“My father has some money.”
They exchanged sly glances. “I don’t know,” MONSTER said. “This here is a very valuable dog. Worth a whole lotta bread, right?” The others nodded, their faces long, their eyes glittering. “I doubt your old man has that kinda bread. This here dog has his papers and all.” At this, they went into gales of laughter, shouting, doubling over, thumping each other. “Papers!” they shouted gleefully.
Guy took a couple of secret steps backwards, toward the street. “How much?” he said. “Tell me how much and I’ll get it.”
The one with the gums said, suddenly calm, “A thousand.”
“I’d say more like two.” They all had ceased to smile. Their eyes were small and hostile.
“Maybe we better have a conference,” the mustached one said, biting his fingernails.
“Yeah,” the other two agreed. “But first, we better tie him up so’s he don’t get lost,” the one with the gums said.
Tie who up? Him? Or the dog? Or both?
The rope was as thick as Guy’s wrist. They meant him.
“Let’s take him back in the woods and tie him to a tree,” MONSTER said. “That way, we’re sure he don’t get loose.”
They began to argue about where he should be tied up. When that was settled, they argued about who would do the tying. Their voices rose. They forgot everything else—Guy, the dog, everything. The stick was within reach, Guy realized. He put out his arm, remembering the girl on television, smaller than he, who had broken a bare board with her hands. This stick was his weapon, his only one.
“What is this? Will you looka the little tiger!” In a body, argument forgotten, they came at him. Guy swung the stick and landed a lucky, finger-tingling blow on the side of MONSTER’S face. A string of swear words came from MONSTER’S throat and he fell to one knee. Crouching, circling, the other two came at Guy, one to the right, the other to the left. In a panic, Guy kept swinging, not knowing what else to do. Once the stick stopped moving, he’d had it.
Thunk! He felt a terrible sharp pain. Something had hit him on the back of his head. He let out a yelp of pain, heard someone say, “What’d ya have to go and do that for?” and another voice said “Cops!” and that was all. That was the last he remembered.
Chapter Twenty
“Lucky the kid has a lot of hair.”
Guy opened his eyes. His head hurt. Eyes as blue and shiny as two marbles stared down into his.
“You all right, kid?” The policeman held out a cup of water and Guy drank some. His head felt like a balloon with too much air in it—swollen, light, ready to take off and fly high.
A second policeman knelt to inspect the back of Guy’s head. “Three to one and them big as any man, and they bean the kid with a rock.” He shook his head.
Guy sat up.
“Where’s the dog?” he said.
“In the car. He’s a little shook up, you might say, but he’ll be fine. He’s only a pup. Is he yours?”
Guy shook his head. Something seemed to be loose in it.
“No,” he said. “I wish he was.”
“Try standing, son.” The blue-eyed policeman helped Guy to his feet. “Anything broken?” He ran an expert hand over Guy to see if he was in one piece. “Can you walk?”
“Sure.” Guy tottered a few steps. He felt like lying down again. Most of all, he wanted to go home.
“We’ll run you home now,” the other policeman said, as if he’d read Guy’s mind. “Just check in so’s your folks won’t worry. Imagine they’re already worried, you not home and it suppertime already.”
Guy looked at the police car parked at the curb.
“Am I going home in that?” he said.
“What else? Hop in.”
Guy smiled. He was going home in a police car.
“We’ll drop you off, then run the pooch over to the Humane Society,” the policeman said. “They’ll fix him up good as new.”
The dog lay on the back seat. Its eyes were closed. Its sides were moving as it breathed slowly, in and out. Guy got in the front seat, sandwiched between the two policemen.
“Where to, chief?”
Guy looked up at them. They meant him.
“Twenty-two Hot Water Street,” he said. The car pulled out. They were on the way.
“Hot Water Street, huh?” the blue-eyed cop grinned. “They’ll think you’re in hot water for sure when they see you coming home in this.”
Guy’s heart hammered. That’s what he hoped.
“Excuse me, sir, but do you think you could make your light go?”
“Sure thing. I can even turn on the siren, if you want.”
Guy thought that over. “No thanks, just the light would be neat.”
The patrol car turned into Hot Water Street. Guy closed his eyes tight. Oh Lord, please let them see me, he prayed. Let Becca see me. Please let a bunch of kids be hanging around. Let them all see me. Please, Lord. I won’t ask for anything else if you’ll just let that happen.
The Lord must’ve heard. Three boys whizzed by on bikes, then turned to stare as the police car slowed, blue lights flashing.
“Which house is yours?” the blue-eyed cop said.
“That one,” Guy pointed. He saw Becca in the front yard. She and a friend were playing fairy princess. Becca had just made a deep curtsey when the car pulled up and came to a stop.
“Not just a little siren?” the policeman asked again. “Just to make ’em sit up and take notice?”
“Well, okay,” Guy said. “But only a little.”
The cop flicked a switch. The siren sounded very loud to Guy. Becca froze. Her friend clapped her hands over her ears and ran behind the big maple tree. The three boys on bikes stood on the sidewalk across from Guy’s house, waiting.
First the driver got out. Then the other policeman. Then came Guy.
Becca’s hand flew toward her mouth. Then she ran to the house, screaming, “It’s Guy! It’s Guy! The policeman brought Guy home!”
Becca had some loud voice. Guy had never realized how loud it was until now. He smiled, listening to her.
Across the street the three kids on bikes watched, their mouths hanging open. Up and down the block people came out and stood watching. It wasn’t every day a police car, lights flashing, siren sounding, delivered someone to his front door on Hot Water Street.
“What’s going on here?” Guy’s father came to the door, glasses pushed up on his forehead, newspaper in his hand.
“Your boy got into some trouble, sir,” the blue-eyed policeman said.
“My boy never gets into trouble,” Guy’s father said firmly. “He’s a good boy. A very good boy. Never caused his mother or me a speck of trouble.”
“He is a good boy,” the policeman agreed. “And a brave one, too.” Then he told what had happened to Guy. And the dog. By this time Guy’s mother and grandmother were gathered around, listening. Guy’s mother insisted on inspecting his head and then called the doctor to make an appointment to bring Guy to see him. The cut on Guy’s head had stopped bleeding; it wasn’t even very deep.
“Like I said, it’s good your boy has such a fine head of hair,” the policeman said. “Acted as padding when they walloped him.” Then he took out his notebook and wrote down everything Guy could remember about the MONSTER, the one with the gums, and the one with the mouse mustache. That’s the way Guy thought of it, the mouse mustache.
“All right, that’s everything, then.” The policeman put away his notebook. “We’re going to run the pooch over to the Humane Society, see what they can find.” He tipped his hat to the crowd. “I’ll be in touch.”
For the first time, Guy’s grandmother spoke.
“What will happen to the dog?” she said.
The cop shrugged. “Hard to say. Dog’s got no license, no identification tags of any kind. Probably a stray. Chances are they’ll put it up for adoption. If no one claims it after a certain length of time, well …” The cop shrugged again.
Guy’s grandmother, dark eyes gleaming, looked hard at Guy.
“I want that dog,” he heard himself say. “It’s like the dog I wanted all along. I think it’s the one I wanted. It’s a really nice dog. Just the right size. I bet he’d never make a mess or chew things or anything. He’d be a good watchdog too.” Guy looked up at his mother and father.
“Well.” Guy’s father cleared his throat. “I guess that could be arranged. Thank you, officer. We’ll call the Humane Society within the next few days, see how things stand.”
The policemen tipped their hats.
“Good luck, son,” the blue-eyed one said to Guy. By this time, quite a crowd had gathered, wondering what was going on. The policemen got back into their car and, lights flashing, drove away.
“Come in, Guy, let me have a good look at you,” Guy’s mother said. As he turned to go in, he heard Becca say in her loud voice, “Oh, it’s my brother. He got into trouble and the police had to bring him home. His name is Guy. Yes, he’s my brother. He’s eight. Yes, his name is Guy. He’s eight. He got into trouble. Yes, he’s …”
Guy smiled. If Becca had anything to do with it, everyone in town would know who Guy Gibbs was.
Chapter Twenty-one
“So there I am, my father’s driving me to school, and all of a sudden the radio announcer says, ‘An eight-year-old boy fought off three hoodlums yesterday in an effort to rescue a stray dog the hoodlums were holding captive. The boy, Guy Gibbs of Hot Water Street, told police the dog was being tortured by the three and he …’ blah, blah, blah,” said Isabelle, filling in for what she couldn’t remember.
“So I said, ‘That’s Guy!’ and my father says, ‘Unh huh,’ the way he does when he’s not really listening. When I got to school I told Mrs. Esposito and she said I could run down to Guy’s room and check. His teacher said he’d be in later, that his mother called and she was taking him to the doctor. You don’t think there could be two eight-year-old boys both named Guy Gibbs living on Hot Water Street, do you?” Isabelle said.
“I doubt it,” Jane Malone answered. “Probably his mother had to take him to the doctor because he lost a lot of blood.”
“Guy lost a lot of blood? My gosh, I can’t believe it. That little weasel. Why wasn’t I along? If I was there, I could’ve pinned their ears back. I could’ve helped Guy. I miss all the good things. Boy, they’ll never call him a goody-goody again.” Isabelle’s eyes widened and she clutched Jane’s arm. “You don’t think Guy’s gonna die or anything, do you?”
“Of course not,” Jane said in her practical way. “I like that word ‘hoodlum.’ Hoodlum. It sounds just like what it is. Hoodlum.” Jane was getting carried away by the word. Jane was a word person, always trying out new words.
“Isabelle,” Jane said, “can you come—”
But Isabelle was distracted by the sight of Herbie, staggering under a load of books and papers. “Hey, Herb!” she hollered. Jane flinched and stuck a finger in each ear. “You hear about Guy getting rescued by the cops yesterday?”
“Guy?” Herbie said vaguely. As if he’d never heard of Guy. “What happened? Did they have a shoot-out?”
Isabelle stopped moving. Hands, eyes, legs, arms, feet, all came to a dead halt. “A shoot-out?” she said. “My gosh, maybe they did. Maybe that’s why Guy lost so much blood.”
“He lost blood?” Now she had Herbie’s full attention. “Maybe we oughta go down to the hospital and offer to give him blood. You know what your blood type is? Maybe it won’t match Guy’s. Maybe mine will.”
Herbie screwed up his face. “I never gave blood. I’m scared it might hurt. How much blood did Guy lose?”
“Hey, slow down, Herb,” Isabelle urged. “He’s gonna be all right. He’s at the doctor’s now, but he’ll be in school later on. You wanna fight at my house today?”
“I can’t,” Herbie said. “Got too much to do. My assistant editor is coming over after school. We gotta make plans. He—”
“Your assistant editor!” Isabelle’s voice rang out. People turned to stare. “Your assistant editor!” she screeched. “I thought I was your assistant editor! What goes on?”
Herbie looked embarrassed. “Well, Chauncey called up and said he would be my assistant editor on account of he voted me into the job in the first place. So I said okay. So Chauncey’s my assistant editor.” Herbie looked at the floor, not willing to meet Isabelle’s indignant gaze.
“Well, all right for you. That’s the last time I offer to help you, Herbie. Fine pal you are. I said I’d be your right-hand man. All right for you, Herb.”
Chauncey came chugging up to Herbie. “Meet me outside right after the bell goes,” Chauncey directed, looking at his watch. “We have a tight schedule. I’m trying to line up a photographer. It’s not gonna be easy, though. Remember”—again Chauncey checked his watch—“right after the bell rings. Outside.” Chauncey chugged away.
“Boy, you got your work cut out for you, Herb. I’ll say that. I bet you’ll wind up in the booby hatch with that guy on your side.”
“You’re just jealous, Isabelle,” Herbie said with dignity. “You’re jealous because you’re not the assistant editor.”
“That’s what you think!” Isabelle cried. “Next time you want somebody to fight with, try fighting with your assistant editor. That oughta be a barrel of laughs. Don’t forget who your friends were before you were somebody. That’s all I’ve got to say. Just don’t forget who your friends were before you turned famous.”
“Isabelle, can you come—” Jane Malone said. And stopped talking.
“Can I come where?” Isabelle demanded.
Jane looked around. “Are you listening to me?” she asked.
“Sure,” said Isabelle.
“Well, my mother said I could ask a friend to come to stay at my house for dinner and the night on Saturday,” Jane said. “And I picked you. My father might take us to the movies and to McDonald’s after. Can you?”
Isabelle was stunned. Never before had she been asked to Jane’s house. “Can I!” she cried. “I would very much love to come to your house, Jane.”
“That’s good.” Jane smiled. “Ask your mother when you go home today, all right? Then call me up and tell me.”
“Sure.” Isabelle punched Jane gently on the arm. “Sure,” she said again, smiling at Jane.
I didn’t even know she liked me that much, Isabelle thought. Jane is my best friend.
The thought warmed her.
Chapter Twenty-two
“Tell me what happened right from the beginning,” Isabelle directed.
“Well, first, I went to Mrs. Stern’s house and she wasn’t home, so I hid in the bushes and watched when Philip delivered the paper and then—”
“I don’t mean that beginning,” Isabelle said impatiently. “I mean when the hoodlums got you. Start there.”
So Guy told her about picking the violets and about the one saying “Hello, dere” to him and not letting go of him. About MONSTER and the other two. About the cigarette and the smell of burning and the tin can tied to the dog’s tail.
“Then they said they were gonna tie me up while they planned how much money they wanted for the dog,” Guy said. “And I thought about you and what you’d do, and so I started swinging the big stick, which was the only weapon I could find, and then they knocked me out.”
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” Isabelle wailed. “Oh, why didn’t you!” She had missed the biggest excitement she might ever know.
“I did,” Guy said simply. “You said you were real busy when I asked you if you’d thought of anything. But I waited anyway. When you didn’t come, I decided to go to Mrs. Stern’s by myself. To ask her about the paint.”
He was right. She had said that.
“Guy,” she said. “You know what?”
“No. What?”
“You did it yourself,” she said. “You kept asking and asking if I’d think of a way to make them stop teasing you, calling you all those names and every
thing. And you did it all by yourself. Don’t you see?”
A smile broke across Guy’s face slowly. “You’re right,” he said. “I did.”
“Excellent. Excellent,” Isabelle told him, holding up the index finger on each hand and jitterbugging around him in a complete circle.
“Hi, Guy. You wanna come over my house after school? My cat had two more kittens. You can come see ’em if you want.”
“Hello, Bernie. She did! Neat-o. Sure, I’ll come.”
“What’s that on the back of your head?” Bernie asked. “You cut yourself?”
Guy looked at Isabelle. “I was in an accident,” he said.
“That’s my friend Bernie,” Guy said. “He’s in my class. His cat had kittens while he was eating a piece of toast in the kitchen.”
“Jane Malone asked me to come stay overnight Saturday. We’re going to the movies and to McDonald’s after,” Isabelle said.
“What’re you gonna have at McDonald’s?” Guy asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I always plan what I’m gonna have ahead of time,” Guy confided. “If I don’t, I get too confused when the girl asks me and I always pick something I don’t like. So I write down what I want on a little piece of paper, and that way I know exactly what I’m gonna get.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Isabelle said.
“They said I could keep the dog,” Guy told Isabelle. “He doesn’t have a license or anything. They said if nobody owned it, I could keep it.”
“Terrific. What’re you gonna call it?” Isabelle said.
“Jake,” said Guy, looking at her, eyes glistening. ‘I’m calling it Jake.”
“What if it’s a girl?”
“If it’s a girl,” Guy said slowly, “I’m calling it Isabelle. I already decided.”
“Isabelle?”
“Sure. It even sort of looks like you,” Guy said.
“Cool,” said Isabelle, without enthusiasm.
“Sure. It’s got brown eyes and brown hair, like you.”
Isabelle Shows Her Stuff: The Isabelle Series, Book Two Page 8