by Byars, Betsy
“I’m still not convinced someone did.”
“Then why would I throw you to the ground?”
“Because ever since I tackled you that night in Madame Rosa‘s, you have been planning to pay me back.”
“Meat!”
“Well, it’s one explanation.”
“My mom thought they were shots, and my mom ought to know. Did you see how fast she came out of the house?”
Meat nodded. He put one hand to his head and realized his uncle’s hat was missing. He turned his head and caught sight of it on the sidewalk.
He said, “Oh,” and began to move toward it.
“What are you doing?”
“My uncle’s hat.”
“Leave it alone.”
“I’ve got to get it.”
“Leave it alone!”
“Uncle Neiman loves that hat. It’s his good-luck hat. He’ll kill me if I let anything happen to it.”
“And someone else may kill you before he gets the chance.”
She searched the shrubbery for a stick and handed it to him. She watched critically as he finally succeeded in hooking the stick under the hat.
He drew the stick to him, removed the hat and began to dust it off. He broke off to look at Herculeah.
She had the binoculars to her face and was peering through the shrubbery at the third floor of the old Beaker Building.
“Keep down, Herculeah. If you really think someone was shooting at us, why would you—”
“He’s not there.”
“Who?”
“The gunman.”
“He’s gone?”
“I wouldn’t say he’s gone. I just don’t see the gun at the window. He could be at another window. He could be anywhere.”
Herculeah heard a gasp of dread from Meat.
“Well, I don’t mean that he’s sneaking up through the bushes, or—”
“Not that.”
She swirled to look at him, her long hair fanning out around her. “What?”
“That.”
He held up the hat. Wordlessly he showed it to Herculeah. To emphasize the point, he put his hand into the hat and stuck a finger out through the hole.
“And you still think we weren’t being shot at?” Herculeah demanded.
Meat shook his head.
“And if I hadn’t pushed you to the ground, the hole would have been right there.”
She jabbed one finger at his forehead.
Meat put one hand to his head and rubbed the spot as if attempting to erase it.
Then he sighed.
“What now? You ought to be grateful to be alive, Meat.”
He glanced down at the hole in the hat. “I am, but Uncle Neiman’s not going to like this.”
“He would like it even less if your brains were oozing out of it.”
“You always know how to make me feel better.”
7
PROTECTIVE CUSTODY
“I don’t see why I have to be punished.”
Herculeah tried to get comfortable in the car. She added, “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I wasn’t aware that spending an evening with your father was considered a punishment,” Chico Jones answered mildly.
“I do not feel like I’m spending an evening with my father. I feel like I’m under police protection.”
Herculeah and her father were on the way to her father’s apartment, where she was to spend the night. She had her own room there and often spent the night, but not like this—under protective custody.
She remembered the last thing Meat had said to her. It was a wistful remark. “I wish I had a father so I could go to his apartment.”
That remark made Herculeah decide to make the best of it.
“So what do you think?” She glanced at her father out of the corner of her eyes.
“About what?”
“About what happened. The situation. The shooting. The whole thing.”
He didn’t answer.
“It has something to do with the hat, doesn’t it?”
Again her father didn’t answer.
“I know it has to do with the hat. You know why? Because when I showed the hat to you and said it belonged to Meat’s uncle, you and mom exchanged glances.”
“Your mom and I frequently exchange glances—particularly when it’s about you.”
“It wasn’t that kind of glance. Believe me, I know all of your glances.” She paused and tried something new.
“Well, at least tell me what the police found in the Beaker Building. Dad, I have a right to know. I was the one who spotted the gun and told you which window it was fired from.”
He sighed, relenting.
“They found three gun casings apparently from an M16. They found the imprint of a bag of some kind in the dust on the floor. They found the imprint of shoes, a knee where the gunman apparently knelt to take aim. They found cigarette butts—Winstons.”
“Fingerprints?”
“All over the place, though I doubt they belong to the gunman.”
“Can you get fingerprints from a cigarette?”
He nodded. “These were filters and smoked close.”
“You know what I think?”
He father didn’t answer. The set of his mouth was grim.
“Don’t you care? Aren’t you even going to ask?”
“Yes,” he said, sounding tired. “What do you think, Herculeah?”
“I think there was no reason for anybody to shoot at me and Meat. We haven’t done anything.”
Her father shot her a look.
“Well, nothing to get us killed over. So we had to have been mistaken for somebody else. I can’t be mistaken for anybody else because of my hair, so it had to be Meat. It was the hat, wasn’t it?”
“It was the hat.”
“The gunman thought he was shooting at Neiman,” she said with satisfaction.
“Neiman?”
“The uncle. Named for the store. All the children in the family were named for stores. And guess which store Meat’s mom was named for.”
“I couldn’t.”
“I’m not supposed to tell this—I promised I wouldn‘t—but you’re so good at keeping things.”
“If you promised you wouldn’t tell, Herculeah, then—”
“Sears.”
Her father’s lips pulled back in an unwilling smile.
“I knew that would make you smile. Oh, Dad, can I borrow your phone?”
“What for?”
“I need to call Meat.”
“Herculeah—”
“I have to. I have to tell him about the hat and his uncle.”
“Look, I am taking you to my apartment to get you away from what is obviously real danger.”
“But what about Meat? Nobody’s getting him away from danger. The last thing he said to me was he wished he could go to his father’s apartment. But he doesn’t even have a father.” That had moved her, and it should move her father as well. “At least I have to warn him about the hat.”
“Oh, all right. I wish I could have talked to”—another faint smile—“Uncle Neiman. I’ll try again in the morning.”
Herculeah dialed. “You didn’t see him?” Herculeah asked as she dialed. Meat’s mother answered, and Herculeah held up one hand to delay her father’s answer.
“Hi, it’s Herculeah. Can I speak to Meat?”
“Albert is in his room.”
“I’ve got to speak to him.”
“You almost got him killed this afternoon. Isn’t that enough?”
“I didn’t almost get him killed. It was the hat, the hat almost got him killed. That’s what I have to tell him. Whoever was shooting at us thought he was your brother. Meat can’t ever wear that hat again.”
“I will give him the message.”
“It’s really important. Look, I’m not kidding about this. And tell your brother about it, too. He shouldn’t wear the hat either. That hat brings out target practice in somebody.”
“I can’t give Neiman your message.”
“But you have to. It’s a matter of life or death!”
“Neiman’s not here.”
The phone went dead and Herculeah looked at her father. “So that’s why you didn’t see him. He’s disappeared.”
“We’ll find him.”
“I hope it won’t be too late.”
8
THE LADY IN RED
Herculeah stood on the school steps, her arms crossed over her books.
Usually she walked home with Meat, but that pleasure had been denied her by her parents. This morning her father had dropped her off at school. This afternoon her mother would pick her up. It was like first grade.
“Herculeah, you want to go for pizza?” a girl called.
“I can’t. My mom’s picking me up.”
“Dentist?” a girl waiting beside Herculeah asked sympathetically.
Herculeah shook her head.
“That’s where I’m going. I’m getting braces. Everyone tells me they won’t look that bad, but I don’t know.”
Herculeah said, “No, my parents are treating me like a child.”
“Don’t you hate that?”
“Every time something interesting happens at my mom‘s, I have to go and stay with my dad.”
“Nothing interesting happens at either one of my parent’s houses.”
Herculeah shifted her weight and searched the line of snarled traffic for her mother’s car. There was always a mad rush to get away from school. Horns blew, tires squealed.
“I can’t believe my mom’s not on time,” Herculeah said. “I can’t believe she’d let me stand out here, unprotected for”—she checked her watch—“three whole minutes.”
Suddenly Herculeah caught sight of Meat’s mother as she pushed through the double doors of the school.
“There’s Meat’s mom. I recognize the coat. She’s probably here to pick up Meat. Oh, I’ve got to stop her. Meat’s gone to the library.”
Meat had told her at lunch that he was planning to go to the library and look through newspapers.
“What for?” she had asked.
“Uncle Neiman’s been mixed up in something. I might be able to find out what.”
“Meat, you don’t have anything to go on.”
“It had to be something that happened close to his shop. Uncle Neiman never goes far away from that.”
“Shop?”
“The bookstore. I told you about that. Do you think you could get your dad to go through the computer files on recent crimes?”
“I’ll try.”
“Maybe I won’t find anything, but at least I’ll be safe in the library.”
“Meat, call me if you do find something. I’ll be at my dad’s. You have the number. And I’ll call you if I manage to worm anything out of him.”
Herculeah turned quickly to face the girl.
“Listen, will you do me a favor?”
“Like what?”
“If my mom comes by—she drives an old red Ford, only for some reason on her car it’s misspelled. It says Frod. So if you see an old red Frod, tell my mom I went inside for a sec.”
The girl looked doubtful. “If I’m still here.”
Herculeah ran to the school doors, glanced back once for her mother’s car. The traffic wasn’t moving at all. No Frod in sight.
Herculeah disappeared inside the school.
The hall was almost deserted. Herculeah called, “Mrs. McMannis.”
She passed the school offices, pausing to glance inside each one—that would be the logical place for Mrs. McMannis to go—but she wasn’t there.
Herculeah continued down the hall.
She saw the school counselor going into her office. “Miss Marshall, did you see a woman in a red coat? I need to give her a message. It’s real important.”
“I passed her in the hall.” Miss Marshall pointed the way. “You can probably catch her.”
“Thanks.”
Herculeah ran quickly and turned the corner. At the end of the hall was Meat’s mother. She was almost at the stairway. Herculeah was glad she had caught her. She ran forward.
“Mrs. McMannis! Wait up! Mrs. McMannis.”
The woman stopped, but she did not turn.
“Mrs. McMannis, Meat’s gone to the library. He got out of study hall early.”
Still, Meat’s mother did not turn. That was strange, but perhaps she hadn’t heard her.
Herculeah broke into a run, eager to get back outside before her mother came.
She was at Meat’s mother’s elbow now.
“Mrs. McMannis, Meat went to the library.” For some reason she continued nervously, “Meat’s going to look through newspapers and see if he can find out why someone’s after your brother.”
Herculeah hesitated, suddenly uncertain. “I guess I shouldn’t have told you that. Don’t be mad at him. He’s just trying to help. He said he would be perfectly safe at the lib—”
She didn’t finish the word. As she spoke, she glanced down and saw the shoes. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see boots, pumps, even bedroom slippers.
She saw men’s shoes.
At that moment Meat’s mother turned.
Herculeah gasped.
It was Meat’s mother’s coat and Meat’s mother’s hat. But glaring at her from under the brim of the hat were eyes that were darkly unseeing and wild. The nose beneath them flared. A stubble of whiskers darkened the cheeks.
“Uncle Neiman.”
His lips pulled back in a nervous smile. A muscle twitched beneath one eye.
“I was looking for Albert,” he said.
“He‘s—he’s gone to the library,” she stuttered. An uneasiness crept over her. The empty hallway, the way Uncle Neiman’s hands twitched at the end of his long arms added to the feeling.
“Albert’s not here?”
“No—no. The library.”
Uncle Neiman peered down at her. “Who are you? Do I know you?”
“I’m Herculeah. Herculeah Jones.”
His look sharpened. “From across the street? Your mother’s the detective?”
“Yes.”
He smiled again, and there was something sinister and crafty and not at all funny in this smile.
“Then you’re even better,” he said.
9
THE GIRL WHO WASN’T THERE
“Chico, Herculeah wasn’t there!”
“What? When?” Herculeah’s father fired the questions into the telephone.
“At school. Remember I was supposed to pick Herculeah up after school. She wasn’t there.”
“Mim, I’m having a hard time believing this.”
“Well, believe it. She wasn’t there.”
“The last thing I said to her before she got out of the car was, ‘Be here.’ She didn’t even protest. I was concerned enough to hammer it home. I said, ‘I don’t want any mix-up. Your mother will pick you up here.’
“She said, ‘I know. I know. You’ve told me ten times.’ I said, ‘Now, it’s eleven. Here.’”
“I spoke to her, too. This isn’t like Herculeah. Chico, I’m worried.”
“What happened?”
“I pulled up in front of the school. I was a few minutes late—four, five at the most. The traffic was terrible, Chico, every kid in the school who can drive and every kid who can’t was trying to get away from the school as fast as possible.
“Finally, finally I pulled up in front of the school and she wasn’t there. I was getting ready to get out of the car and go inside when one of her friends ran down the steps, stuck her head in the car and said, ‘Are you Herculeah’s mom?’ I said I was. She said, ‘I knew you must be because you’re in a Frod.’ She said, ‘Herculeah had to run inside to give someone a message. She’ll be right back.’
“Then the girl got into a car with her mother and they drove off. I waited and waited. Finally I got out and went inside the school.”
“And? Get on with it,
Mim.”
“The school was deserted. I found the janitor—he had an armload of books—and I stopped him and described Herculeah and asked if he’d seen her.
“He said, ‘I haven’t seen her, but right here’s her books.’ And he held them out. ‘There’s her name.’ He opened up the notebook and, Chico, they were her books.”
“Where did he find them?”
“That was my next question. I was screaming at him at this point. ‘Where did you find these?’
“‘Back yonder.’
“‘Where, exactly, is back yonder?’
“‘By the steps, next to the side entrance of the school.’” Mim Jones’s voice broke. “Something terrible’s happened to her, Chico, I know it.”
“How about this girl that gave you the message? Did you get her name.”
“No, but by a miracle, a miracle, I noticed the license number on the car. See, I am good for something even if it’s only remembering license numbers.”
“Give it to me and I‘ll—”
“I already had it traced. I have some resources, you know. The car’s registered to a Roberta Warrington. Her daughter’s name is Betty. I’m trying to get them now, but they haven’t gotten home yet.”
“Keep trying. I’m on my way.”
Mim Jones redialed the Warrington number. This time a woman answered. “Is Betty Warrington there?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Is this Mrs. Warrington?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Mim Jones. My daughter goes to the same school as Betty. My daughter gave your daughter a message for me this afternoon, and I need to know exactly what it was.”
“I’ll see if Betty can come to the phone. She got braces this afternoon and she’s been crying ever since she got home and saw herself in the mirror.”
Mim Jones waited, twisting her finger nervously in the telephone cord.
A tearful voice said, “Hello.”
“Betty! Thanks for coming to the phone. I’m Herculeah Jones’s mother. You gave me a message from her this afternoon.”
“Yes.”
“What exactly was the message?”
“Just what I said. Herculeah saw a woman going in the school and she went after her. She said if I saw you—you’d be driving a Frod—to tell you she’d be right back.”
“Did she say who she saw?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try. It’s very important.”