Lump (3 page)

"
Okay then, Roberta.
"
Buzz spun
out
of
his latest circle and biked off down the street.
"
Good luck
with that,
"
he called back over his shoulder.
"
Good luck with the
vandalism
.
"

 

*****

The sun was high
and hot
as Buzz rode to his next stop. It was lunchtime, or close enough
to make
his stomach growl. Luckily, there was plenty of food at his destination
, the Full Throttle convenience store
.

All he had to do was steal it.

Of course, there
was
the small problem of being
banned for life
from the place...but Buzz th
ought he had it licked
. As he rolled his bike into the Full Throttle lot, he saw several cars parked there, meaning the store had customers. Meaning
he
had cover.

Buzz dismounted his bike around the corner of the building and tipped it against the stucco wall. Then, he scooted back out front and waited.

When another car pulled up, and a new customer headed for the door, Buzz zipped over and followed her inside. He immediately
dashed
into his
special
"
sweet spot
"
--a
hiding place
between the coffee counter and doughnut
case
that was in a blind spot on the owner
'
s security mirrors.

Buzz hunkered down behind the coffee pots and peered at the front of the store.
As always, the owner stood at the front counter
in his
checkered-flag
"
Full Throttle
"
polo shirt
. His name was Owen Throttle, and Buzz knew him well.
..but not in a good way.
To say they
'
d had a few run-ins was like saying Buzz had egged a few houses.

In fact, Mr. Throttle
was the one who
'
d banned Buzz from the store for life.
..not that Buzz would let a little thing like a lifetime ban keep him out. If anything, it made him want to be in there even more.

His stomach growled again, and he thought about the doughnuts in the case beside him. First things first: there
'
d be plenty of time to talk to Mr. Throttle after lunch.

Ducking down, Buzz watched between coffee pots, waiting for his chance. When a customer stepped up to the
front
counter, a heavyweight man who blocked Mr. Throttle
'
s view, he made his move.

Buzz felt like a commando as he popped up, darted around the front of the case, and eased open the door.
On fire with adrenaline
, he grabbed a dark chocolate honey-glazed ring, shoved it in his mouth, and scooped out two more.

Gently closing the door, he dove back into his sweet spot just as the
heavyweight customer walked away from the counter. His heart was still rabbit-punching his ribcage as he crouched down and shoveled in sweet chocolate mouthfuls, dribbling crumbs everywhere.

When he
'
d finished the third doughnut and was thinking about running to the cooler for milk, he shot a glance at the front of the store...and froze.

The counter was empty. Mr. Throttle was gone.

Panic raced through Buzz
like a stampede of
buffalo wearing jet packs. Frowning, he stood all the way up, watching the front counter for signs of life. Maybe
Mr. Throttle was just hunkered down back there, cleaning something up or looking for cigarettes or lottery tickets. Maybe this was the perfect time f
or Buzz to snatch more doughnuts, or better yet snag candy or beer
or energy drinks
from adjacent aisles.

Cautiously, he stepped out of the sweet spot, craning his neck for a
glimpse of Mr. Throttle. Still nothing. Then, slowly, he tiptoed backward, ready to break for the candy aisle.

But something stopped him
. A hard object jabbed
the middle of his back,
keeping him from going any further.

Buzz spun, wondering what he
'
d walked into...and
quickly realized why he couldn
'
t see Mr. Throttle at the front counter.

"
Why hello there, Buzz.
"
It was because Mr. Throttle was standing behind him, pressing the
business end of an aluminum baseball bat into his back.
"
So nice of you to
stop by
, son.
"

Buzz, who was good at thinking on his feet under pressure, nodded and smiled.
"
Merry Christmas Eve, Mr. Throttle.
"

The dark brown skin of Mr. Throttle
'
s face creased into a smile of his own...a smile with an edge.
"
Please extend
my
condolences to your family, son.
"

Buzz scowled.
"
Why
?
"

"
Because you
must
be
dead
,
"
said Mr. Throttle.
"
Otherwise, you couldn
'
t come in here
since
I
banned
you for
life
.
"

Buzz laughed, pretending he was
n
'
t worried about the ball bat now staring him in the face.
"
That
'
s a
good
one, Mr. Throttle. That
'
s a real
side-splitter
.
"

"
More like a
head-splitter
if you don
'
t get
out
of here, son.
"
Mr. Throttle raised his bushy gray brows and waved the bat at the door.
"
Now
amscray
.
"

"
But aren
'
t you curious about why I
'
m here?
"
said Buzz.
"
Don
'
t you wonder what I came for?
"

"
Other than those
doughnuts
you wolfed down?
"

Buzz put on his best innocent angel face.
"
What doughnuts?
"

Mr. Throttle reached out and brushed chocolate honey-glazed crumbs off Buzz
'
s shirt.
"
The ones you
'
re
wearing
, Einstein
.
"

Buzz shrugged
and sighed
.
"
So do you want to hear about
the
deal or not?
"

"
Deal?
"
Mr. Throttle smirked.
"
Well you
know
I like a good deal.
"
He lowered the tip of the metal baseball bat to the floor with a
clink
.
"
Go on.
"

Buzz cleared his throat.
"
You know how you banned me for life, but
you still can
'
t get rid of me
? Well, what if I walk out of here today and never come back?
"

"
How about this instead?
"
Mr. Throttle tapped the bat on the floor at Buzz
'
s feet.
"
How about if
you run along home
as fast as you can
before the police get here?
"

Buzz tipped his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. He hadn
'
t heard Mr. Throttle calling the cops.
"
You
'
re bluffing.
"

Mr. Throttle winked.
"
What if I
'
m not?
"

Buzz got nervous but stood his ground. He wasn
'
t going to leave without getting what he came for.
"
So do you want to hear the rest of the deal?
"

Mr. Throttle checked his wristwatch.
"
If you think you
can get it all in before the cops get here, sure.
"

"
Okay then.
"
Buzz resisted the impulse to glance out the window to see if a cop cruiser had pulled up.
"
Here
'
s the deal. I
'
ll walk out of here and never come back...
"

"
For real?
"
said Mr. Throttle.

Buzz nodded, though he was lying through his teeth, and ribs, and kneecaps.
"
I
'
ll never come back, if you
'
ll just answer one question.
"

Mr. Throttle shrugged.
"
Depends on the question.
"

"
Have I done anything
nice
this year?
"
Buzz folded his arms over his chest.
"
That
'
s the question.
"

"
Well, that depends,
"
said Mr. Throttle.
"
Does
shoplifting
count as nice? What about switching price tags? Or opening packages and putting them back on the shelves?
"

Buzz listened, careful not to show any expression though he liked what he was hearing so far.

"
When you say
'
nice,
'
does that include peeing in the parking lot? Spitting in the coffee pots? Shaking up the soda bottles and beer cans so they
'
ll explode when people open them?
"

Buzz
really
had to fight to keep a proud smile off his face as the list went on. He loved being reminded of some of the high points of the year.

"
Does
'
nice
'
include
streaking
through the store? Letting in stray dogs? Telling hobos it
'
s a free beer Friday? Fishing for dumpster rats and tossing them in customers
'
cars?
"

Buzz had forgotten about the rats and hobos. He made a mental note to try those two again in future visits to the store.

"
If by
'
nice,
'
you mean doing everything you possibly can to make my life miserable, then yes.
"
Mr. Throttle rapped the bat on the toe of Buzz
'
s left sneaker.
"
Yes, you
'
ve been the nicest kid on Earth.
"

 

*****

After leaving Full Throttle, Buzz rode his bike around the neighborhood, searching for an answer. If Squealie, Mrs. Clementine, and Mr. Throttle couldn
'
t remember him doing anything nice, then who could?

The more he rode, the
less likely
it seemed that
anyone
had seen him act nice.
Every house he passed
had been the site of some kind of mischief or vandalism, bullying or
payback. The streets were like a hall of fame to him, bringing back sweet memories of crime and conflict that made him smile...but those memories only deepened the mystery of the missing lump.

By the time he got to Yellow Street, he was starting to think he
'
d never solve the puzzle. Maybe he
'
d go the rest of his life
without ever knowing what good deed he
'
d done.

Then, as he approached a low, gray house on an overgrown corner lot, he thought of something. The house belonged to old Mr. Bittermaker, one of Buzz
'
s favorite targets.

A few weeks ago,
as a prank,
Buzz had stolen garden gnomes, a
lawn jockey,
and a birdbath from several houses and set them up in Bittermaker
'
s
front yard. They'd been there ever since. Was it because Bittermaker
liked
them? Was
that
the one nice thing Buzz had done? Did it count even though he hadn't
meant
it to be nice?

Reenergized, Buzz pedaled faster, racing
toward old Bittermaker's place. As he got closer, he saw that the gnomes, lawn jockey, and birdbath were still in the front yard, right where he'd left them.

But something new was there, too. At the edge of the yard, next to the curb, was a bright orange sign suspended from a wire frame stuck in the ground.

Buzz had seen signs just like
it before, in front of other home
s in the neighborhood. It was a realtor sign with the words "House For Sale" in big white letters above the name of the biggest local real estate company, Grove and Peel.

Buzz stopped his bike at the curb and scowled at the sign and the house. Why was Bittermaker selling? Was he still living there until he found a buyer?

There was just one way to find out. Buzz rolled his bike up over the curb and parked it against the real estate sign, then headed for the front door. When he got to the welcome mat, he raised his index finger, aiming at the white button of the doorbell on the wall.

Before he could ring it, he heard a car pulling up and the honk of a horn. Whirling, he saw a sea foam green BMW barrel into the grass-and-gravel driveway
alongside the house
.
The driver honked again as he rolled down his window.

The face of a pudgy man with tightly curled black hair and a gray mustache appeared in the window, yelling in his direction. "Can I help you with something, kid?"

Buzz got nervous and ready to run. Who knew where this was going? "I just came to see Mr. Bittermaker. I want to ask him about something."

"Max Bittermaker doesn't live here anymore," said the man in the Beemer. "So unless you're interested in buying the place, you better get rolling."

Buzz scowled and scratched his chin. "Well, where
does
he live then? Where can I find him?"

The man narrowed his eyes with suspicion. "Who wants to know?"

"Ellis Fingerling, sir," said Buzz, using Squealie's name as a cover...and his best innocent angel voice. "We play pinochle once a week, sir. I'd hate to miss a game."

The man kept staring at Buzz, then seemed to make his mind up and sighed. "Well, he
does
need all the friends he can get right now. He's not doing so good."

A strange, cold feeling rippled through Buzz. "Not good how?"

"He's
sick
, kid. Moving-out-of-his-house sick. And he ain't coming back."

The cold feeling got worse. "Where?" said Buzz. "Where is he?"