Agent Angus

by K. L. Denman

  There’s a camera baseball hat. It’s large and puffy and looks like something my grandpa would wear. But it would be easy to operate. All you have to do is switch it on and turn toward the person you want to film. If you put the hat on sideways, you don’t even have to look at them.

  “We’re not allowed to wear hats in school,” Shahid says. “And it costs more than the buttons.”

  He’s right. Again.

  “There must be something we can afford,” I whine.

  “How about this?” Shahid points at a camera-carrying Happy Face button. A big bright yellow smiling cartoon-face button.

  “Shahid.” I speak gently. “What do you think would happen to us if we wore that to school? Take a moment. Imagine the reaction of Some People.”

  “Ah.” Shahid’s eyes widen. “It could provoke them, couldn’t it?”

  “Very likely,” I say. “And look at the price.”

  It’s after midnight when we discover a spy supply store within bus range. Spies 4 Real is having a Saturday cash-only sale. They have a limited quantity of rearview sunglasses for the blowout price of $30. These sunglasses are equipped with a tiny mirror inside the frame. Wearers of the glasses can watch the mirror and spy on people behind them. We decide to get up early and bus over so we can be first in line.

  Chapter Six

  Saturday morning arrives, too bright and too early.

  “My eyes hurt,” Shahid moans. He rubs them and adds, “If I’d known we’d have to wait around in the sun, I wouldn’t have let you keep me up half the night staring at a computer.”

  We’re in a small parking lot, waiting for the Spies 4 Real store to open. The building, with its gray metal door and gray stuccoed walls, isn’t welcoming. We tried peering in through the barred window, but the dark tinted glass wasn’t giving up any secrets.

  “It shouldn’t be much longer,” I say. “And just think. When we come back out, you’ll be the lucky one wearing sunglasses.” We were halfway here before I realized my late-night choice of spy gear wouldn’t work for me.

  “You’re sure your parents won’t let you get contact lenses?” Shahid asks.

  I nod. I have no intention of asking them. I don’t tell Shahid that the mere thought of sticking something in my eye makes me queasy.

  A clicking sound comes from the store. I turn to find the lights have been switched on and the Closed sign has been replaced with an Open one. More metallic sounds follow. “They’ve unlocked the door,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  We charge through the door and come to an abrupt stop. The store is eerily silent, and it smells funny. It’s a chemical cleaner odor, like bleach, only not. The store is chilly and appears almost empty. An expanse of gray floor stretches before us. Only when I look toward the back of the store do I find glass display cases. A man stands motionless behind the farthest one. He’s dressed entirely in black, and he’s watching us.

  “Hey,” I croak.

  He blinks. He nods, ever so slightly. And he continues staring. There’s no hello or even the standard, “Can I help you?”

  I exchange glances with Shahid, and we shuffle toward a side display case. We lean our elbows on the glass and peer in. Spaced at precisely equal distances are a variety of objects. All of them are black. Black binoculars, pens, tiny cameras.

  “No sunglasses,” Shahid whispers.

  “Maybe they’re on the other side,” I whisper back. I don’t know why we’re whispering. But there isn’t even music playing to cover our voices. I swear I can feel the man’s menacing gaze boring into my back.

  We shuffle over to the display case on the other side of the store. Still no sunglasses. That leaves only the back case. The one with the creepy watchman.

  Shahid murmurs, “Maybe we should forget this. We can just order online.”

  There is no way I’m going to be scared off so easily. I shake my head and hiss, “We already decided that would take too long.” I straighten my shoulders and motion for Shahid to follow me. I start walking toward the back, doing my best to appear confident.

  “What are you doing?” Shahid asks.

  I answer him from the side of my mouth. “Walking. What does it look like?”

  “It looks like…I dunno. Like you’ve got the runs and you’re afraid you won’t make it to the can.”

  The Watchman emits a sound. It’s very close to a burp and yet, not a burp. I risk glancing at him directly, but as far as I can tell, nothing has changed. He’s still doing his stare.

  I turn to Shahid and mouth the words, “Shut up.”

  Shahid lowers his brows, and mouths, “What?”

  I roll my eyes, and mouth, “Forget it.”

  And the Watchman almost-burps again. Loudly. It’s so bizarre that Shahid and I freeze in place. I even freeze my eyeballs. What is with this guy? He reminds me of one of those bullfrogs that make huge sounds without changing their faces. But then more sounds emerge from the Watchman, and it takes a moment for me to realize he’s laughing. Laughing! At what? Icy fear grips me as I realize he may be insane. I unlock my eyeballs and slide them toward Shahid. His eyes are goggle-wide. The part of my brain that is still operating realizes that Shahid’s face displays terror.

  We should run.

  “Mwaahaahaa,” goes the Watchman. And then he forms words. “You guys. Please tell me you’re here for someone else.”

  “Wha…?” My voice fails. I take a breath and try again. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he says, “you’re not planning to spy on anyone, are you?”

  “As a matter of fact…” A movement from Shahid makes me pause. Down low at his side, he’s waving a hand. Why? Then I understand. He’s saying we shouldn’t tell the Watchman anything. “As a matter of fact,” I repeat, “that’s right. We came to pick up some sunglasses for…a friend.”

  “Is that so?” he asks. “Then step this way. The sunglasses are right here.” He raps a knuckle on the case in front of him.

  “Oh. Good.” I square my shoulders and approach the case. There they are, three whole pairs of them.

  “Do you want to try them on?” the Watchman asks. He’s still smirking.

  “No. No, that’s fine.” I unzip the pocket on my cargo shorts and pull out my wallet.

  “I only have size large in stock,” he says.

  “That’s okay. My, uh, friend has a big head.”

  “Uh-huh.” He shrugs and removes a pair from the case. He rolls them into a sheet of tissue, places them in a bag and says, “That’ll be thirty-three dollars and sixty cents.”

  “Thirty-three sixty? Oh. Right. I guess there’s tax.” I forgot about tax. I won’t have enough money left to take the bus home. I look at Shahid and remember he too had just enough for the bus. Past shakedowns for lunch money have trained us to carry the bare minimum. I peer hopefully into my wallet, but nothing extra has appeared.

  “Tell you what,” says the Watchman. “Seeing as you’re short of cash, if you’ll give me your story, I’ll forget the tax.”

  I flinch, then look at him narrowly. “How do you know I’m short of cash? And our story? What story?”

  “Kid, I couldn’t be in this business without knowing a thing or two about reading people. You guys are so obvious.” He sighs. “Let’s just say I like a good…story. If you want to save yourself the tax, tell me why you want the glasses. What are you planning to do?”

  I look at Shahid. He shrugs. Now that the Watchman has started talking, he doesn’t seem so bad. And this seems like a clear-cut bargain. So I tell him about Ella’s stolen sketchbook and Mr. Wilder.

  He doesn’t say a word the entire time. When I’m finished, he just stands there with a funny twitch in his throat. Then he reaches under the counter and pulls out a roll of Life Savers candy. He puts them in the bag with the sunglasses and says, “Thanks. That’ll be thirty dollars even.”

  I hand over the money and take the bag. “Uh. Thank you.”

  “Life Savers?” Shahid mutters.

/>   “I give them to my special customers,” the Watchman says. “Good luck, boys.”

  “Thanks,” we say together and leave. As the door closes behind us, we hear him almost-burping again. Loudly.

  Chapter Seven

  “Maybe we could try duct tape,” I say.

  “You want to tape them to my head?” Shahid’s voice is shrill. “No way.”

  When the Watchman told us the sunglasses were large, we should have asked how large. I don’t believe anybody has a head that big. These shades would be oversized on a gorilla. They make Shahid look like an alien. Or like those magnified pictures of houseflies with their big bulbous eyes. That wouldn’t be so bad, but if he makes the slightest movement, the glasses fall off.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Shahid says. “What if you wear them over your regular glasses? We could use twist ties to attach the arms together.”

  We try this, and it works—sort of. The only problem is that the frame of my regular glasses blocks the rearview mirror on the sunglasses. We make adjustments with the twist ties and lower the sunglasses so the mirror is visible below my frames.

  “All right.” I give Shahid thumbs-up. “Let’s practice.”

  We start practicing with my mother. She’s in the kitchen, talking on the phone. I back up to the doorway, and Shahid stands in front of me. The idea is that I’ll watch my mother in the mirror and tell Shahid what I see. He’ll watch her too and confirm that I’m seeing clearly.

  “All I can see is the ceiling,” I say. “The angle of the mirror is all wrong.”

  We retreat to our lab downstairs and adjust the twist ties again. This time, we raise the sunglasses so that the mirror sits above my regular frames.

  We return to the kitchen doorway and take up our places.

  “Now all I can see is the floor,” I complain.

  “Try lowering your head,” Shahid advises. “And raise only your eyes to the mirror.”

  I try this. “It’s a strain on my eyeballs, but I can see her,” I tell Shahid.

  “Excellent. What is she doing?”

  “She’s talking on the phone,” I report. “And now she’s…”

  “Angus?” Mom says. “What are you boys up to now? And why are you holding your head like that? Is something wrong with your neck?”

  “It’s fine, Mom,” I mutter. I straighten up to prove this and add, “We were just leaving.”

  Back in the lab, we’re silent for a time. I remove the sunglasses and catch Shahid gazing fondly at Gordon. Gordon doesn’t have eyes, but he has a pair of adapted webcams for visuals.

  “Maybe after we find Ella’s sketchbook,” I say, “we can put a reverse gear in Gordon. Then we can put the sunglasses on him so he’ll have a rearview mirror.”

  “You think?” Shahid grins. “That would be sweet.”

  I nod. “It would. But for now, what if we put a rubber band around your head to hold the sunglasses on?”

  The look on his face tells me he’s going to refuse. Briefly, I think I can read some things.

  “You could fluff your hair over the elastic so it wouldn’t be obvious,” I add.

  “Fluff my hair?”

  “You know what I mean. Comb it over. Whatever. Come on, Shahid. It’s only for a day or so. I’m sure the sunglasses will speed up the investigation. Then we can get back to work on Gordon.”

  “What about Ella?” he asks.

  “What about her?”

  “She might take…” He stops. He looks again at Gordon and sighs. “Fine. I’ll try the elastic.” He does, and we are operational.

  After Shahid has gone home, I email Ella a link to the site that exposes Mr. Wilder. I try to think of something clever to write as well, but I can’t. I simply sign the email Agent Angus and press Send.

  Immediately, I’m sick with regret. Agent Angus? How lame is that? What was I thinking?

  Nineteen minutes later—not that I was waiting and checking every minute or so—I receive a reply. My heart literally skips a beat as I see Ella’s name in my inbox. My hand trembles as I open the message. She writes:

  Hey Agent Angus,

  I’m happy 2 hear from u! It’s so great that u r helping me. Thank you! But i think u should check out this link to Mr. Wilder’s blog.

  C u soon!

  Ella

  I click on the link and read:

  Many years ago, I was accused of presenting another artist’s work as my own. Rightly so. I did place someone else’s painting in a gallery showing of my work. I did it because that artist begged me for this favor. She was young and fragile, and she was afraid to show her work. She feared the harsh comments of the critics. At the same time, she wanted to see if her work would be appreciated by others.

  Somehow, our trick was exposed. I made apologies. But since I refused further comment, many leapt to the conclusion that I’d stolen the work. She wanted me to save face and tell the world the truth, but I could not. You see, I was in love with her. I wanted to protect her. Eventually, I convinced her to be my wife. I took up teaching and delighted in spending time with creative young people. With summers free, my wife and I were able to travel North America and paint to our heart’s content. We enjoyed twenty blissful years together.

  Last fall, my wife passed away peacefully. Her peace came in part because I promised her I would at last tell the truth. So here I am, keeping that promise. Nothing further need be said.

  Sincerely,

  Kel Wilder

  Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. I feel like a first-class fool. How could I have been so wrong? I was certain that Mr. Wilder was a dirty rotten thief. In less than a day, I’d convinced myself and Shahid of this. I’d gone on to tell the Watchman and he too believed…something. Thinking about the Watchman reminds me of the Life Savers. The remainder of the roll is in my pocket. I pry off a candy and pop it in my mouth. I get lemon, my least favorite flavor.

  I deserve lemon. I am a lemon. I suck on the Life Saver and try to sort out my thoughts. I need to figure out where I went astray so I don’t do it again. It’s complicated, because I’m still in shock over how I misread Mr. Wilder. I’d built a false reality in my mind and—whoa! Maybe that’s what mentalists mean when they say reality is in our head?

  I call Shahid and tell him I’m a mentalist.

  He groans so loudly, I have to hold the phone away from my ear. When he finally stops, I get a chance to explain. He doesn’t respond right away. And then he says, “So I guess that’s it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re going to tell Ella the truth?”

  “Are you kidding?” I ask. “No. I’m going to find out who stole the sketchbook.”

  There’s another space of silence before Shahid speaks. “We’re going to spy on Gaga Girl, aren’t we?”

  He’s right. When isn’t he? “I’ll have a plan in place by tomorrow,” I say.

  Chapter Eight

  I may not know Gaga Girl, but I know where she hangs out. I’ve seen her at the skate park almost every day for the past month. I pass it on my way home from school. She is not a skater. She’s more like an accessory to skaters, because she simply stands about and looks decorative.

  I’m trying to convince Shahid that she also spends her weekends being decorative. “It stands to reason that she’ll be there on a Sunday,” I say. “People have habits, also known as patterns of behavior. Ergo, if she’s at the park after school, why not today too?”

  “Okay, okay. We’ll go,” Shahid says. His grumpy tone tells me he’s anything but okay with going.

  “Good man.” I make my tone cheery. “I’ll explain the plan in detail when we get there. For now, all you need to know is that you’ll be wearing the sunglasses, and I’ll be taking notes.”

  Shahid pesters me for the details all the way to the park. I refuse to tell him more. This isn’t really because I don’t have more details. It’s just that they’re unpredictable. I know our objective is to observe Gaga Girl. Then, if our observations show evid
ence of her guilt, we may have to interrogate her. I think that detail may worry Shahid. It’s best if I get him to the park first, then see what happens next.

  I tell him that we’ll approach the skate bowl from the west so we can take cover in the clump of trees on that side. All goes very well. We enter the shrubbery and edge forward until we’re almost through. I call a halt while we’re still concealed by low-hanging branches.

  “Wait here,” I hiss. “I’m going to see if I can spot her.”

  “You don’t need to whisper,” Shahid says. “Nobody will hear us.”

  He has a point. It’s a sunny afternoon, and the skaters are out in full force. The wheels on their boards rumble on the concrete surface and clatter on pipes. Music pumps from a stereo.

  I shrug and then shuffle over to a tree trunk. I hold on to it while craning my head until I have a clear view. I almost lose my grip on the tree when I spot our target.

  “There she is!”

  “No duh,” Shahid says. “I can see her from here.”

  The fact is, Rachel Stone is rather hard to miss. She got her nickname last year when she began dressing like (one assumes) her idol. Today is no exception. I decide to let go of the tree trunk and make notes.

  Suspect: Rachel Stone, alias Gaga Girl

  Description: Girl disguised as rainbow

  Height: Taller than me/shorter than Shahid

  Hair Color: Purple

  Distinguishing Features: Blue wing-style mask with curly tendrils protruding from tips. Shiny green cape, knee length. Brilliant yellow micro dress. Orange legs (difficult to tell if legs are painted or if she is wearing stockings). Red ankle boots.

  This is what I mean about her being decorative. Most days she’s satisfied with looking like she’s ready to go on stage. Days like today, when there’s an apparent theme, must take a lot of planning. Previous costumes have made her appear as a plant, a cloud and a rock.

  “What is she doing?” Shahid asks. “Is that a sketchbook?”

  “Huh?” I look up from my notes, and, sure enough, Rachel is holding something. Now it’s time for my plan to go into action. “Okay! Here’s what I want you to do, Shahid. See that low wall over there? The one just beyond where Rachel is standing?”