Jack's Black Book by Jack Gantos

Author:Jack Gantos [Gantos, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-374-43716-9
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)
Published: 1997-10-05T04:00:00+00:00

Four

In the morning Pete and I got up extra-early and rode our bikes down to the beach before the crowds arrived. I went just in case the typewriter had finally washed up. Pete went with me because it was the only time he could take a swim and keep his eyes open.

I held his blind-boy getup and camera, and was picking through the flotsam and jetsam when in front of me a huge mound of sand was beginning to move around.

“Oh, my God,” I shouted. “A monster!”

An arm emerged and wiped a wad of sand away and I saw a single giant eye blinking at me. I took Pete’s stick and jabbed it right where the creature was sizing me up.

“Argh!” it growled and rose up onto all fours. Then, before I could get my feet in gear, it stood up and shivered like a dirty dog. When the sand flew off I recognized the convict who threw my typewriter in the ocean. He must have been hiding from the law disguised as a giant sand slug.

He covered his sore eye with one hand and stared out at me with his other. “You again!” he shouted. “You still owe me ten bucks, and I need it now more than ever.”

“Hurry,” I called to Pete as I began to back up.

Pete ran through the surf until he circled behind me and then we turned and dashed up to Atlantic Avenue. I looked for the convict but he gave up on us and was just splashing around in the surf, trying to wash the sand out of his eye. If he had used my postcards he probably wouldn’t be having this problem, I thought.

I gave Pete his blind-boy supplies and camera, and a twenty-dollar bill for film. “Go get breakfast at the Cuban-Chinese restaurant and I’ll meet up with you in an hour.”

“Can I order a dinner?” he asked. “Betsy’s cooking really stinks.”

“Anything you want,” I said. “Knock yourself out. Just be there when I return.”

I watched as Pete safely stepped out into the oncoming traffic. Tires screeched and horns blared as he tapped his way across the street. Then I made my way down to Madame Ginger’s tent.

“Good morning,” she said, as she wrapped her turban in circles around her bald head. “You’re a little early.” The gold silk was so tight it pulled her eyes up at an angle. She looked like a plump Siamese cat. “I can wait,” I said. I took a seat and examined her crystal ball. I was hoping to see where the convict went, or if Pete was spending my twenty on tourist junk. But I didn’t see anything except for tiny bubbles of air trapped in the glass.

After she tucked the loose end into a seam behind her head, she leaned forward and inserted her mirrored contact lenses.

“Okay.” She sighed, and poured herself a cup of coffee from a thermos. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I need to know more about the upside-down leg,” I said, and shot my palm out.

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