The Final Gambit

by Christopher Healy

  “Well, when you say it back to me like that, I admit it doesn’t sound like a very charitable suggestion,” said Captain Lee. “But you have to understand, I hold out no hopes of Emmett getting fair treatment if he’s apprehended before proving his innocence. You ladies, however . . . If you ladies explain everything to the authorities and tell them how you stopped Rector, they will surely go easy on you, no?”

  “No offense, Captain, but you missed a lot,” Molly said. “Granted, you had a good excuse, but you haven’t gotten to see how relentless these federal agents are.”

  “Especially Agent Clark,” said Emmett. “He already put Mrs. Pepper in jail once.”

  “I am not fond of the man,” said Cassandra.

  “He arrested all the members of the MOI just for sheltering us,” Emmett said.

  “Yeah, I think it’s Clark’s goal in life to see us all behind bars,” Molly said. “He’s like our very own Javert.”

  “Our very own what?” asked Captain Lee.

  “Inspector Javert,” said Emmett. “He’s a police officer in the book Les Misérables who’s obsessed with hunting down the hero.”

  “Hmph. This Javert fellow sounds a bit like Captain Ahab in Moby-Dick,” said Emmett’s father. “Now, there is a good book! Ships, whales, sea captains . . .”

  “Personally, I’d rather read about revolutions than fish,” said Molly. “But I think we’ve lost track of this conversation.”

  “We lose track of every conversation! Sometimes I wonder how you people accomplish anything!” Frustration was growing in Captain Lee’s voice. “I’m sorry, I guess I just don’t understand how you’re going to secure your friends’ release from prison without ever speaking to the police, or the governor, or—I don’t know—somebody in authority?”

  “We’re going to break the MOI out, silly,” said Molly.

  Captain Lee furrowed his brow. “She’s joking, right?” he asked Cassandra.

  “If so, it’s not one of her best,” Cassandra said. “Those tend to begin with ‘knock-knock.’”

  “There is no way Emmett is taking part in something as foolhardy and risky as a prison break,” Captain Lee said seriously.

  “But, Cap—” Molly started.

  “Look,” he continued, “I’ve already done so many inadvisable things that I would never have done under normal circumstances—stealing clothes, jumping onto moving trains, getting within sniffing distance of circus folk—all in the name of keeping my son out of jail. But staging a breakout? We’ve got to draw a line somewhere. You must agree, Emmett, don’t you?”

  Emmett looked startled, like a student who gets called upon in class when they didn’t do the required reading. “Well, um, we certainly shouldn’t do anything rash,” Emmett said. “I mean, we don’t even know what prison the MOI are in. We’ll have to think everything through before we commit to any course of action.”

  Captain Lee looked on his son with admiration. “There is the Emmett I remember.”

  The fire in Molly’s cheeks felt hot enough to melt the snow accumulating on her head. Emmett caught her eye, then turned back to his father.

  “But thinking it through means thinking everything through,” Emmett added. “We shouldn’t take anything off the table without considering it fully. Even a jailbreak. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my time with the Peppers, it’s that the most unexpected move can sometimes turn out to be the right one.”

  And there’s the Emmett I remember, Molly thought. His father was no longer smiling, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want there to be a war between the family Emmett wanted to belong to and the one he felt he had to belong to, but if it came to that, she knew which side she’d be on.

  “Christopher Street Pier! All passengers disembark!” shouted the ferryman.

  “At least the weather means fewer people are out and about,” Emmett said as the quartet rolled their crate through the slush along Bleecker Street on a wheeled dolly.

  Fewer people, Molly thought, but not none. She couldn’t help feeling that every bundled-up pedestrian they passed was taking an extra-long look at them as they walked by. Of course, that could have had something to do with the occasionally visible sequins peeking out from under their coats or the big “diseased animal” crate they were pushing.

  They passed a newsboy hawking papers on the corner of Sixth Avenue. While the newsie, shivering in a threadbare vest, served a customer wrapped in thick woolen scarves, Molly snuck up and swiped a copy of that day’s New York Sun from the pile behind him. She hurried back to her group, leafing through the pages and scanning not only for mention of Nellie Bly but also for any news about the MOI and where they might have been imprisoned. She barely got to see a half dozen headlines before Captain Lee snatched the newspaper from her hands. He strode back to the corner, brushed snowflakes from the paper, and returned it to the pile with apologies to the befuddled newsboy.

  “No more stealing,” the captain said to Molly. “We can’t afford to draw any more attention to ourselves than we already are.”

  “The kid didn’t notice anything until you brought it back,” Molly complained. “And we have to go check that paper again. I think I finally saw something by Nellie!”

  “Really?” Emmett asked hopefully.

  “There was a headline on the back page: ‘Best Pickle Shop in New York,’” Molly said. “Nellie was going to write that exact article when we first met her, remember?”

  “I’m sorry, but that article was not by your friend,” Captain Lee said, with genuine sympathy. “I saw the byline as I took the paper from you. The author was someone named Sherwin St. Smithens.”

  “Oh,” Molly said. She supposed it would have been too good to be true.

  “Let’s move along, Molls,” said Cassandra, gently rubbing her daughter’s back.

  “I’m okay, Mother,” Molly replied. “I’m a little concerned about you, though. Normally in weather like this you’d have made yourself a snow brooch by now.”

  Cassandra sighed. “I’m just tired, Molls. We’ve been running and fighting for the better part of a year now. That sort of living takes its toll on a person. I’ll be fine once we get a break.”

  As they walked, Captain Lee gaped up at the snowflakes dancing in the soft glow of electric streetlamps. “New York has changed even more than I realized,” he said in awe.

  “Those are new for us too, actually,” Emmett said of the lamps. “Thomas Edison has obviously been busy in the time we’ve been gone. He had installed electric lights along the paths in Central Park before we left, but now they seem to be all over the city.”

  “I wonder what else the Guild has been up to in the past few months,” Molly said. “Part of me wouldn’t be surprised if we find Nikola Tesla or George Westinghouse running Pepper’s Pickles when we get there.”

  “There it is—good old Thompson Street,” Cassandra said with the warmth of someone reuniting with a long-lost friend. “This is our block!” She was about to turn the corner when Captain Lee stopped her.

  “I go first, remember?” he said.

  Molly nodded grudgingly. That was part of her plan, after all. She’d just stopped feeling generous toward the captain since formulating it. “Don’t leave us waiting long,” she said.

  Captain Lee trudged off through the accumulating snow, while the others waited on the corner, pretending to inspect their crate for what passersby must have assumed were openings through which a diseased animal could escape. After an endless seven minutes, the captain returned. “I do not see any suspicious figures across the street from your shop,” he reported. “But with the crowd outside, I cannot be certain there aren’t any federal agents hiding closer to the storefront.”

  “Crowd?” Cassandra asked.

  Emmett shook his head. “Oh, Papa. You must have looked at the wrong building.”

  “The closest Pepper’s Pickles has ever come to a crowd was when the cucumber man and the vinegar man made their deliveries at the same tim
e,” Molly said.

  “It’s got a sign, for Pete’s sake!” the captain said. “With your name on it! Go look for yourself.”

  “Wait with Robot,” Cassandra told him as she, Molly, and Emmett rushed around the corner.

  They saw the familiar green awning, right in the middle of the block—and below it, a queue of waiting customers that stretched nearly to the opposite corner. There had to be fifty people in line, many of whom were reading the latest issue of the New York Sun.

  Pepper’s Pickles, it seemed, was the best pickle shop in New York.

  6

  Pickles, But No Peppers

  THE PEDESTRIAN TRAFFIC jam in the doorway of Pepper’s Pickles made it impossible for Molly, Emmett, and Cassandra to get inside.

  “Can you believe this?” Emmett said, gaping at the crowd.

  “I’ve read Jules Verne novels more believable than this,” Molly replied.

  Cassandra tapped several shoulders, but no one made way for her.

  Molly crouched so she could peer between the legs of the people standing in the entryway. At least a dozen more sets of feet were lined up at the counter inside. She couldn’t see Jasper from her angle, but she could hear him.

  “What can I get for you today, sir? And may I add that that is a spectacular tie you are wearing. I once had a tie like that, and by ‘like that’ I mean ‘completely different,’ and by ‘tie’ I mean ‘fancy piece of string,’ and by ‘had’ I mean ‘stole from a bird’s nest.’ But the point is: I know a fashionable fellow when I see one and I see one before me right now. Although, apparently, fashion sensibility has no correlation to the speed with which one answers questions, because I am still waiting to hear what kind of pickle you want.”

  Molly snickered. Jasper had not changed one bit. The customer at the counter stammered and asked for a Hungarian Half-Sour.

  “Hungarian Half-Sour coming right up,” Jasper said. “Balthazar Birdhouse used to tell people he was half Hungarian. He also used to tell people he was half Welsh and half Canadian. But that’s too many halfs by half.”

  “Who’s Balthazar Birdhouse?” a customer asked.

  “If you don’t know, consider yourself lucky,” Jasper replied. “I’ll tell you one thing Balthazar Birdhouse definitely is not: half Hungarian. Now, half-sour, that I’d believe. Although the man’s probably more like full-sour. You know, the first time someone offered me one of these half-sour pickles, I thought they was literally gonna give me half a pickle. Half a pickle. That sounds like half a problem. As in, ‘That time that Balthazar Birdhouse told me he’d borrowed my potato masher but I did not own a potato masher, I knew I was going to be in half a pickle.’ Why haven’t you taken your pickle yet, Mr. Fancy Tie? I got other customers waiting. Or do you not see all those people standing around you? Here, take your pickle. That’ll be five cents. I really do like that tie, by the way.”

  The waiting customers laughed.

  “I’m not sure what you all find so humorous,” Jasper said. “But go ahead and laugh it up. Laughter is a beauteous sound. Unless it’s coming from Balthazar Birdhouse. That man’s laugh will send shivers down your spine and up your esophagus. Sounds like a sickly seagull choking on a mouthful of hornets.”

  The customers laughed again and Molly couldn’t take it any longer. She tried to squeeze between people.

  “Hey, the line starts back there,” a man yelled, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  Emmett and Cassandra both sighed and started the trek to the end of the queue. “What are you doing?” Molly said in disbelief. “This is our shop!” She huffed and shoved past the people in the doorway.

  “—and that is why Balthazar Birdhouse gave me the nickname ‘Vinegar Teeth,’ which I found quite unfair, seeing as I only made that mistake the one time,” Jasper was saying as Molly worked her way to the counter. “It was a rather interesting insult to come from a man with teeth like pinto beans. And by that, do I mean they look like pinto beans, smell like pinto beans, or taste like pinto beans? The answer is—” Jasper finally glanced up from the latest pickle order he was wrapping. “Is that Molly Pep—I mean, is that a young girl I have never seen before?”

  Molly bounced with glee. She wanted so badly to hug him.

  “Little girl,” a customer scolded. “If you want to order, you’re going to have to go wait like every—”

  “Hush!” Jasper snapped at him. “You’re not the Pickle Man. I’m the Pickle Man. And the Pickle Man is taking a break!” He rushed out from behind the counter, shooing everyone to the door. “Everyone out! Not you three. But everyone else out!” Customers grumbled as Jasper physically pushed them out onto the sidewalk. “Sorry, we’re closed!” he called to the people lined up outside. “Temporarily! Do not leave! We will reopen in ten minutes!”

  “But we’ve been waiting,” complained a woman with a frilly blue parasol. “In the snow!”

  “And if you want pickles, you will wait some more,” Jasper replied. “What are you gonna do instead? Go two blocks east to Pickle Palace? Or one block south to Let’s Make a Dill? Neither of which has been named Best Pickle Shop in New York by the New York Sun?”

  The people quieted.

  “I didn’t think so,” Jasper said. “Now you all just wait here and we will reopen in ten minutes. But don’t nobody check no clocks or anything. Whenever I open them doors again, just believe that it’s been ten minutes. Thank you for your patience.” He stepped back inside and locked the door.

  “Well, look at you three,” he said with an ecstatic grin. “I am overjoyed, I tell you. Overjoyed! I didn’t know if I’d ever see you folks again. But I wanted to make you all proud of me, just in case, so I’ve been doing what I must say is a crackerjack job of selling your pickles, Peppers. But it’s not just me who says that. Just ask a certain Mr. Sherwin St. Smithens of the New York Sun. Or any of those people outside. Just don’t ask Balthazar Birdhouse, because I can’t guarantee—”

  “We know about the article, Jasper,” Emmett said. “How did you manage that?”

  “Mr. St. Smithens came in here his very self, and he must have been pleased with his service, because he decided to tell the world about it.”

  “Incredible,” said Cassandra. “I wonder what brought him in here.”

  “My guess is he saw the long lines every day and got curious,” said Jasper.

  “This crowd isn’t just because of the article today?” Molly asked.

  “I suppose people just like me and my pickles,” Jasper said with pride. “I mean your pickles—I have not changed the recipe one smidgen. I was the best ashman in New York, so I knew I would be the best pickle seller. And by ‘knew’ I mean ‘hoped.’ And by ‘hoped’ I mean ‘genuinely doubted my capabilities.’ But I was happy to be wrong about that. Honestly, I don’t know how I do it. The people just like my stories, I suppose. They’d listen, listen, listen, then they’d come back the next day and bring some friends, saying, ‘You gotta hear this guy.’ Which is good advice, by the way. Everybody should listen to me. Folks seem to ’specially like hearing about Balthazar Birdhouse. Though don’t ask me why. Every time I hear about Balthazar Birdhouse, I wanna cork my ears up with melon rinds, which is, ironically, something Balthazar Birdhouse once did to me while I was napping.”

  Molly smiled. “So, basically, you succeeded by just being you.”

  “I suppose so.”

  The Peppers looked around with admiration at the sparklingly clean countertop, the full jars on the shelves, the red-cheeked faces pressed against the big front windows . . . “Wow, is that a cash register?” Emmett asked, running to inspect the black metal, button-covered machine at the end of the counter.

  “All the finest businesses have them now,” Jasper said.

  “I am thoroughly impressed,” Cassandra said. “You turned Pepper’s Pickles into a roaring success.”

  “Yeah,” Molly said, trying to sound as enthusiastic as her mother. “A much bigger success than we ever did. Or ever could have.
”

  A bell dinged as Emmett hit a button to open the register’s cash drawer. “Wow, that’s a lot of money!”

  “Really? How much?” Cassandra ran over to look and her eyes opened wider than Molly had ever seen them.

  “Take what you need, since I imagine you folks are in short supply, you being fugitives from the law and all,” Jasper said. “It’s your money, anyway. I am but your humble employee. By the way, I love your sparkly fairy shirt, Molly. Not many people could pull off that look. Just you and Balthazar Birdhouse.”

  “Thanks, I stole it from a circus.”

  “Speaking of the law,” Emmett said, “how is it that this store isn’t being watched?”

  “Oh, it is,” said Jasper. “Come look, but be very quiet.” Holding his finger to his lips, he motioned for them to join him by the dividing screen that separated the front of the pickle shop from the Peppers’ humble living quarters in the rear. Molly poked her head around back and stifled a gasp. She barely recognized the place. The floor was clear and walkable—no need to climb over partially built contraptions and half-empty toolboxes. The table they used for both inventing and dining was missing all of its oil and coffee stains. Mugs and dishes were stacked neatly in cabinets, and all of her mother’s inventions had been boxed up and neatly stowed on shelves. Two of the three cots were made up nicely, complete with blankets tucked in under the thin mattresses. The third cot was the only thing in the room that was even remotely messy. And that was because someone was currently snoozing on it—a pug-nosed federal agent in a long coat and bowler hat that rested crookedly over his eyes.

  “What is Agent Morton doing in my bed?” Molly asked in disbelief.

  “Napping,” said Jasper. “He’s a decent fellow, that Agent Morton. In the beginning, he just watched the store from across the street. But after a few weeks, he must’ve got bored from you all never showing up, ’cause he started coming in and striking up conversation. Turns out he’s an aspiring piccolo player and his favorite bird is the pigeon. Anyhows, in addition to dazzling the man with my wit and plying him with free pickles, I told him how I frequently seen him nodding off against the lamppost and asked would he like to visit slumberland on a real live bed instead? He said a cot wasn’t a real live bed, and I said it was better than a lamppost, and that he could not argue. In the end, he agreed it would be much easier to stake out the shop from the inside. He puts in a good three or four hours back there every day. He just made me promise to never tell his bosses. Agent Morton, it turns out, is not very good at his job.”