The Prizewinners of Piedmont Place by Bill Doyle

Author:Bill Doyle
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2016-07-12T04:00:00+00:00

“We’re famous!” Cal said. “Come on, let’s try a Talaska!”

“Those sandwiches are eight bucks,” Mr. T. said. “We’re not the Moneybag family, buddy.”

“I got this one,” Cal said, shaking his piggy bank, which he had brought from home. It sounded a little lighter than he remembered. “Well, we might have to split it, but it will be fun. Come on.”

As the Talaskas went into the diner, Alison Mangan’s dad walked out. Cal said hello, and Mr. Mangan nodded. From outside the big window, Mr. Mangan watched the Talaskas and quickly pulled out his cell phone before heading down the street.

Cal looked for James, but he was out with Ms. Donegan in the food truck. The Talaskas did run into the MacGuires, who yelled, “Why, hello!” as if real heroes had just entered the diner. And there was Mrs. Moylan sitting at the counter. She shook Mr. and Mrs. T.’s hands, smiling and wishing them luck with the contest. She didn’t seem worried about supporting them now.

A few minutes later, the Talaskas took a seat in a booth, and a waitress came to take their order. Her name tag read MELINDA.

“We’ll have five Talaskas, please,” Cal said, counting his change on the table. “No, wait. Better make that three Talaskas, please.”

“Talaska? What’s that?” Melinda asked in a bored voice. “I don’t think we have that.”

Mrs. T. smiled. “We’re friends of Ms. Donegan’s,” she said. “She named a sandwich after us. It’s out on the sign.”

Melinda leaned back to look outside. “I don’t see that, sweetie,” she said. Cal half stood so he could see the sign. And it was true—someone had wiped the name of the Talaska sandwich off the board.

Then he saw a man walking up to their table, clapping his hands together and sending clouds of chalk dust into the air. Cal could guess whom Mr. Mangan had been calling in such a hurry.

Mr. Wylot.

“Hello, Nelson,” Mr. Wylot said to Cal’s dad. He was a little out of breath, like he had hustled over to the restaurant. “I see you have time for lunch, but not work.”

“It’s Saturday—” Mr. T. started to say.

“Oh, Nelson, I’m just joking,” Mr. Wylot said. He put his chalky hands on the table. “In fact, I’m here with good news that couldn’t wait until Monday. I’m giving you a job in the new plant we’re building on the outskirts of the Mojave Desert.”

Cal gasped, and Imo sputtered, “What?”

People at other tables looked their way.

“I was inspired to make the decision by something my beautiful daughter Leslie told me,” Mr. Wylot said, and winked at Cal. “The job is scheduled to start immediately. I have a ten-year contract right here.” He took a stack of papers out of his shoulder bag and smacked them down on the table. “Nelson Talaska, this contract will keep you in accounting for the rest of your life! Isn’t that amazing?”

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