Timmy Failure: Sanitized for Your Protection

by Stephan Pastis

  “From a Rollo Tookus,” he adds.

  “Must be for you,” my mother says,

  Doorman Dave by her side.

  “I tried to write down everything he said,”

  says the desk clerk, “but some of it was a little

  hard to understand. I put question marks

  where I wasn’t sure.”

  He hands me the message.

  “Oh, good God,” I shout.

  “Are you all right?” asks my mother.

  I take a step away and continue reading

  the note.

  “CORRINA CORRINA’S A FUGITIVE

  FROM JUSTICE!” I declare.

  My mother claps her hand over my mouth

  and hisses,

  “Timmy, you are in a hotel lobby.

  Control yourself.”

  The desk clerk looks away.

  “Mother, I want to go back to my room

  right now. I need time alone to think!”

  “Timmy, you’re sharing a room with Molly

  and Micah. And the Moskins left the restau-

  rant right after us. So I’m sure they are going

  to be here any min

  —”

  “I’ll take any time I can get!” I say, cutting

  her off.

  She takes my hand and walks me toward

  the elevator. Dave follows behind.

  “You don’t have to hold my hand,” I tell her.

  She doesn’t let go.

  With her other hand, she presses the

  UP

  button. And kneels by my side.

  “Timmy, I know that you love your detec-

  tive work. And it’s wonderful that you do. But

  we are going to spend time together and we

  are going to talk.”

  The elevator doors open.

  “We can talk at home, Mother.”

  “No, Timmy, here.”

  The elevator doors begin to close. Doorman

  Dave holds them open.

  “We’re gonna miss the elevator, Mother.”

  “Timmy,” she says.

  “The doorman is holding the elevator,

  Mother.”

  “You have twenty minutes,” she tells me.

  “Then you’re going to come back down to the

  lobby and we’re going to talk. Or I’m going to

  get very angry.”

  I run inside the elevator.

  And push the button for my floor.

  And the doors close.

  And as I ascend, I look through the clear-

  glass elevator walls down upon the interior

  courtyard of the hotel. And down upon my

  mother and Doorman Dave.

  Who slowly recede from my view.

  And are gone.

  I don’t have a lot of time to tell you this next

  part, so I’m going to be brief.

  Corrina Corrina is so evil she could scare

  the tail off a beaver.

  She is ruthless and diabolical and cun-

  ning and immoral and destructive and secre-

  tive and wicked and depraved and malicious

  and vicious and dishonorable and corrupt and

  fraudulent and vile and nefarious and sordid

  and smelly and apparently one time I kissed

  her.

  5

  And with all that said, I’m now running

  out of time.

  So the point is this:

  Corrina Corrina stole the money.

  5.

  That last part is a claim made by Rollo

  T

  ookus. It is a

  bold and outrageous lie.

  And if it were true, I would say

  that it was not true. So either way

  ,

  you can rest assured

  it’

  s not true.

  And I will hunt her down and get it back

  or my name is not Failure.

  And that means going wherever she goes.

  And so, when my mother got to my hotel

  room that afternoon . . .

  . . . She could not get angry with me.

  For I was already gone.

  But crosstown manhunts can get lonely.

  So just as the explorer Meriwether had

  Clark . . .

  and the outlaw Bonnie had Clyde . . .

  the detective Failure had Moskins.

  I will not share the details of (1) why I

  agreed to bring her or (2) how we escaped on

  the city bus across town.

  And that is because if there is one trick of

  the trade that a detective does not divulge, it is

  his method of escape.

  Lives can depend on it.

  So the point is this:

  Molly and I were free.

  I to find Corrina Corrina. And she to wit-

  ness my greatness.

  “Many a good detective has relied on unsa-

  vory characters to help them find bad guys,”

  I tell Molly Moskins. “Because who better to

  know the mind of a criminal than a criminal?”

  “I know,” says Molly. “I can help a

  lot

  !”

  I nod.

  “We’re like Bonnie and Clyde,” she says.

  “But instead of being outlaws, we’re

  in

  -laws.

  Or whatever the opposite of outlaws is.”

  “Yes, Molly. And remember, while our

  goal is to find the money, our secondary goal is

  to project greatness. That’s how I’ve branded

  my detective agency, and that’s the message

  we’re going to spread from block to block.”

  “That’s what I was thinking!” adds Molly.

  “Now all the intel we have from Rollo is

  that Corrina Corrina is staying at some fancy

  hotel. So we’ll have to check every one of

  them.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “With this one,” I say, staring at a bro-

  chure I found near the bus stop. “It’s called the

  Drakonian.”

  “It sounds wonderful!” says Molly.

  “Yes,” I answer. “But first I need to make

  a phone call.”

  “Hi, it’s me, Timmy,” I say into the first pay

  phone we can find.

  “Oh, Timmy, I’ve missed you!” I hear my

  great-aunt Colander say.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask. “You sound

  sick.”

  “Oh, I’m always sick,” she answers. “But

  what do doctors know? I’m an old woman.

  Where are you?”

  “On the road. With my new associate, Molly

  Moskins. She’s a criminal, but I’m granting

  her leniency in return for her cooperation.”

  “Well, good for you, Timmy. Though I’m

  not sure I know what that means.”

  “It’s detective talk, Aunt Colander. But I

  don’t have much time. And I need to ask you

  for a favor.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, since you’re sort of an honorary

  member of my agency, I thought I could trust

  you with a highly sensitive mission.”

  “Ooh. Sounds exciting. But what do you

  need me to do?”

  I glance around at the strangers standing

  near the pay phone and lean in close to the

  receiver.

  “Just tell my mom I’m okay.”

  She pauses.

  “She’s not with you?”

  “No. But it’s fine. I’m with a bunch of

  people.”

  “Who are you with?” she asks.

  “I have to get back on the bus, Aunt


  Colander.”

  “Well, where are you off to?” she asks.

  “I have to go.”

  “Timmy, I

  —”

  “I love you, Aunt Colander! Don’t forget

  the mission! Good-bye!”

  I hang up the phone and run with Molly

  for the bus.

  “Why couldn’t you just call your mother

  yourself

  ?” asks Molly as we run.

  “

  Think,

  Molly Moskins.”

  “I’m not good at thinking,” she replies.

  We hop onto the bus just before the doors

  close and take a seat near the back.

  I lower my voice.

  “Because her phone will be

  tapped,

  Molly

  Moskins. That means that if I call, the police

  will know exactly where I called from.”

  “Ohhhh,” she replies, finally getting it.

  “And then they’d catch

  us

  before we could

  catch Corrina Corrina!”

  “Exactly,” I reply.

  “That would be so unfair!” she declares.

  “We’re the in-laws! The good guys!”

  “Yes,” I tell her. “It’s as though the world’s

  gone mad.”

  Defiant, she reaches into her backpack and

  pulls out what looks like an old sweatshirt.

  Upon which she has written something.

  Something that may not fend off this mad

  world. But shows we will at least try.

  We weren’t the only ones to flee the hotel room.

  For as it turns out, everything you get in

  a hotel is not free.

  The mini-fridge. The room service. The

  pay-per-view.

  All of it costs money.

  And when the hotel came to collect on the

  exorbitant bill, my ex–business partner climbed

  out the window and down the fire escape.

  Though how he met us across town is any-

  one’s guess.

  I suppose it has something to do with the

  fact that he’s a polar bear. And that a polar

  bear can sniff out a seal from more than twenty

  miles away.

  And anyone who can do that can certainly

  find a bus filled with sixty smelly people.

  And thus, the three of us were now one.

  One of us running from justice. Two of us

  running to enforce it.

  And after a long ride across town, we were

  just where we needed to be.

  “Welcome to the Drakonian,” says the jug-eared

  doorman. “Can I help you with something?”

  “We’re looking for a hotel,” I respond.

  “Well, you found one. Are you here with

  your parents?”

  “No,” I answer. “Why would we be?”

  “Well, you need to be at least eighteen

  years old to check into the Drakonian.”

  Molly Moskins steps forward.

  “We’re looking for Corrina Corrina,” she

  says.

  “Is she a guest at the hotel?” the doorman

  asks.

  “She’s a felon,” I answer. “And we have no

  idea where she is.”

  “She took the money for Yergi Plimkin’s

  books,” adds Molly Moskins.

  “Who is Yogi Plimkin?” asks the doorman.

  “Yergi,” answers Molly. “And he’s a sad

  little boy.”

  “And is

  he

  a guest here?” asks the doorman.

  “Negative,” I chime in. “The poor kid can’t

  afford books. How is he going to afford a nice

  hotel like this?”

  “I don’t know,” he answers. “I don’t even

  know who he is.”

  “Sir, can you please stop going on about

  Yergi Plimkin?” pleads Molly. “He has no

  books and you’re going to make me cry.”

  “Oh, please don’t,” he says, touching Molly

  on the shoulder. “I don’t even know what’s

  going on.”

  “He doesn’t even know what’s going on!”

  howls Molly.

  “He doesn’t care!”

  And quick as a clap of thunder, she begins

  bawling.

  “Oh, my goodness,” says the doorman.

  “What is happening here?”

  “

  Now

  look what you’ve done,” I scold the

  doorman. “The little girl’s weeping. Is that

  the job of a doorman? To make little girls

  weep?”

  Strangers begin to gather on the sidewalk.

  “I didn’t mean anything bad at all,” he

  assures Molly. “I think it’s great you’re help-

  ing this . . . uh, Yergi fellow.”

  “He said his name

  again

  !” Molly bellows,

  convulsing in renewed hysterics.

  “What do you think you’re

  doing

  ?” I ask

  the helpless doorman. “

  Think

  before you talk.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” he says, reaching for

  an embroidered handkerchief to wipe Molly’s

  tears.

  As he does so, the crowd of onlookers

  grows.

  “Don’t look now,” I caution the doorman,

  “but your conduct has attracted an angry

  mob.”

  He looks over at me.

  Molly sobs louder.

  “Remain calm,” I admonish the doorman.

  “This mob has vengeance in their eyes.”

  “Okay,” he says to me. “Thank you, but

  you are really not helping.”

  Molly wails to the heavens.

  “All right, all right,” he says, kneeling

  in front of the now inconsolable Molly. “Why

  don’t we all just step inside the hotel, and the

  three of us can take a ni-i-i-i-i-ce comfy seat

  in the lobby? Then I can get you some water

  and —”

  “Oh, good God,” I’m forced to interject,

  “my associate’s on the verge of a nervous

  breakdown, and all you offer her is

  a drink

  of water

  ? It’s like you’re

  trying

  to inflame the

  mob.”

  He turns toward me. “Okay, you are truly

  not helping the situation, Mr.

  —”

  Molly begins pulling her hair, as though

  she is trying to yank it out in grief-soaked

  clumps.

  “Failure,” I answer, handing him my card.

  “And as an officer of the law, I will save you

  despite yourself.”

  “No, no, please don’t,” he begins to say,

  looking down at my card and then back up at

  me.

  But I am no longer there.

  For I am high atop his doorman’s station.

  Heroic and noble.

  “DO NOT TEAR THIS POOR MAN LIMB

  FROM LIMB!” I bellow to the surging

  horde. “THOUGH YOUR CONDUCT WOULD

  CERTAINLY BE JUSTIFIED!”

  But even this fails to calm the un-calmable

  crowd.

  So as the doorman ushers Molly inside the

  lobby, I rush inside with them. And as I do, I

  remain levelheaded enough to order that the

  front door of the hotel be guarded by my secu-

  rity detail.

  Who is unarmed.<
br />
  Though not empty-handed.

  “How long do you think we can stay in here?”

  asks Molly, now recovered and splayed across

  the couch of the hotel’s largest suite.

  “I suppose for as long as our food holds

  out,” I answer, staring at the suite’s dining-

  room table, now piled high with all the candy

  and soda the hotel’s gift shop could give us.

  “They let us take everything!” exclaims

  Molly, grabbing a handful of Hershey’s Kisses.

  “What did you take, Timmy?”

  “All the shaving cream I could grab,” I

  add. “A detective’s beard grows in fast.”

  Molly runs throughout the suite, her voice

  echoing like that of a lost yodeler.

  “Ooooh, we have a bedroom. . . . And a

  living room. . . . And a bathroom. . . . And

  ooooooh, a big closet! . . . And a . . .”

  Her voice trails off.

  She walks back into the dining room.

  “What’s a bridal suite?” she asks, staring

  down at the cover of a brochure.

  “Let me see that,” I say.

  “Don’t,” she says, pulling it away from me.

  “You’ll get shaving cream on it.”

  She opens the brochure. It is filled with

  pictures of happy women in long white gowns.

  “Ohhh,

  bridal

  !” she exclaims. “As in the

  word

  bride

  !”

  She jumps up and down, flinging the bro-

  chure from her hand.

  “Oh, Timmy!” she cries. “It’s like we’re

  married

  !”

  She spins around, ecstatic.

  “Let me see that!” I say, picking up the

  brochure from the floor.

  I stare at it and see a photo of a woman

  in a long white dress. She is with a man in

  a black tuxedo. And they are both riding a

  horse.

  “Oh, Molly Moskins, don’t you understand

  anything

  ?” I yell. “It’s a horse!”

  She looks at the photo.