Robot Revenge

by J.J. Chow

  Winston nudged his sister. “What’s happening?”

  Before she could answer, Bill’s alarm clock rang. “Time’s up,” he said and marched back to his home. It was the house right behind the neighborhood watch sign, and the residence looked cobbled together. Strange devices jutted from the roof, hung from the eaves, and clung to the stucco walls.

  Heather started stacking the chairs, and Winston moved to help her. Marcy even carried a few.

  As the others departed, Winston heard the grumblings:

  “What a jerk!”

  “I was so looking forward to it.”

  “A shame.”

  Winston and Marcy arrived at Heather’s home, just two doors away from Bill’s patchwork dwelling. Hers was all spic-and-span, the grass clipped and the leaves raked. No dust or dirt marred the cheery home.

  Winston and Marcy left the chairs on her porch, which featured a quaint mosaic bistro set.

  “Thanks, Mr. and Mrs. Wong,” Heather said before moving inside. Winston caught her whispered words before the door closed: “I can’t believe it.”

  He turned to his sister. “Tell me.”

  Marcy shook her head. “Neighborhood drama. They’d planned this massive Halloween party on their cul-de-sac. Every detail had been settled by Heather. And then Bill vetoed it.”

  Winston scratched his forehead. “But Halloween’s this weekend.”

  “Exactly the problem.”

  I’m not going to get involved, Winston thought. But that was before the phone call . . .

  CHAPTER 4

  WINSTON’S PHONE RANG early the next morning. He knew the number. It was his friend from Green Pastures.

  “Jazzman,” Winston said. “How are you?”

  “Good—no, better than that. Dandy. Have you heard?”

  Winston wondered what his musically gifted friend was up to. Despite his arthritis, Jazzman could (he claimed) bang out a mean Chick Corea.

  “I’m playing soon,” the pianist said.

  “Really? Where?”

  “Real close to you.”

  There were no nightclubs to speak of near Winston’s house. Oh no. Was Jazzman’s mind slipping? How old was he now anyway?

  “Down the street from you,” Jazzman said. “Magnolia Lane.”

  Why did that sound familiar? “Is that the name of a new restaurant?” Winston asked.

  “A cul-de-sac near you.”

  Oh, right. The same place as the neighborhood watch meeting. Winston hesitated. “It’s not for Halloween, is it?”

  “So you do know. Well, at least the word is spreading. I would’ve done it for free, but Heather insisted on paying me a generous—”

  “Wait a minute, Jazzman. Didn’t Heather tell you?”

  “What? Did she change the song selection?”

  “No, it’s Bill.”

  “The captain of the block? Heard about him.”

  “He vetoed the party.”

  “But she’s been planning for months,” Jazzman said.

  Winston could hear the hurt and anger in Jazzman’s voice. No doubt the fine gentleman had started practicing from the moment he’d been contacted, ready to perform to a more captive audience than his fellow senior home residents.

  “I’m sorry, Jazzman,” he said. “I wish there was something I could do . . .”

  “Oh, but you can.”

  “Huh?”

  “Am I a senior?”

  Was this a trick question? Did other men have hang-ups about their age, too? “Yes,” Winston answered with some hesitation.

  “And are you a sleuth?”

  This, Winston was more sure of. He’d made a name for himself cracking cases for the older adult crowd, although he still hadn’t bothered to get the proper PI license. “Of course I am.”

  “Great. I’m a senior, and I’m hiring you to sleuth. Isn’t that what your business cards say? Seniors’ Sleuth?”

  Winston knew it was a rhetorical question. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

  “Find out why Bill’s bailing.”

  “I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” Winston said.

  Jazzman sighed. “Let me play it to you straight. My arthritis is acting up more and more. I don’t know how many concerts are left in my fingers.”

  Winston couldn’t imagine Jazzman not seated at a piano. Shouldn’t he at least try something? “I suppose I could take a walk down the block.”

  “That’s the spirit. Go do your detective magic,” Jazzman said. “And if he’s not there, check the Tech Museum.”

  “Does he enjoy learning about computer history?”

  “Heard he volunteers there. A lot.” He sighed. “Thanks, buddy.”

  “Anytime, Jazzman. And you know I’ll do this for you pro bono, right?”

  “You and Kristy, the best friends a guy could have.” Winston could almost hear the old man’s smile over the phone.

  AFTER WINSTON HUNG up with Jazzman, he took a trip to Magnolia Lane. Bill’s house was dark and shuttered. Winston was afraid to step too close to make certain, though, in case some of the old man’s doohickeys would set off an alarm.

  He decided to drive over to the Tech Museum. Located on Market Street, the bright-orange building with its purple dome was hard to miss. It’d been years since he’d last visited, when Winston had still been enamored with the dazzle and glitter of Silicon Valley. Now, he waited until right before the closing hour, hoping to spot Bill without having to pay the requisite entry fee. Winston wondered what the captain of the block did at the museum—surely Bill, with his grumpy manner, wasn’t a docent?

  Ten minutes later, and Winston had his answer. He spotted Bill’s bulldog face through the giant window. The old man carried a duster, and he started cleaning the great Rube Goldberg machine displayed behind the glass at the front of the building. Winston tapped on the window to get Bill’s attention. Even though Bill scowled at him with recognition, he came out to speak.

  “What do you want?” Bill seemed to growl out the words.

  “I’m curious,” Winston said. “Why did you cancel the Halloween party? Especially since it was in the final stages of planning.”

  “You came here and disturbed me at work for this?” For a moment, Winston thought Bill would whack him on the head with the duster’s handle.

  Maybe if Winston explained, Bill would be gentler with him. “I have a friend who was scheduled to perform at the event.”

  Bill grumbled. “That’s the very problem. Who needs performers and all that fancy-schmancy? Back in my day, you just passed out candy.”

  “You were going to give out candy to the neighborhood kiddies?” That didn’t compute in Winston’s head. But maybe the gruff guy had grandchildren he secretly doted on.

  “No,” Bill said. “Stuff rots your teeth. But I wanted to hand mini inventor kits out.”

  “To make what?”

  “Their own Rube Goldberg, of course. You can make one out of all sorts of materials.” Bill did a little flourish with his arm over the nearby machine. He proceeded to demonstrate how the ball moved through the tracks, spinning and spiraling by different mechanisms to finish its journey.

  “That is pretty neat,” Winston said.

  “But then Heather changed the focus,” Bill said. “Made it bigger. Wanted a huge block party. The event of the year, she said. To showcase her talent.”

  “You were looking forward to something cozier.”

  “Controlled,” Bill said. He smoothed out his feather duster.

  “The usual trick-or-treat scene.”

  “No tricks,” Bill said. “I hate those.”

  “Well, can’t you make it smaller? Talk to Heather about what you want?” Winston tried flattery to get his way. He oohed and aahed at the machine on display.

  “I don’t know,” Bill said, but then he shuddered. “Best to clamp down on her monstrous vision.”

  “But what about the children?” Winston gestured to a few smiley kiddos exiting the building
. “Pass down your passion. To the future inventors of America.”

  “Tough luck,” Bill said and walked back into the museum with determined steps.

  CHAPTER 5

  A FEW DAYS LATER, MARCY collected the mail and passed on a sealed envelope to Winston. His name was written on the front in calligraphy. He almost dismissed it as junk mail, but then he noticed that the ink didn’t appear computer generated. Someone had actually taken the time to spell out his name in flourishes.

  Marcy peered over his shoulder. “What is it? An invitation?”

  Winston pulled out a cream card with fancy black script—and also unleashed a cascade of multi-colored confetti. “At least there wasn’t any glitter,” he said.

  “Not like you’d clean it up.” She gestured at the cluttered space around them.

  He’d been meaning to move all those piles of bills, receipts, and video game cheat manuals. But his sister had taken over the usual storage room.

  “So what does it say?” Marcy asked.

  Winston peered at the words. They seemed to swim on the paper. Soon enough, he’d need reading glasses. He pulled the paper farther from his eyes. “It’s for a Halloween bash . . . on Magnolia Lane.”

  “The street with the neighborhood watch meeting,” Marcy said. “They must have changed their minds.”

  Jazzman would be ecstatic. Winston mentally patted himself on the back for changing Bill’s mind. “I think I’ll ask Kristy to go with me,” he said. She’d love to see the pianist again—and maybe spend some extra time together.

  “Of course you should ask her, too,” Marcy said while picking up the confetti from the carpet.

  “Too?” He narrowed his eyes at her.

  She placed her hands on her hips. “I have to go. Heather will be beside herself if your ‘wife’ doesn’t show up.”

  Winston groaned. He’d have to clear that business up fast.

  “Besides, it’s a masquerade.” She pointed at a line of small print on the invitation.

  “But you don’t like costumes.” He remembered that Marcy loathed trick-or-treating as a kid. Well, the dressing-up part anyway. She loved being his “chaperone,” and then taking a huge portion of his candy stash for managing him. Winston had always made a costume from scraps scrounged at home—his parents couldn’t afford and didn’t want to buy one. Once, he’d been Tin Man, using the dented rejects from his mom’s leftovers at the cannery. He’d smashed them flat and painstakingly duct-taped the pieces together.

  Marcy tapped a surprisingly unmanicured finger against her bottom lip. “Sometimes it’s nice to change into someone else for a while.”

  “But you so love yourself.” Narcissus could be his sister’s middle name.

  She glared at him. “Why don’t you call Kristy now?” Marcy slammed the cell phone into his hand.

  “I’ll do one better.” Winston pocketed his phone and took out the keys to his Accord.

  KRISTY’S HOUSE, AS always, was pristine when he entered. She had elegant nature prints on her muted ivory walls. Everything appeared neat and tidy, and he smelled a touch of lemon in the air.

  “Done looking around? The apartment’s the same as when you last saw it.” Kristy pulled him into a warm hug.

  “It’s been too long.” He was about to kiss her on the cheek when a giant gray fluff ball attached itself to his leg. “Hi, Blueberry.” He stroked the chubby cat on the back.

  Blueberry bristled. Maybe he was unsatisfied with not being greeted first. “You’re looking good,” Winston said to the feline, and the cat seemed to settle down.

  “I’ve been working hard to reduce his hypertension,” Kristy said, and Blueberry purred and preened.

  “What brings you around?” She offered him a stool near the breakfast counter.

  He sat down and waited for her to move closer to him, but she remained standing. “Um, there’s this dance . . .” What, was he in high school again, asking for a prom date? For the record, no one had said yes. He’d told his parents that prom was overrated, and watched Star Trek reruns the whole night.

  Kristy saw the invitation in his hand and took it from him. A few stray pieces of confetti floated down. “Oh, a block party. It’ll be wonderful for you to know your neighbors more.”

  He wiped a sweaty palm against his cargo shorts. “Will you go with me?”

  “I would love to . . .” Her eyes glanced over to her tidy fridge, which had two items on it. She only kept the most recent postcards and letters from her family there. “When is it exactly?”

  “On Halloween.”

  She bit her lip. “I think that’ll work.”

  “It’s a dress-up event,” he said. “We could go as a dynamic duo. Batman and Robin. Or Hans Solo and Chewbacca.”

  She cocked her head at him and wrinkled her nose.

  “Or, maybe, Sherlock and Watson.” That got a smile since they’d met during his big case at the Sweet Breeze senior home. But then it faded. Did she still miss her old workplace? Winston continued, “And Jazzman will be there—playing.”

  “It’ll be wonderful to see him again,” she said, enthused once more. For a brief moment, Winston was jealous of the old man. Hadn’t the senior once described Kristy as hotsy-totsy? Well, she was Winston’s dame, and he’d let everyone at the party know.

  CHAPTER 6

  WINSTON RE-DUSTED HIS tweed jacket and straightened the brim of his deerstalker hat. He winked at himself in the mirror and popped in a pipe for a complete Sherlockian effect. There, perfect.

  He could hear knocking from outside the bathroom door. “Are you done yet?” Marcy asked. “I need to add a few last-minute touches.” The doorknob started turning, and Winston cursed at himself for never fixing the broken lock.

  “Okay, I’m outta here.” He yanked open the door and Marcy hurtled in. He swung his head back around for a second look. “Are you . . . Mystique?”

  No doubt about it. His big sis had dressed up as the shape-shifting mutant from X-Men. Winston shielded his eyes. “Please tell me that’s not body paint you’re wearing.”

  She wagged a finger at him. “Spandex and nylon.”

  Still too tight. And a bright blue that almost seared his eyeballs. “Way over-the-top.”

  She swiped on dark-blue lipstick. “Have a little fun, why don’t you? Isn’t that what being single’s about?”

  The doorbell rang. “No,” he said. “It’s about finding the right person—my Watson.”

  Kristy stood on his threshold, looking fabulous as always. She sported the Lucy Liu variation of Watson, with a chic black cardigan draped over a silk blouse and black leggings. A sleek leather satchel hung over one arm.

  Winston took her hand in his. “You look fantastic.”

  They started walking out together, but Marcy called after them. “Don’t forget about me.”

  She joined them, and Kristy approved of the outfit. “Nice costume. I couldn’t even recognize you.”

  “That’s the point,” Marcy said. “Time to party.”

  THEY’D CLEARED OUT the cul-de-sac for the event, with no cars parked at the curbs. Also, most of the houses on Magnolia Lane were done up with Halloween décor. Bats hung from eaves, spider webs draped bushes, and jack-o-lanterns haunted porches. All except for one abode, with the bright-orange neighborhood watch sign in front of it.

  Leaving the ladies to judge the best carved pumpkins, Winston walked closer to Bill’s house. No lights were on. Odd-looking inventions still surrounded the house, but no tombstones or decorations had appeared since his last visit.

  Winston went over to the front door. He knocked. Nothing. Then he spotted the doorbell. It looked comically like a stylized exclamation point, with a vertical rectangle for pressing and a glossy black circle underneath. He pressed it, and a chiming sounded from within, but no footsteps approached. Oh, well. Maybe Bill was already outside his house, mingling.

  Winston walked back to Marcy and Kristy standing on the asphalt, and they goggled at the growing crowd
. The street had been closed off with construction cones, and people seemed to pour in from adjoining sidewalks to join the fun.

  A long table of refreshments took up one area of the cul-de-sac, and Winston could see Heather heading it up. In a shiny golden gown, she smiled at each newcomer and then inclined her head at them.

  Winston pointed out Heather to Marcy. “Anyone else you recognize?”

  “Nope,” she said. “Too hard with all these costumes.”

  Marcy was right, but Winston had always felt ill at ease at parties full of strangers—or any kind of mixer.

  Kristy grabbed his arm. “Ooh, there’s someone you know.”

  Winston heard the melodic notes drifting his way before he saw the pianist. Jazzman had really outdone himself. He was dressed like a stage magician with an impressive top hat and a wand. And really, what he did was a sort of magic, weaving his spell on a piano. (Of course, they couldn’t lug the upright from Green Pastures, so the man had to settle for a keyboard.)

  After Jazzman finished playing the song (“Autumn Leaves,” the sheet music read), he stretched out his hands with a grimace of pain. Winston went over and clapped his buddy on the shoulder.

  “Winston,” Jazzman said. “Thanks for getting this gig back for me.”

  Kristy raised her eyebrows at Winston, and he gave her a sheepish grin.

  “Oh,” Jazzman said. “I see you’ve brought a very fine date, the fabulous Kristy Blake.”

  Kristy did a mock bow. “It’s Watson tonight. At your service.”

  “Right.” Jazzman’s eyes twinkled. “Elementary, my dear.”

  A female voice broke into their conversation. “Encore, encore.”

  They all turned to see voluminous yards of fabric coming their way. The billowing material might have been ridiculous on a less confident individual, but Anastasia managed to pull off the look. Her stick figure somehow didn’t look silly under all those layers. Beyond the purple taffeta material engulfing her body, the old woman wore a crown.