And turn back toward my dad.
“Your minute is up.”
“Well, you look good,” says a voice from behind
me in the library conference room.
“Flo, please,” I answer without looking
up. “I need time to concentrate. Finding a
polar bear in the Arctic is like trying to find
a needle in a pancake stack.”
“Okay, that’s not quite the expression,
but kudos for trying.”
I turn around.
“Mr. Jenkins, what are you doing here?”
I ask.
“What are you doing here?” he replies. “I
figured you were dead. Bubonic plague and
all.”
“Yes, well, it comes and goes,” I answer,
blowing my nose for effect.
Mr. Jenkins sits down in the seat next to
me.
“Listen, Timmy, Rollo’s filled me in on
everything.”
“Who is this Rollo?”
“So I know about the missing script.”
“I deny everything.”
“And that you’re trying to find it.”
“Slander.”
“And that you’re still hoping to make
your film.”
“Lies! Fibs! Charcuterie!”
“Okay,” he says. “I’m pretty sure that
last one is a plate of meats.”
“I’m hungry now,” I conclude. “Can we
finish?”
“Yep,” he says. “But, Timmy, listen. I’m
not gonna say anything to your mom. But
you can’t be missing rehearsals. Okay?
Because then we will have an issue.”
I say nothing.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he says. “I
don’t know if you’re gonna find your script
or whether you’re gonna get to make the film
you want, but, uh”—he pauses—“well, this
part’s sort of confidential.”
He pats the underside of the table with
his hands.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Checking for listening devices,” he
answers. “How do I know this place isn’t
wired for sound?”
“I’ve checked,” I tell him. “I can assure
you it’s not.”
He nods and lowers his voice.
“Anyhow, I don’t know if you’re gonna be
able to find it or not, but I hope you do. . . .”
He looks from side to side and then lowers
his voice.
“Because that Tom John John is a pain in
my patootie.”
And Tom John John is a pain in my
patootie as well.
Not to mention a pain in the patooties of
Corrina Corrina, Nunzio, Max, Scutaro, Toody,
Molly, and Rollo.
For in the rehearsals that followed, he
decided to make all of us flying cat angels.
In fact, the only person who got out of
it was Angel, and that is only because he
threatened to throw Tom John John in a
kitty litter box.
And even worse, none of us knew a thing
about ballet.
But with filming only a short time away
and no other script to work from, each of
us had little choice but to try to learn Tom
John John’s oddly named ballet poses.
And things at home are not much better.
For the beeping that Molly heard in the
storage unit had more significance than I
foresaw.
“Timmy, the storage rental place called
and said my unit’s burglar alarm went off,”
my mom tells me as she tucks me into bed
one night. “Do you remember if we locked
the door when we left?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I answer
definitively.
“Well, I couldn’t remember, either, so I
went down to the unit to check. And sure
enough, it was unlocked.”
“Oh,” I say. “These things happen.”
“Yeah, but then I went through all the
stuff to see if anything was missing. And
guess what I found out. Guess, Timmy.”
It is at this point in the conversation
that I want to hop into a cardboard box and
ship myself to China, safe from my mother’s
wrath.
All because of the Segway.
You see, my logic was that my mother so
rarely went to the storage locker that she
would never notice it was gone. So I didn’t
bother to tell Corrina Corrina and Molly that
they had to return it. I just figured they could
ride around on it for as long as they were
working on the stolen script case.
So as my mother’s eyes narrow to tiny
slits and her gaze bores a hole in my perspir-
ing forehead, I know that I must confess all.
My only hope: points for honesty.
“Mother, I —”
“I found the pearl necklace your great-
aunt Colander gave me!” she blurts out. “I
thought I had lost that thing forever!”
She holds it out for me to see.
And it is as though the governor has called
to give me a death-row reprieve.
“I’m very happy for you, Mother,” I
say, trying not to drip sweat on her pearls.
“Those are quite beautiful.”
“But that’s not all,” she adds. “Because
then I realized I had gone all the way down
there and not brought the storage-unit key.
Lucky for me the padlock was open, or I
wouldn’t have been able to get in there at all.
So then I had to race back home and grab the
key so I could relock it. You know, the key I
always keep hanging on the refrigerator.”
And suddenly, I could not remember if I
had put the key back on the refrigerator.
And in a flash, it is as though the
governor has called all over again.
“And guess what I saw when I went to
the kitchen,” my mother says, her stare cold,
causing my blood to pump like I am being
strangled by an anaconda.
“Mother,” I say, “I’m afraid I can’t take
any more of this guessing.”
“Oh,” she answers. “I found a Christmas
card to you from—who else?—Aunt Colander!
I thought you’d be thrilled. There’s probably
money in it. Gee, you’re no fun at all.”
She hands me the letter and leaves.
“Oh,” she adds, pausing in the doorway,
“the key was there, too.”
There was no cash in my great-aunt
Colander’s Christmas card.
But there was this little rhyme inside it:
So I do.
“Well, hello, stranger,” she says. “I’m
surprised you remember this old lady.”
“Of course I remember you,” I tell my
aunt. “You were Agent X, an integral part of
my detective agency.”
“A badge I still wear proudly,” she says.
“You should. For an amateur, you
showed potential.”
“I will take that compliment in the spirit
in which it was offered.”
“Are you at home now?” I ask.
“I wish,” she says. “Stupid doctors stuck
me in a hos
pital. Been here two weeks.”
“If it’s against your will, I can send in a
team,” I tell her.
“I may take you up on that,” she answers.
“But for now I should probably stay put.”
“Sniffles?”
“Bigger, I’m afraid.”
“I understand,” I tell her. “I, myself, have
been struggling with bubonic plague.”
“Is that so?” she asks.
“Affirmative,” I answer.
There is a pause, followed by the sound
of her talking to someone.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “Nurses
won’t leave me alone.”
“I am constantly hounded by the outside
world,” I respond. “So I am sympathetic.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid I’m one of those
people hounding you at the moment, so I
don’t want to keep you. But before I go, one
quick thing.”
“You need a job?”
“Oh, well, no. But the subject matter is
probably just as bothersome.”
“What?”
“I hear you’ve been talking to your
father,” she answers.
“How do you know that?”
“Your mom told me.”
“That woman gossips like a caffeinated
crow.”
My aunt laughs. Then coughs.
“Don’t make me giggle,” she says. “Hurts
too much.”
I wait for her to stop coughing.
“Anyhow,” continues my aunt, “I don’t
think your mom knows what to say to you
about it.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you never had a dad in your
life. And now suddenly you do. He sort of
surprised you by appearing out of nowhere,
didn’t he?”
“Yes,” I offer. “Like a cougar in a peach
tree.”
“Well, I’ve never heard that expression
before, but sure, I suppose it works.”
She coughs again.
“The point, Timmy, is that your mom
thinks this is all sort of up to you. Whether
you want to spend time with him. Or
whether you don’t.”
“Yes, well, I don’t,” I say. “So problem
solved.”
“Right,” she answers. “You were always
good at solving problems.”
“I’m a professional,” I tell her. “At
everything I do.”
“Of course,” she says. “Speaking of
which, did you know that your dad once
wanted to be a writer for a living? Not sure
if it’s still the case. But it was.”
“How do you know that?”
“I used to know him. Briefly. Back
when he was with your mother. Big
dreamer. Not a bad guy. Just young.”
“No,” I reply. “He’s mostly bad.”
She laughs again. Then groans.
“All right, I’m gonna let you go back to
your work,” she says. “I don’t want criminals
thinking they can run amok.”
“Won’t happen,” I assure her.
“Hey, final thing, Timmy.”
“What’s that?”
“Forgive people sometimes. Even if you
don’t think they deserve it. Because one
day you won’t deserve it. And someone will
surprise you and do the same.”
“Like a cougar in a peach tree,” I answer.
“Sure,” she says. “Or maybe more like a
beautiful butterfly landing on your head.”
“I loathe butterflies.”
“Okay,” she says. “Cougar in a peach tree.”
“I’m glad we agree.”
She coughs. Much harder this time.
“Okay, sweetheart,” she says. “I’m
signing off. I love you, I love you, I love
you. And if there’s a big blue place where
they let me roam around after this, well, then,
I’ll love you from there as well.”
“Ditto,” I answer.
“Good-bye, love.”
When I hang up the phone, I am greeted by a
loon in the windowpane.
“Molly, you’re two stories up!” I cry.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“You said assassins expect conventional
entries and exits. And I don’t want to die.”
“Well, you might now,” I inform her.
“Why are you disturbing me in my abode?”
“Big news,” she says. “Corrina Corrina
wants to meet.”
“Where?” I ask.
“Her detective headquarters.”
“That big bank downtown?”
“No,” she answers.
“She’s in a new office now,” Molly
continues. “One you’ve never seen. At least,
not from the inside.”
“Well, climb down,” I tell her. “And
don’t break your head. I’ll meet you in the
backyard.”
“Okay,” she says.
“Hey, and Molly?” I call out to her as
she begins climbing down. “What’s the big
news?”
Molly looks up at me and smiles, her
mismatched pupils dancing in the December
sun.
“She found your script.”
Molly and I race to Corrina Corrina’s office
like sharks to a chum-fest.
And as we run, I pepper her with
questions.
“So how did she find it? Where was it? What
happened?”
“Timmy, we’re almost there,” says Molly,
running ahead of me. “And you always say
we have to be careful about security. There
are spies everywhere.”
I stop suddenly. She does the same.
“Good point,” I answer. “So speak in
code.”
“But I don’t know any code.”
“Just say it backward.”
“Okay. Corrina Corrina and I went back to
your dad’s bar a second time.”
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Saying it backward,” she says.
“No, Molly Moskins! Say your words
backward!”
“Oh, this is way too confusing,” she
replies. “I’m just gonna say it!”
“Then say it already!” I cry.
“Corrina Corrina and I went back to your
dad’s bar a second time. And the mean lady
wasn’t there.”
“Dundledorf?”
“Right. So Corrina Corrina was able to
talk to people. And once she started asking
questions, she found out it was Crocus—”
“Just as I suspected,” I announce. “I knew
it all along.”
“No. She found out it was Crocus who
was staring at us from the other side of the
bar. It was a little hard to see him at first.”
“Please don’t pause mid-sentence like
that.”
“Well, don’t interrupt,” she says.
“Anyway, she walked toward Crocus and he
was very nice to her. But then, she saw that
elf. And knew instantly that it was him—”
“Just as I suspected,” I announce. “I knew
it all along.”
“No, Timmy. It was him, the same guy
who got kicked by the reindeer.”
“This is very hard to take, Molly! Please
stop pausing in the middle of your words.”
“I’m not. You just keep talking over me!
Anyhow, in the middle of our talking to the
elf, your dad walks back in, I guess to get his
last check. And, well, he confessed—”
“Just as I suspected,” I announce. “I knew
it all along.”
“No, Timmy! Confessed that he hadn’t
been very nice to you and said he felt bad.”
“OH, THIS IS UNBEARABLE!” I shout.
“Molly, do not pause between your words like
that!”
“I’m not pausing! You just keep jumping
in! The point is that this old man in a fedora
walked over to us and revealed everything!”
“Oh, great, so let me guess—he revealed
to Corrina Corrina that he didn’t like beer?
Revealed that he didn’t want the television
so loud? Revealed that he wasn’t fond of little
kids yammering in the bar? Tell me, Molly,
what stupid scenario is it this time?”
Molly just stares at me.
“He revealed to Corrina Corrina that you
left the script on the bar that day. And it didn’t
belong there. So he put it behind a stack of
phone books under the bar.”
She twirls her finger through her curls.
“Anyhow, that’s where Corrina Corrina
found it.”
Astonished, I am unable to speak.
“Gee,” she says, “why can’t you always be
this quiet?”
Focused but famished, we make a brief stop at
a taco truck.
“Molly, under my guidance, you have
done fine work,” I tell her. “I shall reward you
with a tasty taco.”
“Four tasty tacos,” she says.
“It’s unfortunate to see you take
advantage of my generosity.”
“But I’m hungry.”
“I will buy you one tasty taco,” I tell her,
purchasing it from the man in the truck and
Timmy Failure It’s the End When I Say It’s the End Page 8