I shrugged. “We watch way too much TV.”
“What did Big Irv want?” asked Gloria.
“A tip on the jewels,” I said.
“Did you guys give him one?”
“I believe,” said Mom, straightening her blouse, “Big Irv got exactly what he deserved. Excuse me. I have a bank deposit slip to fill out.”
She went into her office and closed the door.
“So,” I said to Gloria, “you know that statue Mom thought she’d only be able to sell for a hundred bucks?”
“The one we ruined?”
“Yep,” I said proudly. “We just sold it for sixty-five hundred dollars.”
“Even though it wasn’t at the motel in 1973?”
“Oops,” I said. “Big Irv forgot to ask about that. And you know what? We forgot to mention it.” Big Irv is going to be hugely disappointed when he cuts open that Muffler Man.”
“Caveat emptor,” said Gloria. “That’s Latin for ‘let the buyer beware.’ Oldest rule in the business book.”
“Is that why it’s in Latin?” I asked.
“I guess.”
We were laughing when two men in matching green overalls stepped into the lobby.
“Excuse me,” said the one with a clipboard. “We’re from the Roadside Americana Auction Company.”
I nodded. “Let me go get my mom.”
I knocked on her office door.
“What is it?” Mom asked, coming out to join us.
I hooked a thumb at the gentlemen in the green jumpsuits.
“We’re from Roadside Americana,” said Mr. Clipboard.
“Oh, right,” said Mom. “Today’s the day.”
“You folks have a nice collection. Some rare finds.”
“Thank you,” said Mom. “My dad put it together.”
I could hear the lump in her throat. It sounded like it was the same size as mine.
Because to save the Wonderland, we had to sell off all the stuff that made it so wonderful.
An hour later, Gloria and I stood in the parking lot, watching Big Irv and some other big guys load Smilin’ Sam into the back of a moving van.
Meanwhile, the two men in green jumpsuits barked orders to a whole team of other guys in green jumpsuits, who were loading everything else onto their trucks. The Roadside Americana Auction Company had sent a fleet of six cargo haulers plus a crane to hoist everything up onto their flatbeds.
The jackalope was the first to go. The rocket ship was next. Our parking lot was starting to look like the saddest circus train ever.
Behind us, we heard the squeak of metal. Big Irv’s movers were closing up the panel doors on the back of their vehicle.
“You think Big Irv will see that 1976 plaque on the base anytime soon?” asked Gloria.
“Nah. Probably not until they unload Smilin’ Sam wherever they’re taking him.”
“Poor guy,” said Gloria. “He’s in for a bad case of buyer’s remorse.”
“Buyer’s what?”
“Remorse. It’s another business buzzword. Means he’ll realize he paid way too much for Smilin’ Sam. Might start bawling his eyes out.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Maybe he wants to quit being a P.I. and open up a muffler shop.”
Yep. Gloria and I were cracking jokes because it was just so sad watching the Wonderland being dismantled.
Grandpa wandered over to join us.
“Sad day, huh, kiddos?” he said.
I nodded. “The saddest. But at least we get to keep the motel.”
Grandpa sighed. “Maybe. Maybe not. Even after selling all the statues and the Hawaiian Happy-Stinky Fruit—plus renting out the ride-on train—we’re still coming up short.”
“What’s the deficit?” asked Gloria.
“Forty thousand dollars.”
“What?” I said. “Then why are we even selling all this stuff?”
“Because,” said Gloria, “it’s better to be forty K in the hole instead of one hundred. Correct?”
Grandpa nodded.
“We’re so sorry, Grandpa,” I said.
“Nothing to be sorry about. You two tried your best. We all did. I guess I never should’ve taken out that loan.”
“We never should’ve chased after that stupid jewelry,” I said. “We should’ve concentrated on the dinosaur egg hunt instead of playing a long shot like that.”
Grandpa put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up, kiddo. You and Gloria did more to save the Wonderland than anybody else. Who knows? We still have three weeks. Maybe my lottery numbers will finally pay off. Maybe the bank will look the other way, give us some more time….”
“Maybe,” I said, faking a smile.
But I knew better.
Gloria and I had heard the banker and the real estate developer scheming. They didn’t want us to pay back the loan. They wanted to take over our oceanfront property and bulldoze our motel.
A couple of hours later, five big rigs loaded up with strapped-down statuary rumbled out of the parking lot.
There was one truck still to be packed. Another guy in green work clothes came over to us.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Grandpa. “We’re gonna start cleaning out your workshop. Pack up the train. It’ll be our last load.”
Grandpa nodded. “The door’s unlocked. Have at it.” He turned to us. “Who wants one last free ice-cream cone? They’re not picking up the swirl-cone dispenser until tomorrow.”
Gloria and I both raised our hands.
“Follow me,” said Grandpa.
We walked to the pool.
“How about we all do one last Croaky Karaoke, too?” I cracked.
“An excellent suggestion,” said Grandpa.
Except Freddy the Frog wasn’t poolside anymore.
And all we saw was the empty spot where the big green waterslide used to squat.
While the Roadside Americana crew finished clearing out Grandpa’s workshop, I went up to room 233 to hang with Gloria and her dad.
“Tough break, team,” said Mr. Ortega in his sportscaster voice as he looked out the window. “Personally, I miss seeing that big mouse nibbling his giant cheese wedge back there. It’s how I remembered where I parked: right next to the large rodent. Did they take Stinky Beard, too?”
I nodded. “Stinky Beard. The rocket ship. Dino the Dinosaur. Even our Happy the Clown gumball machine. They took everything.”
“And,” said Gloria, “even though P.T. swung a sweet deal for Smilin’ Sam, his mom still doesn’t have enough to pay off the bank. They’re forty thousand short.”
Mr. Ortega shook his head. “The thrill of victory. The agony of defeat. You win some, you lose some….”
“Do you think you guys at WTSP could host a telethon or something for us?” I asked Mr. Ortega.
He cocked his head sideways like he was thinking about it. “Hmmm. No.”
“This stinks worse than Stinky Beard’s bean-burrito butt,” said Gloria, flopping down on a bed.
“We should’ve done more.” I flopped down on the sofa.
“Well,” said Mr. Ortega, “as they often say in the losers’ locker room, it just wasn’t meant to be. You kids came up a little short, but you have nothing to be ashamed of. The ball just didn’t bounce your way. Sure, it’s a bitter pill to swallow and the plane ride home will be awfully long….”
“Dad?” said Gloria. “This is our home. We’re not getting on a plane anytime soon.”
“My bad. Just practicing my losing-locker-room catchphrases for when I make it to ESPN.” Mr. Ortega pulled back the curtains and looked out the window again. “Huh. I didn’t know you guys had a train.”
“Yep,” I said. “The Wonder World Express. Grandpa’s renting it to some tourist attraction.”
“Guess they want to try it before they buy it,” said Gloria, who had a few clichés of her own.
“They’re pushing it up a ramp,” said Mr. Ortega. “Strapping it down. Now the crew is climbing into
the cab of their truck. Closing their doors. Ka-THUNK!”
I had to smile. Mr. Ortega just couldn’t resist giving us the play-by-play.
“VROOM! The engine has fired up. There’s the exhaust fumes. The lurch. And off they go.”
He let go of the drapes and stepped away from the window.
“So where was Happy Town?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“The caboose on the train. There was a sign on the back: ‘Follow Me to Happy Town!’ Was that like a happy little village filled with gnomes and dwarves or something?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Grandpa.”
Mr. Ortega grabbed his Windbreaker. “Can’t right now. Filling in for Chuck on the eleven o’clock newscast. See you later, hon.”
“Have a good show, Dad.”
He breezed out of the room.
And that’s when it hit me. “Happy Town!”
I raced to the window. Threw open the curtains.
The Wonder World Express chugged across the parking lot on the back of a flatbed truck.
I saw the caboose!
“P.T.?” said Gloria. “What’s up?”
“The jewels! They’re on that train.”
“Wha-hut?”
“Remember what Sheila wrote on the back of Sidney Sneemer’s postcard?”
“Sure. She called him a hunk muffin.”
“Before that. ‘With your blowhard brother out of the picture, the two of us can book a one-way ticket to Happy Town.’ Then she added, ‘Follow my tracks’!”
“The train!” gasped Gloria. “Train tracks! Happy Town!”
“Exactly! Come on. We need to stop that truck!”
We raced out of the room, tore along the balcony, and bounded down two flights of metal steps. We reached the landing at the bottom, rounded a corner, and—right there in the breezeway near the ice machine—froze.
Because the Sneemer brothers were back.
“Just the two punks we was lookin’ for,” sneered Stanley. “Where the heck is Smilin’ Sam?”
Gloria and I both took a step backward. We bumped into the humming ice machine.
“Where’s the statue of the big doofus with the beard and the work boots?” asked Stanley.
“That plastic galoot was our favorite,” added Sidney.
My mental wheels were spinning again. I could tell the Sneemers to go find Big Irv. But the Sneemers were violent criminals. If they found Big Irv and Smilin’ Sam, they might do something criminally violent.
“Funny you should ask,” I said. “You see, we had a giant liquidation sale.”
“What?”
“Everything had to go. It was a major, one-day-only event.”
Yes, I was channeling a carpet commercial I’d seen on TV.
“You sold the statues?” asked Stanley.
“Is that why the mouse is missing from the parking lot?” asked Sid.
“Yes, sir. No reasonable offer was refused. Our blowout prices were so low we couldn’t even advertise them.”
Stanley took a step forward. Behind us, an avalanche of cubes tumbled into the ice machine. That’ll startle you.
“We don’t like hearing this,” said Stanley.
“Especially after spending the night on a jail cot,” added Sidney.
“That map you gave us weren’t no good, kid.”
Gloria was starting to tremble a little.
I played it cool. “Sorry. Maybe your baby sister, Sheila, wanted to send you two on a wild-goose chase as a goof. I don’t have a sister, but my friend Pinky Nelligan does. He says sisters do mean stuff like that all the time just to drive their brothers nuts.”
Sidney grabbed me by the front of my shirt. “Where is it, kid?”
“Where’s what?”
“The statue!”
“Dollywood!” I blurted.
“Where?”
“Dollywood. It’s an amusement park in Tennessee. Near a town called Pigeon Forge. They have all sorts of rides and attractions. They needed a Muffler Man, so we sold them Smilin’ Sam. I think they’re going to paint him up and turn him into a mountain man who plays in a jug band.”
Yes, once upon a time, my mom and I actually went on a vacation up I-75 to Dollywood. So I had some details to flesh out my tall tale.
“When did they take off?” asked Stanley.
“Maybe an hour ago.”
“Half an hour,” said Gloria. “Forty-five minutes, tops.”
I nodded. “Maybe you can catch up with them at a weigh station or a rest stop.”
“Then, if you really want the statue,” said Gloria, “maybe you can offer to buy it for more money than they paid.”
Sidney smiled. “Yeah. Right. That’s what we’re gonna do. Offer to buy it.”
He cracked his knuckles. Then he cracked the joints in his neck.
“So, Stanley? You know what I’m thinking?”
“Yeah, Sid. Road trip.”
“See you later, kids.”
“Pack your bags, Sid. I’ll settle up with the front desk. We’re checking out of this two-bit fleabag.”
“Have a pleasant journey, Mr. Joneses,” I said with a smile. “And give my regards to Dollywood.”
“Yeah, right. We’ll do that, too.”
The two brothers shambled away.
Gloria and I stayed where we were until bags were dragged out of rooms, bills were paid, trunk lids were slammed shut, and two car engines cranked to life.
“Guess they’re taking separate vehicles,” I said.
“Can you blame them?” asked Gloria. “I wouldn’t want to ride with either one of those guys.”
“Come on,” I said. “We need to talk to Mom. She might know who’s renting the train. And let’s just hope it isn’t Dollywood!”
It was nearly seven-thirty and the sun was starting to set.
Gloria and I hurried into the motel office.
Mom was behind the counter, running numbers through her calculator again. She stared at the curled paper spewing out of it and gave us her report: somehow, we were now forty-one thousand dollars short instead of forty.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Families that checked in because of Freddy the Frog are checking out because they saw Freddy being shipped off to who knows where on the back of a truck.”
“You don’t know where the statues are going?” asked Gloria.
“Not really,” said Mom. “Well, not all of them, anyway. The auction company will probably take them to their warehouse and try to match them with bidders all over the country.”
“What about the Wonder World Express?” I asked. “Any idea where Grandpa’s old train is headed?”
“Yes. That one, I do know.”
“Excellent!”
Mom gave me another one of her looks.
“Oh-kay. If you say so. We’re renting it to a small zoo over in Tampa. The zoo wanted to give the train a trial run before they committed to buying it. Actually, it’s a sanctuary, not a zoo, so the animals come first. They don’t let people wander around unescorted.”
“That’s good,” said Gloria. “I guess.”
“Oh, it’s definitely good. It’s a safe haven for exotic large cats. You know—lions, cheetahs, tigers, leopards. Anyway, they thought it might be fun to put in a train. Especially for the kids so they could ride around and see all the wild animals without getting too close.” Mom went to the brochure rack. “Here you go. You can read all about them. Might be fun to visit once we figure out where we’re moving.”
“We’re moving?” I said.
“Well, P.T., when the bank takes over the motel, I don’t think they’re going to let us keep living here rent-free. They might even want to tear the building down.”
Fact: from what Gloria and I had heard in the parking lot, we knew that was exactly what they wanted to do.
Double fact: somehow, we were going to stop them!
“Thanks for this,” I said, tapping the Wild Cat Safariland brochure
. “Come on, Gloria. We need to go see Grandpa.”
“Do you guys want dinner?” asked Mom.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m not really hungry. We had a big lunch.”
“Um, what are you serving?” asked Gloria.
“Do you like fish tacos?” said Mom.
“Love ’em. So does my dad.”
“Great. I’ll grill up some grouper.”
I grabbed Gloria by the elbow and said to Mom, “We’ll call Mr. Ortega at the TV station and tell him to drop by after work. You two can have a late-night, grown-up-style fish taco dinner together. It might be kind of late….”
Mom smiled. “That would be kind of nice. You sure you kids will be okay?”
“We’ll be fine. We have video games that need to be played. Start marinating the grouper.”
I practically pulled Gloria out the door.
The second we were outside, she said, “For the record, P.T., I love fish tacos.”
“We can eat later.” I waved the brochure. “Right now, we need Grandpa to drive us to Tampa!”
We went into the workshop and told Grandpa that we thought the stolen jewelry from the Miami hotel heist of 1973 was hidden on the Wonder World Express train.
“That’s why Sheila Bailey rode around the property with you every day,” I said. “She was scouting out hiding places for the loot.”
Grandpa took a long, slow sip of his Cel-Ray soda.
Then he took another.
Then he belched.
“She didn’t ride the train so she could spend quality time with me?”
“I’m sure that was one of her reasons,” said Gloria.
“Will the concession stand be open at this Wild Cat Safariland?” asked Grandpa.
“Um,” I said, “I think the whole park will be closed. We’ll probably have to sneak in.”
“Fine. I’ll pack some bologna-and-mustard sandwiches.”
“We really don’t have time, Grandpa.”
“There’s always time for bologna and mustard, P.T. Besides, if my stomach’s growling too close to all those big cats, they may take it personally. Now, if you two give me a hand with the provisions…”
Grandpa, Gloria, and I grabbed the ingredients out of his tiny workshop refrigerator.
Home Sweet Motel Page 12
