Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man by Wendelin Van Draanen

Author:Wendelin Van Draanen [Draanen, Wendelin Van]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-375-89045-1
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 1998-09-25T04:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

I didn’t want another conversation with Officer Borsch, but I didn’t know what else to do. The toaster had to be connected to the Skeleton Man somehow, but I sure didn’t know how.

And I’m walking along, thinking about killers and toasters and how Chauncy would probably rather die than tell the police that he thinks his brother tried to do him in, when I notice these two men arguing on the other side of the street.

I know it’s none of my business what these two guys are pointing and yelling about, but I slow way down anyway, and pretty soon I’m practically stopped, listening to them. They’re both about the same age, but one of them looks like he changes oil for a living, and the other—well, I’d bet what’s left of my high-tops that he has a closet full of ties and a cell phone in his car.

Mr. Cell Phone’s yelling, “Look, park them in your garage, park them in your driveway, put them down the street somewhere, but don’t put them in front of my house! You’re breaking an ordinance and you know it. This is not commercial property. If you want to run a used car lot, rent yourself a spot across town!”

I look around and, sure enough, there are about ten old beat-up cars right around the Oil Man’s house. He wipes his hands on a rag. “I ain’t breaking any ordinance. You’ve had the cops down here so many times you ought to know that by now.”

“That’s because you move them right before they get here!” Cell Phone rubs his forehead and says, “Look. Please. I’m trying to sell this house, and it just won’t move with your cars parked out front.”

Oil Man sneers and says, “Sorry, buddy. That’s your problem, not mine,” then walks away.

You can tell from the way Cell Phone’s hands are turning into fists that he’d like to make it his problem, but he just marches back up to his own house and slams the door.

I start walking again, and I’m about a block from the police station when something starts rattling around in my brain. At first it’s kind of quiet—just a little rumble. But before you know it, it’s like a gorilla up there, shaking a cage. And when the cage busts open, I quit walking to the police station and cut over to the mall to find a phone booth.

I flip through the realty section of the yellow pages, trying to remember the name on the sign. I know it’s Sunrise or Sunshine … Sun-something, so I keep on looking until I find it: Sunset Realty.

When a woman answers the phone, I pinch my nose and say, “There’s a house on Orange Street? Six twenty-nine East Orange? Can you tell me a little about it?”

I listen to her it’s-a-darling-three-bedroom-starter-home-with-the-feel-of-real-country-living spiel, and when she comes up for air I ask, “Has it been on the market long?”

What does she say? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I slap the phone and say, “Hello? Are you still there?”

“Um, yes.

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