by Natale Ghent
“I need this outfit cleaned right away.”
Mr. Martini slowly extracted the blaster gun and the Elvis suit. He placed the pistol to one side with a questioning look, then began carefully poring over the blood stains with his thick lenses. He fished a magnifying glass out from behind the counter and continued to study the stains, the clock on the wall ticking loudly over his shoulder. After what seemed like an excruciatingly long time, he finally raised his eyebrows and stared at Boney. “Should I call the police?”
Boney gave a nervous laugh. “It’s okay. It’s only fake blood. But I need the costume cleaned right away,” he said, hoping Mr. Martini would pick up the pace.
Mr. Martini studied Boney’s face. “Why? Are you going to a convention or something?”
“It’s really important.”
Mr. Martini slowly craned his neck, gazing at the clock on the wall as he performed some mental calculations. “It’s going to take at least an hour to get these stains out.”
Boney frowned. Mr. Martini considered him thoughtfully.
“Do your parents know you’re out this late?”
Boney tried to sound as adult as he could. “Yes, of course. I’ll be back in an hour, then.” He grabbed the pillowcase and Blaster gun and strode toward the door. As he reached for the handle, Mr. Martini called after him.
“You forgot your ticket stub. You can’t pick up your dry cleaning without a ticket stub.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks.”
Mr. Martini fumbled with a giant roll of tickets, the roll uncoiling impudently each time he tried to tighten it. He struggled to tear a ticket from the roll. When at last he did, he slowly ripped the ticket in half and gave one side to Boney, but not before studying the number closely through the magnifying glass.
“And just to let you know,” he said, “it’s seven dollars to clean soiled Elvis costumes after 10:30 p.m.”
Boney nodded, took the ticket, and slipped through the door. Seven dollars?! he thought angrily. What a rip-off. But he had no choice. If he wanted to save Itchy from the circus he would have to shell out. And now he had an hour to kill. He thought about going to the diner next door for a cup of hot chocolate, but that would cost even more money, so he decided to ride his Schwinn around instead. He checked his watch: 10:45. That gave him just enough time to get the suit cleaned and return it before Itchy’s dad got home from his show.
Boney placed the blaster gun in the pillowcase and rolled it into a ball, stuffing it between the sissy bars on his bike. He mounted the bike and rode aimlessly through the streets for the longest time, not sure where to go. He looked in store windows and watched a cat hunting a mouse in front of the pet shop. He rode back and forth through the streetlights. He biked in circles in the Top Drawer Insurance parking lot. When he checked his watch again it was only 11:25. If he kept riding straight, he could ride all the way to the train tracks. To the right, he could loop around through town and back toward home. To the left lay the river and the haunted mill. Boney turned left.
After several minutes, he found himself rolling down the street toward the river. He cycled slowly, and the haunted mill eventually came into view. The moon was bigger now, throwing more light on the old ruins.
Boney dismounted, leaning his bike against some tangled bushes. He stepped cautiously to the edge of the stones and stood, peering into the walls. The crickets chirped loudly. Several bats fluttered from the trees overhead, diving in and out of the moonlight after moths. The night breeze tickled the hairs on Boney’s arms, raising goosebumps on his skin. He thought about the ghost, the way it had risen, shimmering, from behind the pile of stones across the mill. Boney’s breathing grew shallow and light. He looked over at his bike, glistening against the dark bushes. A chill ran up his spine. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to be here all alone so late. He swallowed hard.
“Is anybody there?” he called.
There was a rustling sound, and then silence.
“Is anybody there?” Boney called out again.
A low moan rose over the stones, and then an eerie voice growled. “Get out! Get out of my mill!”
Boney streaked to the bushes and jumped on his bike, pedalling like a madman up and over the hill until he skidded to a halt outside the cleaners. He dropped his bike to the ground, grabbed the pillowcase, and burst breathlessly through the door.
Mr. Martini stared indifferently back, his hands folded on top of the counter. “What’s the matter? Seen a ghost?”
Boney shot a look over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t in fact been followed. Then he glanced at the clock on the wall: 11:46! Less than fifteen minutes to return the suit before Itchy’s father got home.
“I’m in a big hurry, Mr. Martini,” he said.
Mr. Martini stared at him expectantly.
Boney stared back.
“I can’t give you the item without a ticket stub,” Mr. Martini said.
Boney fished the ticket from his pants pocket, his hands still shaking as he handed it over the counter. Mr. Martini stared at the ticket through the magnifying glass.
“Late for your big Vegas tour?” he said as he shuffled over to the clothes rack and pressed a large black button on the wall. There was a loud clunk from somewhere in the back of the store. The dry-cleaned clothes lurched forward and began crawling slowly along the rack.
Boney drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter as the second hand of the clock seemed to whiz around.
The clothes continued to crawl. Mr. Martini cocked his head thoughtfully.
“A lot of people love Elvis, but I’m more of a Johnny Cash man myself. Less glitter and fanfare.”
At last the Elvis costume appeared. Mr. Martini pressed the black button again, stopping the racks with another loud bang from the back of the shop. He slowly pulled the costume from the rod and hung it up on a hook behind the counter, carefully checking the ticket stub to be sure it matched the ticket on the costume. When he was sure everything was in order, Mr. Martini lifted the costume from the hook and handed it carefully to Boney, who immediately stuffed it into the pillowcase, coat hanger and all.
“That’ll be eight dollars,” Mr. Martini said.
“But you said seven before!” Boney protested.
“Those blood stains were difficult to remove. I had to use extra-strength chemicals. They’re more expensive.”
Boney scowled as he crashed the entire contents of his pockets onto the counter, dimes and nickels rolling every which way. It was a good thing he hadn’t purchased hot chocolate, he thought, as he quickly counted out the correct change and handed it to Mr. Martini.
Mr. Martini took the change and slowly counted it again, while Boney drummed his fingers more loudly than before. When at last Mr. Martini reached eight dollars, Boney snatched the rest of his coins from the counter and bolted out the door with the costume.
Jumping on his bike, Boney zipped away, pedalling nearly as quickly as he had when escaping the ghost at the mill. By 11:58, he was ditching his bike in the bushes beside Squeak’s house and throwing rocks up at Itchy’s window, whispering hoarsely for him to come down and get the suit. When the door whooshed open, a horribly deranged Itchy stood on the stoop. His skin was blotchier than usual and his hair looked like a bush fire. He had a knapsack on his back, stuffed with clothes, as though he was preparing to run away.
“It’s about time,” he moaned.
“I’m sorry,” Boney said. “I ran into some trouble.” He produced the costume from the pillowcase.
Itchy grabbed it and bolted up the stairs, just as his dad’s blue Mercury Cougar pulled into the driveway.
Boney leapt over the rails of the porch so as not to be seen, and ran smack into Snuff coming around the corner from the other side. He pulled the Triple-X Turbo Blaster from the pillowcase and pointed it at the dog, cocking the lever.
“Stay back…”
Snuff growled, inching slowly backwards. Boney held him at bay with the gun, long enough to mount his bike a
nd streak down the sidewalk. He skidded up to the garage in a shower of stones, jumped from the bike, and pushed through the door. Racing to the back of the garage, he parked his Schwinn, engaging the kickstand with a sharp kick of his sneaker.
He peeked out the door, Blaster at the ready in case Snuff decided to make an appearance. When he was sure the coast was clear, Boney stepped from the garage and silently closed the door. As he approached the house, he could see from the living-room window that his uncle had gone up to bed at last. Creeping along the walk to the kitchen door at the side of the house, he turned the handle, only to discover it locked.
“Darn,” he cursed, sneaking to the front of the house. That door was locked too. Boney sighed. He had no choice but to scale the rose trellis.
“Better just get it over with.” He resigned himself, pushing the Blaster into the waistband of his jeans before pulling himself up.
But climbing down had been much easier than climbing up turned out to be. Boney grunted with the effort as he fought through the thorns and branches of the rose bushes. He’d nearly made it to the top, sneakers squashed between the wooden diamonds of the trellis, hands fumbling over razor-sharp thorns, when he heard a loud crack. And then another. And another and another until all at once the trellis tore away from the wall in a thunder of hollow applause. Boney shouted as he and the trellis and his aunt’s precious rose bushes came crashing to the ground in a horrible heap, tearing his sneakers from his feet, the Blaster emptying the rest of its water down Boney’s pant leg. Lying on the ground in a tangle of rose bushes and splintered trellis, Boney looked up to see Squeak’s horrified face staring down at him from his bedroom window.
In a moment, Squeak was standing over him in his blue flannel space pyjamas, pulling Boney free of the wreckage.
“I told you the whole thing was prickly.”
“Uuuuggghhhh,” Boney moaned, yanking the Blaster from his waistband.
“Why didn’t you just ask me to unlock the door?” Squeak asked.
Boney rubbed his head. His face and hands looked as though he had lost a fight with a dozen angry alley cats. “What are you talking about?”
Squeak held up a large paper clip. “I can unlock any door. I’ve been practising.”
“How would I have known that?” Boney answered indignantly.
Squeak pointed at Boney’s sock feet. “Where are your sneakers?”
“In that heap somewhere.” Boney waved the Blaster at the mound of rose bushes. “I’ll get them in the morning when I clean up this mess.”
“What’s that on your pants?” Squeak timidly asked.
Boney looked at the giant stain the Blaster had left on his jeans. “It’s water, Squeak! Geez! Can we get on with it?”
Squeak nodded as he and Boney walked to the kitchen door. Squeak expertly unfolded the paper clip into a straight piece of wire and began jimmying the lock. Within seconds, the mechanism clicked and the door swung easily open.
Boney shook his head incredulously. “Thanks,” he whispered, slinking into the house. “I’ll talk to you upstairs.”
Boney snuck through the darkened kitchen to the hall, then up the wooden stairs to his room, careful to avoid steps three, seven, and nine—the ones with the loudest creaks. In his bedroom, he changed into his pyjamas and placed the Blaster beside his bed. He made a mental note to carry the water gun with him at all times—fully loaded—then uncovered the Tele-tube.
“Mission accomplished,” he sighed with relief.
“What about the rose trellis?” Squeak’s voice filtered back.
“I’ll get up early tomorrow and fix it.”
“And the Elvis costume?”
“Delivered under the wire.”
“Amazing,” Squeak marvelled. “I have to confess, I had my doubts as to whether you would make it. Still, your aunt is going to be furious when she sees her roses.”
“Yeah, I know. But there are more pressing issues. I saw the ghost again.”
“What?”
“I went to the haunted mill while I was waiting for the cleaners—you know, Mr. Martini can barely see through those glasses. The ghost spoke to me.”
“What? What did it say?”
“Boney? Is that you?” his uncle softly called, opening the bedroom door.
Boney threw the towel over the Tele-tube and leaned on the windowsill, trying to look casual.
“Get to bed. I don’t want your aunt finding you up.”
“Yes, sir.”
His uncle waited until Boney climbed into bed. He watched as Boney turned off his bedside lamp and stood in the doorway for several minutes until he was satisfied his nephew would stay put. “Now, no more nonsense. We’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
When his uncle finally left, Boney exhaled.
“That was close.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FOUR THOUSAND SEQUINS
The next morning, Boney was jolted awake by the sound of his aunt’s shrill cries out in the yard. He checked his alarm clock. He’d slept in! Throwing the covers to one side of the bed, Boney raced from his room, stumbling down the stairs to the kitchen. When he opened the door, he saw his aunt and uncle standing before the violated trellis, his uncle’s expression more confused than the mangled roses, his aunt’s pulled like saltwater taffy into the very picture of tragedy.
“Why, why, why?” she moaned, her eyes searching the heavens, her hands wringing.
His uncle held up Boney’s sneakers in his hands. There was no way Boney could talk his way out of this one.
“I’m sorry. It was an accident.”
His aunt stood, dabbing her eyes with her red gingham tea towel in the most mournful way.
“Oh my, my, my,” was all his uncle could say.
“I’ll fix it,” Boney promised. “Your roses will be fine. You’ll see.” He reached down to lift the trellis but the wood snapped in his hands, splintering on top of the mangled roses.
His aunt burst into tears all over again. She staggered to the house, her face buried in her apron.
“Oh my,” his uncle said again. He looked at Boney with a mixture of grief and befuddlement. “Oh my, my, my.”
SQUEAK WAS WAITING on the stairs when Boney shuffled up the walk for school. He didn’t even bother ducking when the paperboy tossed the morning paper his way.
“I heard the whole thing,” Squeak confessed.
“I’m so stupid,” Boney said, slumping down on the stairs next to his friend.
“It was an accident. You didn’t know the trellis was structurally compromised. You were just trying to help a friend.”
Boney sighed glumly. “I don’t think my aunt will ever speak to me again.”
“I’ll help you fix the trellis,” Squeak offered. “My dad has lots of tools, and leather gloves—they should protect our hands from the thorns.”
“Thanks.”
“Everything will be okay,” Squeak consoled him. “You got the Elvis costume back, just like you said you would, and there’s still the Invention Convention.”
Squeak placed his skinny arm around Boney’s shoulders. The two friends sat thoughtfully for a moment. Then Squeak turned his goggled face to Boney.
“Can you imagine Itchy working as a clown in the circus?”
Boney thought about this for a minute, then slowly nodded his head. “Yes…I think I can.”
The two boys burst into laughter.
“He wouldn’t even need a wig,” Squeak said.
“Or a nose,” Boney added. “Or the big clown shoes!”
Squeak stood up. “Come on. We’ll be late for school. And you know Itchy’s late enough as it is.”
The boys shuffled along the sidewalk, dodging to one side as Mr. Peterson zipped by on his bike, bell jingling merrily as he passed. They clumped up the stairs to Itchy’s house, but before they could knock, the door swung violently open to reveal a terrified Itchy and an angry Elvis standing on the threshold. Itchy’s red hair looked as though he’d been
up all night, running it through a blender.
“Uhhh…what’s up?” Boney asked.
Itchy’s father assumed one of his famous poses, hip stuck out, arm stretched in the air, one finger poised. “Notice anything…peculiar? Anything…out of the ordinary?” He tossed his greasy hair and struck another pose.
Boney squinted at the white outfit, the same white outfit that had been covered in fake blood only hours ago. There was something peculiar about it. It was sparkling clean, that was for sure. Sparkling white, not a trace of the blood from the night before, not a single, itty bitty speck to remind them of their failed attempt at tarring and feathering the mail thief…not a single, little…
“Sequins!” Itchy’s dad cued him at last.
The boys stared at each other in horror. As if the rose trellis debacle wasn’t enough!
“I don’t know what you boys did, or why,” Itchy’s dad continued, in a trembling, heartbroken Elvis voice, “but it’s gonna take a hunk o’ hunk o’ love for me to get over this.” He gritted his teeth then pouted, holding his hand up in true Elvis style. “Four thousand sequins. The pain. The love.”
“We’ll fix it, Mr. Schutz,” Boney pleaded with Itchy’s dad.
“Four thousand sequins,” Itchy’s dad repeated as he made his exit from the hall.
Boney stared at Itchy’s tragic face. “It must have been the chemicals in the dry-cleaning process,” he explained. “Mr. Martini said he had to use extra-strength stuff to get all the blood and grass stains out of the suit. And he’s blind as a bat. He can barely see. He probably just kept using stronger and stronger chemicals and didn’t even notice the sequins were melting off the suit.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Itchy finally rasped, shaking his head. “My dad will never let me live this down.”
“We’ll fix it right away. I’ll get out of school—I’ll ask my aunt and uncle.”
Itchy just stood there, muttering and shaking his head. “Four thousand sequins…”
