Henry & Eva and the Famous People Ghosts

by Andrea Portes

  “Yeah, I’m from LA. Los Feliz. Born and bred.”

  “See, I knew it!” The guard smiles. “I’m from Redondo.”

  I look at Henry. He shakes his head. This guy must be the dumbest criminal of all time.

  Zeb nods. A walkie-talkie is on the bench, next to the guard. Guess he didn’t feel like carrying it.

  “So, uh, you know, I’ve always wanted to get into the, uh, thievery game. How does one go about it?” Zeb inquires.

  The guard imitates him. “How does one go about it? Ha! You’re a trippy little dude. Wull, I guess one goes about it by just . . . not having much going on, pretty much.”

  “Yeah, I bet your boss is raking it in though, right? I mean, I can’t believe he’s only paying you guys . . .” Zeb thinks. He’s plotting, somehow. “Ten grand.”

  “Ten grand?!” The guard turns on a dime. “Who’s getting ten grand?! I’m not getting ten grand. I’m only getting five grand. Who the heck is getting ten grand?!”

  Zeb senses the vulnerability. Now he lays it on strong.

  “Oh, like those guys who were talking inside, the guards for the wedding people. I heard them say they’re both getting like ten grand each.”

  “That is so messed up! Those are the guys who roped me into this! They told me we were all getting the same. Five grand!”

  “That is so uncool, dude. They totally snaked you. You should just like bail. I mean, I heard that guy, your boss or whatever. He sounds really abusive,” Zeb commiserates.

  Henry and I are leaning in. Wow, Zeb is a mental ninja! Sowing confusion. Dissent. Resentment.

  Dividing. But will we conquer?

  “Tell me about it, bro. He’s like always yelling, like the whole time. Like just a jerk.” The guard is so annoyed.

  “Is he from California, too?”

  “Totally not. That’s like his problem. He’s like a ball of stress. I mean, he really needs to meditate or something. Take some yoga.” The guard shakes his head. “Ten grand?! Man. That’s just wrong. Whatever happened to equal pay for equal work, you know?”

  Zeb comes in. “I know, dude.”

  “We’re idiots.” He looks at the ground. “I didn’t even know the mark, honestly. If I’d known we were hitting Hearst Castle I woulda been like ‘I’m out.’ I mean, who the heck takes on Hearst Castle?!”

  “Right? I mean, you guys could really get busted. And if you do, that could mean like . . . life. In jail.” Zeb coaxes.

  The guard is now shaking his head. Wow. I actually feel sorry for him. What is happening here?

  “Why did I ever agree to do this for five grand?”

  Zeb shakes his head. “Have to make a living, I guess.”

  “Oh, dude, you don’t know! I’m trying to like move out. My roommate’s a total loser. Like he just walks around in his underwear all day and never does the dishes. And. And . . . all he ever watches is Forensic Files. Like day and night. Just one case after another!”

  “Aw man,” Zeb commiserates.

  “And like, the other day, I was in bed and I felt something . . . and it was an ant. There’s like ants everywhere. He’s always eating sandwiches and leaving them, like, half-eaten everywhere. Just like, on top of the TV. What’s that? Oh, it’s a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Covered with ants!”

  Zeb shakes his head. “So, the five grand is to pay for the move out?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, dude, I gotta tell ya. I don’t think it’s worth it. This guy is gonna get so busted. Then you’ll be moving out all right. But you’ll moving into . . . jail.”

  Henry and I share a look. I really can’t believe this is happening.

  The guard is just looking forward, shaking his head. “I know. It’s like I’m watching a car crash. In slow motion.”

  Zeb leans in, and I really do get the impression that he actually does care, at this point. “Dude, it’s not too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not too late. Your friends lied to you. You didn’t know what you were getting into. You’re barely getting paid anything. You could just . . . bail.”

  “Not really. I’m in too deep.”

  “It’s never too late to change your situation. That’s what my dad’s life coach says. If you don’t like your circumstances . . . just change them. Don’t think about it. Just do it.”

  “I dunno. . . .”

  “Give yourself a second chance, dude. You could like, I don’t know, open your own gym or be a dog whisperer or like trick out cars or something.”

  “I am really good with dogs.” He straightens with pride. “I have a way with animals.”

  “See, that’s what I mean!”

  The guard deliberates.

  SCRRTTCCHH. SCRRTTCCHH.

  The walkie-talkie crashes this fine moment with gusto. But that’s not the worst of it.

  Zeb and the Redondo Guard look at the walkie-talkie. The horrible words come out, in the voice of the Midwestern Mastermind.

  “Did you find those kids yet?! You can’t miss them, I hear one of them has blue streaks in his hair, for criminy!”

  Zeb and the Redondo Guard look at each other.

  BUST. ED.

  Zeb chuckles. And smiles wide. “My point still, uh, stands?”

  There’s about five thousand years of silence going on here, while Zeb and the Redondo Guard assess this new situation.

  Then . . .

  The Redondo Guard speaks, dead serious: “Looks like you have a date with the boss.”

  Zeb’s face sinks.

  Henry’s eyes go wide with panic.

  And then . . .

  “Ha! Little dude! You should see your face! Oh my God, I totally got you!” The Redondo Guard laughs.

  We all stare in shock.

  The Redondo Guard imitates himself. “Looks like you have a date with the boss. Who talks like that?” He slaps his own knee and laughs.

  Zeb’s face goes from minor key to major, the light coming back into it.

  “Oh my God. I’ve never been more bummed to have blue streaks,” he confesses.

  “I know, right?” The Redondo guard is still chuckling to himself. “C’mon, little bro, do you really think I’m gonna turn some little kid in to that evil dude? No way. I am not that guy!”

  The two of them sit there in a moment of relief, a kind of collective exhalation.

  Then, the guard takes a deep breath.

  “All right. The heck with it.”

  And, before I know it, he takes the walkie-talkie and wipes it off for prints. Places it down on the bench and looks at Zeb.

  “I’m out.”

  Zeb looks at him. “Really?”

  “Yeah, that seals it. Sayonara, suckers!”

  Zeb calls after him. “Dude, but can you help us with—!”

  But the guard is already skittering down the hill, through the brush. He looks left and right, making sure no one sees him. Then he goes farther, sneaking from bush to bush, making his way down the path and back to a life of freedom. Roommate to an annoying half-sandwich leaver, but one with his liberty!

  Zeb looks after the guard with a bit of pride as he makes his way farther and farther in the rain. Down the hill and, hopefully, back to his ant-infested apartment.

  Now Zeb looks back at Henry and me, who stare at him in astonishment as he grabs the walkie-talkie.

  Henry looks up at Zeb in wonder.

  “You should be a . . . a lawyer.”

  “A magic lawyer,” I agree. “Now let’s fire up that walkie and see what chaos we can sow!”

  16

  “I LITERALLY CANNOT believe that just happened.” Henry’s still looking at Zeb like he’s a Martian. “It was truly astonishing. It goes totally against the tenets of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Could the need for human connection have overwhelmed the necessity for money?”

  “Well, the guy didn’t really need the money. What he needs is to have a conversation with his roommate. He seemed like
a good guy. Just made a stupid decision. I hope he does become a dog whisperer. The world needs less greed, and more whispering.”

  “How did you know?” I ask.

  “How did I know what?”

  “How did you know about the measly payment?”

  Zeb shrugs. “I just figured this guy, the Midwestern Mastermind, was a jerk, so probably a cheapskate to boot.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t believe he convinced them to commit a horrible crime like this for five thousand dollars.”

  Zeb frowns. “Some people on the chessboard are just pawns. Just pawns to be moved around, used, and counted out by the honchos and bosses, the kings and the queens. It’s not fair. It’s just not a fair world.”

  Wow. That’s . . . pretty deep.

  I stare at Zeb, and for the millionth time I can see why Henry likes him. And I realize in that same moment that for some reason, I’m angry. And I can’t figure out why I’m angry.

  The three of us share a moment of silence.

  Henry looks at Zeb. “You possibly saved that man from a miserable life in prison! With only your words. Well done, Zeb.”

  And this very pithy remark, too, somehow irks me.

  What is wrong with me?

  “Speaking of the police, why aren’t they here yet?” Zeb asks.

  “It’s the inclement weather. And the lack of cell phone service. They have no idea what’s happening. Otherwise, they would logically be here already.” Henry thinks.

  I gasp. “What if there was a trap? Set to ensnare both the police and the do-gooders from this very mansion?”

  “A trap? You mean, down in the town?” Zeb ponders.

  “Yes,” Henry picks up the thread. “Some sort of fail-safe to make sure neither the authorities nor the vigilante mob would return. Perhaps they’re in a basement somewhere in town, tied up and guarded just like these wedding guests here.”

  “Right.” I think. “The bad guys’ strategy was also divide and conquer.”

  “Precisely.” Henry nods.

  “You guys are like, whoa. Mega brains.” Zeb smiles.

  There’s a statue below us, centered on the landing, of three ladies flimsily dressed. They might be goddesses but whoever they are, they look cold. I notice something luminous behind them.

  “Guys.” Henry and Zeb turn to me.

  I point to the glowing thing. “Look!”

  There down below, a shining figure puts three shining fur coats on the exact statues I was looking at.

  “I don’t see anything.” Zeb squints into the rain.

  “Wait. Is that . . .” Henry strains to see.

  “Another ghost,” I finish.

  “But who?” Henry asks.

  He’s wearing a beige top hat, and a mop of blond curly hair sticks out underneath the brim. His matching trench coat billows around him.

  “I’m not sure. I—”

  Then another figure joins him. Heavy eyebrows. Glasses with eyes that roll wildly behind the lenses. Tuxedo. A half-burnt cigar between his fingers.

  “You know, ladies,” he addresses the statues, “I’ve had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it!”

  Henry gasps. “That’s Groucho Marx! And his brother—what was his name again?”

  “Harpo!” I cry. Dad used to love watching old Marx Brothers movies. Black and white. Totally weird. Their jokes were always about wordplay. They would say stuff like, “I could dance with you till the cows come home . . . but I would rather dance with the cows till you come home.” Hilarious. Dad would roll on the floor, even though he knew all the jokes by heart.

  “One of the Marx brothers?” Zeb asks. “Are you seeing a ghost of one of the Marx brothers? This is so coool!”

  “It’s two, actually.” I roll my eyes at Zeb.

  That mop of blond hair in a top hat winks at us and then disappears behind the statues.

  Groucho, on the other hand, comes walking up the steps toward us.

  “Eva, are you seeing this?” Henry asks.

  “Groucho? Oh, yeah. I’m seeing it.”

  “Dying. I’m dying of envy right now,” Zeb adds. “I’m like peanut butter and jealous.”

  Groucho reaches us on the landing.

  “All right, kids, if you’re looking for wisdom, here goes . . .”

  Henry and I lean in.

  “A black cat crossing your path signifies . . . that the animal is going somewhere.” He puts his cigar in his mouth and raises his eyebrows.

  Henry and I look at each other.

  “No?” He continues. “How ’bout this: One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got in my pajamas, I’ll never know.”

  Henry and I can’t help but smile.

  “There. That’s more like it.” He grins. “Don’t mind my brother over there.” He gestures toward the three statues, now covered in glowing fur coats. “He can’t get enough of that fur coat gag.”

  “Mr. . . . Marx? An honor to meet you,” I say.

  “An honor to meet me, too,” he replies. “Now if you don’t mind, I have to meet Mae West in the game room. She cheats at checkers, by the way.”

  Groucho flicks his cigar and begins walking up the steps. Henry and I stare dumbfounded behind him.

  “Oh, one last thing, kids. Remember: imitation is the greatest form of flattery.” He tips his glasses. He smiles, fading up the stairs and into the night sky.

  “But—stop!” I yell. “Wait! We need your . . .” It’s too late. Groucho and Harpo are both gone.

  Zeb interrupts our moment of awe. “What’d he say?”

  Henry turns to Zeb. “Imitation is the greatest form of flattery. Among other things.”

  “Imitation . . . huh?” Zeb frowns.

  The three of us stand there, pondering.

  SKRRREECCCH!

  Walkie-talkie static ends our contemplation.

  SKRRREECCCH. SKRRREECCCH!

  The three of us look down at it. Frozen.

  “What is taking you dillweeds so long? We’ve got half an hour to hightail it out of here!” Unmistakably, the Midwestern Mastermind.

  The three of us look at one another, listening.

  “Look, boss, it’s taking a little longer to load the statues. They’re really, really heavy.” The voice on the other side sounds more casual.

  “Really? The marble statues are heavy? How ’bout that? I can’t believe it! Front page news!” The Midwestern Mastermind’s voice sounds like it comes right out of his nose.

  “You don’t have to be mean about it . . .” Casual Guard replies.

  “And find. Those. Kids! God, I hate children.” He mutters before he clicks off.

  “Gah, that guy is the worst—” We hear Casual Guard say to his friend before there is a tiny blip sound, and the connection goes dead.

  “Imitation! Mastermind said he was keeping his walkie off unless he wanted to talk to his henchmen.” Zeb picks up the walkie-talkie.

  “No, Zeb, what are you doing!” I reach out.

  But it’s too late.

  Before we know it, he pushes the button.

  SKRRREECCCH.

  “Yeah, boss?” The casual guard tries not to sound annoyed.

  Zeb puts the walkie-talkie to his mouth. And then it is Zeb talking, but it’s not Zeb’s voice. It’s the voice of the Midwestern Mastermind. To a T.

  Imitation.

  “And don’t forget the rugs!” Zeb commands, in the voice of the Midwestern Mastermind.

  “But, boss, I thought you said that—”

  Zeb continues in his fake nasal voice. “Lookit. I thought it out. You guys get the rugs. You can have them. See, you just got a raise, so you can stop complaining. Don’t say I never did nothin’ for you.” Zeb winks at Henry and me, who both stand rapt before him and his Midwestern Mastermind accent.

  He hangs up.

  “See? Imitation.”

  Henry and I stare at him.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” I ask.

  “Do
what?” Zeb replies.

  “Do that . . . accent . . . perfectly?”

  “Oh, yeah, my mom got this weird idea to make me famous or something and she put me in an acting class in the valley. I only went for like six months, but we did do accents. Then I quit. Because who wants to be famous? Like everywhere you go people just look at you like you’re a Martian or ask you for an autograph or take a selfie while you’re eating lunch and sell it and it’s horrible and embarrassing. Ugh. What a life.”

  Henry and I stare at Zeb.

  “How do you know though? About being famous?”

  “My friend from kindergarten got super famous. He was in a bunch of movies and now he can’t go anywhere. It sucks. Trust me,” Zeb adds. “But the accents are cool, right?”

  We nod. Zeb’s Midwestern imitation is flawless.

  “I’m impressed by this seed you’ve planted.” Henry gives Zeb some props. “This rug issue may be just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Why, thank you, good chap.” Zeb now sounds like he’s from the high street in jolly old England. He pretends to tip his imaginary cap.

  But I can’t stop thinking about what he just said about being famous. All your life, everywhere you look, it seems like everyone is killing themselves to be famous. To be someone. But I never really thought about what that would look like, there on the ground. I never thought about how it would actually manifest itself on a daily basis. Is it really like that? Does it really feel like being trapped?

  If that’s true, then it’s kind of a relief. I feel like it’s something I can just cross off my to-do list. A reminder: DON’T BE FAMOUS.

  SKRRREECCCH. SKRRREECCCH.

  The walkie-talkie goes off.

  “We should be out of here in half an hour, people! Did you get those kids yet? I want those kids!”

  The three of us look at one another.

  “No witnesses! Did you hear me?! No witnesses!”

  17

  WE MAKE OUR way back toward the chapel and grand hall.

  The last thing I want is to have some sort of open confrontation with the Midwestern Mastermind, but it seems like these guys working for him are . . . malleable. Maybe even kind at heart.