by Ellen Potter
Clara checked her watch. “There’s only nine minutes left until Patient X’s appointment. Do you think you can pick the lock?”
“Pick the lock? Sure. I can pick the lock. And as soon as it’s picked, the alarm will go off and Stan will be up here before you can say ‘Handi Wipes.’ I have to disable the alarm system first, don’t I? Oh, and by the way, I made sure to rap my knuckles against every spare inch of Stan’s desk, just for fun. He’s probably gone through a whole box of Handi Wipes already, trying to remove my filthy germs!”
“Just hurry, Annabelle,” Clara said, her anxiety returning at the mention of Stan. She suddenly was aware of all her nerve endings, could feel them stretched across her body like a fidgety vine. She kept one eye on the street, watching for cars that might pull up, or a woman who might be headed for 464 Fifth Avenue, while straining to hear Annabelle’s progress inside the building. Soft plunking sounds could be heard through the Spyfocals.
“What are you doing, Annabelle?” she whispered.
By way of an answer, the screen on the glasses came on again, and she could see Annabelle holding up a box with a keypad on it. There were wires coming out of the box, and these were attached to another box with a keypad, attached to the wall outside Dr. Piff’s office—the alarm box. Annabelle was tapping in some numbers on the keypad—the soft plunking sound—and in a second a message ran across the alarm-box screen: Password cleared. Then the screen showed Annabelle’s hands holding a metal device, which she stuck in the door’s keyhole and flicked a few times. Dr. Piff’s door opened. Then the video shut off.
“Show’s over for now,” Annabelle said. “Keep your eyes peeled. ”
The next few minutes were excruciating. Every sound that Clara heard through the glasses made her jump. The street was still quiet though—no sign of Patient X yet. Clara checked her watch: 7:56. She should be arriving any minute now. The timing was very, very tight. The masked burglar icon was probably right: their chances for success were lousy. And yet, Clara thought with a quiet thrill, they might just be able to do it. A tiny smile nudged at the corner of her lips. She could understand why Annabelle didn’t want to stop being a burglar.
“Oi, you!” a voice said. “Get out of there. Now.” A flashlight was shining directly into Clara’s face, so that for a second she was blinded. She blinked against the glare, lowering her gaze to avoid it, and saw the perfectly shined black shoes, the navy blue pants, crisply pressed, and clipped to the man’s belt hook a gun holster, with the gun quite evidently inside of it.
“I said, now.” The voice was calm and menacing. Clara scrambled out of the 6 so fast that her sneakers squeaked loudly against the metal. She could hear Annabelle’s voice coming through the Spyfocals’ transmitter: “Clara? What’s happening out there? Is something wrong?”
The flashlight went off, and Clara, now standing on the sidewalk, slowly raised her eyes. Stan Heckle was even bigger than he looked on-screen, and his pasty-pale skin had a shellacked, shiny look. He reached out and snatched the glasses off Clara’s face, then hurled them into the sidewalk gutter, where they landed with a crack and snapped in half.
“Which office is she burgling, then?” he demanded.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clara said. She was backing away from him slowly, but his hand shot out and grabbed the front of her shirt. He shook her hard, so that the panda bear’s black pupils clacked wildly inside their eyeball globes.
“Don’t be clever, love, or I’ll crack you in two like them bloody Spyfocals,” he warned. How did he know they were Spyfocals? Clara wondered.
Then, as if he guessed her thoughts, he smiled, showing teeth that were small and very white and looked as though they had been filed square. “Nice little piece of equipment, them Spyfocals. Cost a pretty penny, too. Now, a smart burglar, which you obviously ain’t, should have known that I was once in the thieving racket meself, and that I’d spot a pair of Spyfocals like that. ” He snapped his fingers. His hard gray eyes searched hers for a minute, as if waiting for her to object, and then he added, “Well, perhaps not just like that. It took me a moment to suss it out, after I let your partner in crime into the building. But then I said to meself, Stan, where there is one pair of Spyfocals, there must be another, mustn’t there? And here you are. ”
Suddenly, his other hand shot out and fastened to her throat. “I’ll ask you once more—what office is she burgling?” His grip tightened, and her breath rattled painfully in her throat.
“My name is Emily McBickle, and I’m lead soprano in the San dusky—”
His grip around her throat tightened a fraction. “Your windpipe is a millimeter away from being crushed entirely. Do you know how little a millimeter is? Of course not. You Americans have never bothered to learn the metric system, have you? Well, let’s just say that a millimeter is a very, very little bit. Infinitesimally little.”
She was pulling her breath in with a horrible, pathetic sound, like a heavy metal chair scraping against a floor. She felt herself grow light-headed, and it occurred to her that in another moment she would probably pass out. She had only to say three words—Dr. Piff’s office—and he would release her. Just three short words and she could breathe a whole deep breath. It was so easy. But she simply couldn’t do it.
He adjusted his arms, readying himself for the final, fatal squeeze. It was then, when he raised his arm slightly, that Clara spotted a flash of white poking out from the inside pocket of his jacket.
Packets of Handi Wipes.
There were many things that Clara Frankofile, at eleven years old, had never done before: she had never made a crank phone call, she had never covered her hand with Elmer’s glue so that she could peel it off when it dried, and she had never thrown a spitball. But now, approaching the probable end to her improbably short life, Clara collected all the phlegm that she could gather in her mouth, wrapped her tongue around it, and, expelling what little air there was left in her lungs, shot a thick wad of spit directly into Stan Heckle’s face. It landed square on his right cheek, frothy and viscous—and full of offensive germs, Clara was sure—and immediately began its sliding descent down his face.
For a moment, Stan was too stunned to do anything. His grip on her throat had not loosened—but it hadn’t tightened either. He was struggling over what to do, Clara could see. His jaw tightened, and tiny drops of sweat appeared across his forehead. His eyes dropped to his open jacket, and he looked at the Handi Wipes. He’d need two hands to open the packet and remove the Handi Wipe. Should he release her and wipe away the repulsive wad of seething bacteria? Should he kill her first, and wipe after? Then, to Clara’s horror, she felt Stan’s grip tighten. He had made his decision: kill her now, wipe later.
But his sudden movement had caused the dripping spit to change its course. It veered to the left as it reached the bottom of his nose and was now heading directly toward Stan’s mouth. This was too much for him, and with a wail of disgust, he took his hand from Clara’s throat and frantically grabbed for a packet of Handi Wipes.
Clara wasted no time. Inhaling a deep breath, she bolted toward the office building. She might have run in the other direction. She might have disappeared into the city’s dark night, forever out of Stan Heckle’s grasp. But Annabelle was inside the building, and Stan knew it, and Clara had to find her before he did.
CHAPTER-FOURTEEN
Clara, however, was not quite fast enough. Stan Heckle, having wiped the spit from his face, now stormed through the door of 464 Fifth Avenue and pounced on her, throwing her to the ground and placing his polished black shoes heavily on her back, as though Clara were a prize buck he’d hunted and killed. Or was about to kill.
New York City is an ever-boiling stew of noises: the constant groan of traffic, the impatient pop of taxi horns, the lingering baritone of truck horns, music spilling out of nightclubs, and the hum of a million-odd voices all talking at once. But rarely does one hear the click-clack, click-clacking of a dozen horses galloping at
top speed down the middle of Fifth Avenue. Still, there it was. Clara could hear it even with one ear pressed painfully against the lobby floor. In fact, the click-clacking grew so loud that even Stan began to pay attention, and his foot released its pressure just enough so that Clara could lift her head and look out through the glass door to the street.
Outside, just now coming to a halt in front of the doors, was a band of horses, clad in armor. And riding on their backs were knights—actual knights—also in full metal armor, their helmets and swords glinting under the streetlights.
“It’s the bloody Knights of the bloody Round Table, it is!” Stan cried out.
Outside, the knights were dismounting rather awkwardly, the weight of their armor tipping them over, so that several of them crashed to the ground with a tremendous metallic rattle. But the knight who appeared to be the leader—by virtue of the fact that he had the largest helmet and his horse had the most elaborate armor—dismounted with admirable ease and pulled open the front door of 464 Fifth Avenue.
The knight seemed to stare for a moment at Stan and Clara—it was hard to tell, really, because the eye-slit in his visor was very narrow. Then he raised his spear and touched the point of it to Stan’s throat.
“Ref yawfa,” the knight said.
“Pardon?” Stan replied.
“Ref yawfa mefnie bo,” the knight repeated more loudly.
“Sorry, mate, but I can’t understand a word you’re saying with that helmet on your head. ”
With his free hand the knight tried to lift the visor in his helmet. It yawned open for a second, then slammed shut again. He tried again while the other knights began to clank in through the front doors, and this time the visor held.
“Remove your foot from Miss Frankofile’s back,” the knight repeated.
“Prim!” Clara cried. And indeed, peering out from beneath the helmet was the terribly thin and terribly wealthy face of Prim LeDander. Behind her, the other knights lifted their visors as well, and in a minute a dozen of New York’s high society ladies—all without eyebrows—were staring at Stan and Clara.
“I said remove your foot, sir,” Prim repeated more forcefully, the tip of her spear pointing steadily at Stan’s Adam’s apple. Stan removed his shoe from Clara’s back, and Clara scrambled to her feet and ran over to the knights.
“It is not a bad shoe, actually,” said Bitsey Fopah. “The stitching looks well done. ”
“Ask him where he purchased them,” one of the other ladies said.
“Where did you purchase your shoes?” Prim demanded, her spear still touching Stan’s throat.
“Ehm, eh ... London,” Stan stammered.
“London!”
“The imported shoes are always the best ...”
The door opened again, and in rushed reporters with television cameras and microphones, all pushing at each other to get through the door first.
“Is she here?” one television reporter asked breathlessly.
“Is who here?” Clara asked.
“The Face of the Middle Ages. We received a phone call saying that she would be announced now, in this lobby. ”
“Ha!” cried Prim. “I told you, girls!” Then to Clara, she explained, “I have a friend who writes for the Times. He tipped me off about the announcement just after we finished our jousting match in the park. We figured that since one of us is bound to be chosen, it would be a good photo op to arrive on horseback. Very splashy and all. I won the match, incidentally, didn’t I, ladies?” Her jousting spear was still touching Stan’s throat, and this bit of news did not make him any happier.
“Look! That must be her!” one of the cameramen shouted, and he pointed to a long black limousine pulling up just outside the building. The door opened, and a woman wearing a black shawl over her head and a black dress stepped out. The cameramen and reporters rushed out, shining their bright lights on the woman.
“Isn’t that June Loblolly?” Bitsey asked.
“Yes, it is, Clara confirmed.
Outside, poor June Loblolly was staring in horror at the scads of cameramen and reporters running up to her. After all, she had meant to arrive in secrecy for her appointment with Dr. Muster to have her nose bobbed, her lips poufed, and her cheekbones cheekier, to make her not-quite-beautiful face appear less sad to the American public.
CHAPTER-FIFTEEN
Amidst the sudden rush of reporters and cameramen, Amidst the sudden rush of reporters and cameramen, Clara felt a hand grip her elbow, and a voice in her ear cried, “Run!”
Clara turned around quickly, and there was Annabelle. She had never been so happy to see someone in her life.
“Come on!” Annabelle urged, pulling at her elbow. “Run!”
They broke through the crowd and flew down the street. Behind them they could hear Stan yelling, “Oi! Them two is thieves!” (But clever Prim had not removed her jousting sword from his throat, in part because it gave her something to do while she hid her tears from the cameras outside—she had been so sure that she was going to be chosen as the Face of the Middle Ages.)
Clara and Annabelle ran across the street and dashed into the subway station, running so fast down the stairs that Annabelle tripped and landed on her backside at the landing. But she picked herself up nimbly and they swiped their card in the turnstile. Luck appeared to be on their side, because a train was just pulling into the station.
They collapsed in a double seat in the corner, breathing so heavily that neither one could speak. Looking at each other, they smiled, and then laughed so hard that the young couple sitting across from them broke the subway rule and stared at them.
It was a strange, exhilarating feeling to have come so close to danger and yet have escaped unharmed. Clara felt her blood moving faster through her body, her brain standing at attention.
“Wow, that was something, huh? All those knights coming just at that moment!” Clara exclaimed. “You wouldn’t believe it, but Stan Heckle almost killed me. Honestly, I was this close to winding up in the Hudson River! And then, out of nowhere, I heard the horses... and then Prim and... oh, that was about the luckiest thing I’ve ever heard of!”
“Luck?” Annabelle blurted out. “Cripes, you are thick!”
“What do you mean?”
“All those reporters didn’t just happen to arrive by luck. I called them when I heard Stan’s voice through your Spyfocals. I gave them an anonymous tip that the Face of the Middle Ages was going to be announced in the lobby of 464 Fifth Avenue, pronto. In my opinion, it’s best to have a crowd around when you’re dealing with someone who might separate your head from your body. All those women arriving on horseback—now. that was just pure, dumb luck. ”
“But how did you know about the Face of the Middle Ages? ”
“Like I tried to tell you earlier, I did my research, thank you very much. You know, burgling isn’t just about breaking and entering. It’s about escaping, too. Anyway,” Annabelle admitted, “when Dad and I went to that party in your building, it was the only thing those loopy old, rich broads were talking about. Half of them had even shaved their eyebrows off!”
“They waxed them,” Clara corrected.
“Did they? Jeez, that’s even worse.”
In all the ruckus, Clara had forgotten about the envelope. Now she turned to Annabelle eagerly and asked, “So? Did you get it?”
Annabelle patted her bag. “Easy peasy. ”
“I spit at Stan,” Clara said after a minute. “I’ve never spit at someone before. ”
“You need to get out more.”
Back at Annabelle’s house, they sneaked in quietly and crept upstairs. In her bedroom, Annabelle kicked off her heels, and Clara—regretfully—took off her sneakers, and the two of them collapsed onto the bed. Annabelle squeezed her arm down the narrow space between her bed and the wall, and when her hand came up again, it was gripping a box with a picture of a rectangular brown food on it.
“Pop-Tarts?” Clara read the box. She made a face. “It’s
not good for your immune system, is it?”
“It fries your immune system! Don’t tell me you’ve never eaten a Pop-Tart before. ”
“I don’t eat things that come out of boxes.”
“Kid”—Annabelle opened the box and pulled out a foil-wrapped rectangle. She ripped the wrapper with her teeth, pulled out a Pop-Tart, and handed it to Clara—“welcome to the world.”
The world, as it turned out, tasted pretty great. Annabelle reached down behind her bed again and pulled out a cellophane pack of red sticks, which she said were Twizzlers; a somewhat smooshed package of tiny chocolate-glazed doughnuts; and a bag of pork rinds.
“Hey, a girl can’t live on spirulina alone,” Annabelle explained, spreading the feast out on the bed. Then she reached into her tote bag on the floor and pulled out the thick manila envelope.
“And I didn’t peek in it, in case you’re wondering,” Annabelle said. She handed the envelope to Clara, then picked up a teen magazine off the floor and buried her nose in it.
Clara took a deep breath, then uncoiled the string from the round clasp.
There were many papers inside, almost all of them dated, and apparently in chronological order. Clara thought it best to start at the beginning. She pulled out the first page, which was closest to the front of the envelope and had the earliest date marked on top of it, and began to read the neatly printed handwriting:June 8, 1985
The elderly Ms. Emma Fizzelli asked me to examine her took, Audrey Aster, whose eyesight had been deteriorating. The young came to my office today Ran tests, but see nothing obviously wrong.
Fizzelli? Why was that name so familiar, Clara wondered. Then she realized it was the same last name of the artist who had once lived in Pish Posh’s building.
Below that, and on several pages after, were columns of numbers and technical names that Clara did not understand. Probably test results of some kind.
