds.

  “A reeeeeassssonnnn,” August adds.

  “No, no. You have to have more of a singsongy voice. Like this: Heeeerrrreee for a reeeeaaasoooon. Did you see? Singsongy,” Sturdy adds.

  “Heeeere for a reasonnnn.”

  “A reeeeassson.”

  “It’s like two dying hogs!” Beaumont interjects.

  But Plum comes in over them. “It’s true. You must know, dear children. You are here for a reason.”

  “ReeeeeeASSSONNN.”

  “REEEEEEEsoooon.”

  And as their singsongy voices fade out, so do their ghostly blue figures, leaving slowly the last of the singsongs and sapphire gloom. Until, at last, there is nothing.

  Henry stares up to the spot where they disappeared.

  “Eva, do you think it’s possible that madness runs in our family?”

  Zeb answers, “You mean madness like seeing random ghosts everywhere?”

  “Exactly,” Henry answers.

  “Hmm.” I think. “Well, perhaps. But if there is madness, there is method to it.”

  “Ah, Polonius. From Hamlet! ‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.’ Good one, Eva,” Henry quotes.

  “Why, thank you.”

  And I don’t know why, but suddenly I’m happy. Happy in the midst of a heist! It doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand feelings!

  “You guys!” Zeb interrupts. “Does that look like the guy? See, over there. Skinny. With dark hair. With weird purple eyes. And he’s standing there with . . . with—”

  He stops short. Henry and I look in horror as we see what Zeb sees.

  “Binky?”

  The three of us hold our breath as we stare agape at the Midwestern Mastermind leading Binky through the chaos below, her arms bound and a scarf tied around her mouth as a gag.

  “Oh my God,” I breathe. We look at one another.

  “He’s got the bride! Somebody do something!”

  20

  THIS IS JUST really adding insult to injury. Poor Binky. First, her wedding is interrupted by a demonic heist and now, second, she is being held hostage by a skinny, black-haired, nasal-voiced evil mastermind who has, remember, insisted on not leaving any witnesses.

  I mean. How rude!

  The least he could have done is pick someone else. There are plenty of other folks down in that wedding chapel just sitting there like a bunch of rump roasts. Why didn’t he just pick one of them? Why did he have to pick the actual bride? The one and only Binky?

  Okay, it’s true, I wasn’t a huge fan of Binky at first. Mostly, because I was being protective of Zeb’s super-nice dad. I mean, his dad is like the dad of the century. Always making jokes and being goofy. My dad was like that. Like, whenever he saw a picture of that giant pointy white Washington Monument in Washington, DC, he would shake his head and say, “They’ll never get it off the ground.” Or, every time we were at a Chinese restaurant and Mom and Dad would open their fortune cookies, his would read, “Help! I’m trapped in a Chinese cookie factory!” You know. Dad jokes.

  A lump forms in my throat. I swallow hard to banish it.

  Sorry: Binky. I guess Henry has convinced me. Binky cares about her ridiculously elaborate wedding, so this taking- her-hostage thing is just beyond the pale. It’s just not done.

  I mean, it shouldn’t need to be spelled out. Like—

  Things not to do at a wedding:

  1.Wear white.

  2.Get crazy and dance into the chandelier.

  3.Kidnap the bride.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Zeb confesses.

  “It appears the Midwestern Mastermind has decided to hold Binky hostage. Perhaps as a sort of insurance policy,” Henry ponders.

  “But what about not wanting any witnesses?” I ask. “She’s more than a witness now.”

  The three of us think about this. Not wanting to think what it might mean for Binky.

  “We have to do something.” Zeb turns to us.

  He’s right, but what are we supposed to do? I mean, have any of you ever been in a situation where you have to thwart a castle heist and a bride-kidnapping operation.

  I didn’t think so.

  “I’ve been in a lotta situations in my life. But I can’t say none of ’em ever amounted to a pile of beans in the end.”

  Henry and I look at each other, then turn toward the voice, there on the other side of the alcove. There’s a kind of smoky mist blowing through, revealing a man, svelte and handsome, a bit weathered, wearing a white tuxedo jacket, leaning against the railing, squinting at us through the smoke.

  “Don’t worry, kiddo. Things are never so bad they can’t be made worse.”

  Another ghost. Our collective jaws drop to the ground.

  At least, Henry’s and mine do. It’s not just another ghost. It’s another famous person ghost.

  Humphrey Bogart. The biggest star of his time. Like, if you took George Clooney and Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise and Tom Hanks and every single one of the Avengers and rolled them together and made movies with that guy.

  That’s how famous this ghost is.

  Humphrey. Bogart.

  How the heck will he help us?

  21

  NOW, IF YOU don’t know who Humphrey Bogart is, don’t wor
ry. I won’t blame you. It just so happens that our mother was obsessed with Humphrey Bogart and insisted, on long nights in the summer, on showing black-and-white film-noir movies featuring the one and only Bogie, as he was called. The Maltese Falcon, High Sierra, and, the most famous, Casablanca.

  My regret, right this second, is that our mom cannot be here to see this. She would have catapulted four feet out of her shoes to be graced by the presence of this particular antihero.

  “Looks like you kids got yourself in a pile of trouble.” His forehead leans forward, an amused grin on his face. It’s only now that I notice his little black bow tie.

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. . . . Bogart,” Henry mutters.

  “Boggart?” Zeb can’t see him, of course. “Like those things from Harry Potter?”

  Henry pats his arm reassuringly. I smirk.

  “No need to stand on ceremony, kid. It’s just me.” And, of course, he would see it like that.

  “Mr. Bogart, sir, Humphrey. We don’t exactly know what to do here.” I explain, nervous. “We were at this wedding then, next thing you know, we’re in the middle of a heist! Then, next thing you know, the Midwestern Mastermind—”

  “Midwestern Mastermind? Who thought of that?”

  “I did, sir,” I reply.

  “Cute, kid. Real cute.”

  “Then next thing you know the Midwestern Mastermind is saying no witnesses. Then, next thing you know he’s kidnapped the bride. Then—”

  “Then the next thing you know you’ve got yourself in a real pickle.”

  I stop.

  “Exactly.”

  “Look, kid, the problem here is greed, pure and simple. Somewhere along the line one of these guys decided that money was the be-all and end-all of the thing. Only they don’t know the truth. The only point in making money is, you can tell some big shot where to go.”

  “Right.” I smile. “Right. But what do we do about it? Right now. I mean, how do we save the day?”

  “Save the day? Look, kid, you wanna be a hero?”

  Henry and I nod.

  “All right, good. Then just remember, not everything is exactly what it seems.”

  Henry and I nod, pretending we know what this means.

  “But, um, when you say that do you—” But all of a sudden I am talking to no one. The smoke wisps over the railing right where he stood, in all his black-and-white glory. Now it’s just an empty corner of the alcove, no longer graced with the presence of the world’s wryest antihero.