The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls (20 page)

After explaining to Uncle Andy's associates how grateful I was for their concern, I worked very hard to convey the ceaseless agony of my life in Snowflake Falls. “They are making me read as a condition of my parole,” I explained. “Plus, a dog named Popcorn keeps mistaking me for a TK deluxe bacon burger while I'm throwing newspapers into the bushes.”

Cookie and Wally were sympathetic, but they both felt that my current imprisonment was the best thing for me. “You are getting a roof over your head and three meals a day,” said Wally. Having heard my complaints about Mrs. Wingate's cooking, he added, “Three indigestible meals a day, but still…”

“Also, your job as a newspaper thrower supplies you with all sorts of fresh air,” added Cookie. With this, Wally observed that I was going to be late for the rest of my paper route. He stressed that, for my own good, I should pretend they were total strangers, ones without lengthy criminal records. “We do not know each other,” said Wally. “Even though you can rest assured that this is actually not the case.”

Knowing that I wasn't going home with Wally and Cookie made me feel extra melancholy and homesick. Then something very strange happened. A couple of days after our meeting at the empty house, I saw Wally Whispers walking along the main drag of Snowflake Falls with Mr. McHugh. They were laughing and having a great time. Wally was saying, “No kidding? How many BLT's do you figure you could get out of a tomato that big?” When I caught Wally's eye, he pretended that he didn't even know who I was.

Things got even more interesting when I saw Cookie the following day. I was walking past Biggie's, and there he was—wearing the bright orange smock of an official Biggie's greeter. Naturally, I went inside to see what he was up to.

Cookie had on a big name tag that said
Hi! My name is
Donny!
I watched him talking to a bunch of people like they were old friends. Mrs. Halpern came up to him, and he said, “Gloria, how's that new clock radio working out?” Then he said something I couldn't hear, which made Mrs. Halpern exclaim, “Oh, Donny! You're such a kidder!”

I was so shocked that I forgot to pretend not to know who Cookie was. When I tried to talk to him, all he said was, “Howdy, stranger! Make sure you don't get permanently injured by the avalanche of bargains here at Biggie's!” Then—never one to resist a free offer—he abandoned his post to sample a few complimentary cocktail sausages from a nearby display.

I guess I shouldn't have taken it personally, but I did. For a couple of longtime associates who were supposed to be looking after me, they seemed very preoccupied with other interests. On top of my more established troubles, I found this latest development very unsettling. I guess that's why I ended up stealing Harley Howard's deluxe limousine just a couple of days later. I really needed to drive around a little, clear my head and organize my thoughts.

It wasn't like I had to hot-wire the car or anything. Harley Howard's sweet ride was practically begging to be stolen. For one thing, the passenger side was unlocked. For another, I had discovered a set of keys inside a magnetized container that was hidden underneath one of the limo's front wheels. It's just like Uncle Andy always says: “Sometimes a burglar's greatest tool is other people's stupidity.”

Don't get me wrong. I would have felt embarrassed if, say, Mrs. Halpern had spied the guy who opened pickle jars for her in possession of a stolen vehicle. On the other hand, I thought I'd be reasonably safe driving around in the early morning before I started my paper route. The streets of Snowflake Falls were practically deserted, and the windows of the limo were tinted black so that nobody could see who was driving.

I had already picked up my papers for delivery. I even had Gwenivere stashed in the trunk of Harley's limo. I figured there was plenty of time to drive around and think before I had to worry about my deliveries.

Of course, I wasn't counting on how totally great it felt to be steering something that didn't have a pink basket on the front of it. By the time I realized it was so late, I had forgotten all about the way George Dial liked to stand in his living-room window and watch me deliver papers. At first, I only noticed George out of the corner of my eye. The next thing I did was very stupid. But I just kept thinking how George enjoyed humiliating me so much and how I wanted to make him envious. So I stopped in front of his house and rolled down the window of Harley's limo on the passenger side. When I knew he could see my face, I smiled and waved at him. Like I was just another friendly citizen of Snowflake Falls wishing him a great day. It was very gratifying to see George Dial's mouth fall open in complete and total awe.

My plan was to just keep going. But I was enjoying George's reaction so much that I hung around a few seconds too long. Meanwhile, George shot like a human cannonball out his front door in bathrobe, pajamas and slippers. Before I knew it, he had a death grip on the handle of the front passenger door and was pleading with me to unlock the door. I figured that George would attract some unnecessary attention unless I let him in. So I did. And then I just kept driving.

“Oh, man, I'm riding shotgun in old man Howard's Rich-mobile!” said George.

“You know this car?”

“Everybody in town knows this car,” said George, who was practically vibrating with excitement. “You stole it, right? Don't worry. Nobody will care. Everyone hates Harley Howard—with the possible exception of Harley.”

“Won't your gramma be worried about you, George?” I asked, trying to calm him down a little.

“She won't be up for another hour,” he replied. He turned on the radio and began to listen to six different stations for a total of three seconds each.

“Don't get too comfortable,” I cautioned, explaining that I still had to deliver my papers. “I've got to pull over and get Charlotte's bike out of the trunk.”

“You're going to ride that toy-store excuse for transportation when we have genuine wheels?” shouted George.

“The point is to help me think,” I said.

“No,” said George. “The point is, you don't want to be late for your meeting with Ms. Pendergast.”

George immediately offered to help me deliver my papers on the condition that I keep driving. I figured I was already late and had nothing to lose. So I just let Speed Dial take over my delivery. At first it was a bit weird. We would drive for maybe a few seconds until we got to a subscriber's house on the block. In fact, since the limo was so long to start with, sometimes we barely moved at all.

This did not discourage George, who would run up the steps of each house like a scared greyhound and set a paper on the step. If there was a cluster of subscribers on the same block, he would grab an armful of papers and hurl a couple of them toward adjacent porches. He never missed a porch once.

Not that Speed was exactly graceful or anything. Sometimes his bathrobe would loosen on the way back from a delivery and it would start billowing behind him like a flannel cape. You could see the little race cars all over his pajamas. Once in a while, he would trip over a damp garden hose, which made his slippers squish loudly along the grass.

I don't think anybody noticed us. Except maybe Popcorn, who was so confused to see me driving a limo that he didn't even bark. But you know what? I was just happy that my ankle wasn't on today's breakfast menu. I guess that's why we kept driving around. “There's only one thing a cool chick likes better than a bad boy,” a thrilled George observed. “And that's a bad boy in a hot car.”

I could see George looking at me with newfound respect. He pointed out that—thanks to stealing Harley's limo—we had finished my route in record time. “You know what I like about you?” he asked. “You have this natural ability for solving honest problems in a totally dishonest way,” he said. “Why not make that ability work for us?”

“Us? What do you want, George?”

“Now that you mention it, I have a little proposition for you,” he said. After pausing for dramatic effect, he said, “If you accept, I will promote you from Grease Pig. Plus, I will sweeten the deal by giving you the supereasy midnight to two-
AM
drive-thru shift from Friday to Sunday. Since one of our most senior employees is working the shift, your total responsibilities will fall under the category of sleeping in the cot in my office.”

“What do I have to do?” I asked suspiciously.

“Simple,” said George, whose eyes lit up with fiendish glee. “We are going to steal the Devil's Dumpster.”

I was so shocked that I had to pull over and park the limo. “The Devil's Dumpster from the Monster Truck Extravaganza?” I exclaimed. “Why would you want to steal that?”

“Because I want to drive the coolest vehicle on earth,” he replied. “I want to experience the joyride to end all joyrides!”

“No way, George,” I said. “I only stole this limo to organize my thoughts.”

I guess George could see that I was weakening. Because he moved in for the kill. “There's something else,” he confessed, his face turning bright red. “I have a totally hopeless crush on Nat.”

“But Nat hates you,” I observed, before I could stop myself.

“That's only because she hasn't seen my cool side,” said George.

“And how do you propose to show her your cool side?” I asked.

“By cruising past her house in the Devil's Dumpster,” answered George. “I promise we'll only stick around long enough to honk at her and wave.”

“What about Nat's parents?” I asked. “What are they going to do when they see you drive up in a stolen vehicle?”

George explained that Nat's parents were good friends with his gramma. “They play bridge together every Friday night at the community center,” he said. “When Lloyd's in town, he plays bridge too. The only person who'll be home is Nat.”

I looked at George Dial's earnest face. He blushed even deeper every time he said Nat's name. “We're just borrowing Lloyd's truck from my gramma's personal garage,” he said. “You think my own gramma's gonna toss me and my best friend in jail?”

I was going to argue about being George's best friend, but he looked at me and said, “Don't make me beg, man. Speed Dial is seriously in love.”

I don't know why I finally said I'd do it. Maybe it was the fact that I can never resist a challenge. Or maybe it was the thought of no longer being a lowly Grease Pig. It could even be that I felt sorry for the love-struck Speed Dial. But mostly it was the fact that part of me really did want to steal the Devil's Dumpster. Because some opportunities only come your way once in a lifetime.

On the way back to return Harley's limo, George Dial thanked me for what he called my “totally unsavory but awesome car-theft skills.” Then he looked at me like I was his best buddy in some cheesy war movie. “If anything goes wrong, I swear I won't leave you hanging,” he said. “I'll take the bullet for the entire mission.”

Over the next few days, George was so happy he never even caught a glimpse of Russell the imaginary rat. As for me, I was back delivering papers on Gwenivere. You'd think that I would be happy since Mr. Wingate had finally convinced the Nutley brothers to begin working on the spare room again at double-overtime rates. But George was driving me crazy. He even organized a private strategy session for what he called “the heist.” His whole strategy boiled down to making sure Charlotte knew nothing about our plans to steal the truck. “She'd ruin things faster than a flat monster tire,” he said. Knowing Charlotte, it seemed like a very sound strategy.

On the night we went to steal the truck, George was dressed all in black. He looked like an undersized commando trying to remain inconspicuous in front of his gramma's double garage. I was dressed my regular way, which really seemed to disappoint him. “Are you sure you weren't followed?” he whispered.

“Will you relax?” I said. “I snuck out while Charlotte was reading her book on haircuts.”

Everything went very smoothly at first. It was no problem getting into the garage. I was hoping that maybe the keys would be inside the Devil's Dumpster. Of course, they were not. But the truck was unlocked, so I popped the hood and took a look at what I had to deal with.

Fortunately, Cookie had trained me very well when it came to disabling all sorts of anti-theft elements—car alarms and the like. Luck was on our side in another way too, because the Devil's Dumpster was not what you would call overburdened with security features. After all, there are not a whole lot of people waiting in line to steal what is more or less a tractor on steroids.

With its jacked-up wheels and oversized tires, the Devil's Dumpster was built for rolling around in huge mounds of dirt. It would probably handle like your average water buffalo. But this didn't stop George from breaking into a huge grin when I managed to get the engine started. “This is so sweet!” he said, almost shaking with excitement.

Since I was the one with the most driving experience, George agreed to let me drive the monster truck out of the garage. After we figured out how everything worked, we'd switch places so that George could drive past Nat's house and wave. Once I got into the driver's seat, I noticed several mysterious levers and switches that I decided to ignore.

George joined me in the shotgun seat and I drove the car slowly off the property. We weren't more than a few feet away when I heard him yell, “May day!” which was George's commando way of saying we were in trouble.

What was the problem? Charlotte was pedaling Gwenivere toward us as fast as she could. George was all for burning rubber and leaving her in the dust, but I told him it was too late. I pulled the truck to the curb, and we both got out.

Charlotte finally arrived, all out of breath. “I knew you were up to something!” she cried. She started to go on about how we were commandeering a vehicle without permission and how neither of us had a totally authentic driver's license.