December Park(141)

In the office, I punched in Scott’s phone number and prayed that he’d answer.

“Yeah?” It was his sister, sounding irritated and snapping gum.

“Is Scott there?”

An exasperated sigh. Kristy shouted Scott’s name, then stayed on the line chewing her gum until Scott picked up the extension. Without a word, she hung up.

“It’s me. Are you busy? I need your help.”

“Sure,” he said.

“You’ve got the walkie-talkies?”

“They’re charging upstairs in my room.”

“They’ve got enough juice to put ’em to work?”

“I guess so. What’s up?”

I told him about the cop. “And now he’s sitting in his car in the alley across the street. He’s been watching us. I think he’s waiting for me to leave work.”

“Holy shit. Angie, this is some serious shit. You want me to get ahold of your dad?”

“That won’t do any good. Can you get out here and bring those walkie-talkies?”

“Yeah. What are you thinking?”

“If he follows me home, you follow him.”

“That’s great. All right, I’m in.”

“But don’t come alone. Go get Michael or Peter.”

“Michael’s finishing his homework and Peter’s doing chores.”

“Then get Adrian.”

“Adrian doesn’t have a bike, and I’m not wobbling around with him on my handlebars. I’ll just come by myself.”

“Okay. But be careful.”

“I wish I had a bazooka,” he said and hung up.





Scott arrived at the store at a quarter to five. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder and his Orioles hat pulled down over his eyes.

Callibaugh, who was counting inventory on one of the shelves, glanced at him with frank suspicion. For the past twenty minutes, Callibaugh had been telling me I could go home early. I said that I wanted to finish up some work before I left, which amounted to me scrubbing the hardened gobbets of model glue off the countertop.

“I saw the police car in the alley when I rode by,” Scott said, setting his backpack on the counter. “It’s still there. Are you sure it’s the same cop?”

“Of course.”

Scott unzipped the backpack, slid out one of the walkie-talkies, and handed it to me.

“You hang out at the opposite end of the block,” I told him. “When I come out and if the cop car follows, get behind him. But keep some distance, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We can keep in contact with each other on these,” I said, holding up the walkie-talkie.

“How are you gonna ride your bike home and talk on that thing at the same time without this cop wondering what the heck is going on?”

It was a good question. I hadn’t thought of that. “Give me your hat,” I said.

Scott took his hat off, his wiry brown hair popping up like mattress springs, and passed it to me.

I wrapped it around the walkie-talkie. It concealed the body of the handheld; only the antenna poked out.

“I guess that’s good enough,” he said.

“Just be careful and don’t get caught,” I warned him.

“This guy’s gotta be the Piper, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s no other excuse.” He peered out the window. “He’s been there all day?”

“I don’t know,” I said again.

“You think he followed you to Stanton?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he picked me up on my way back. I was riding too fast and wasn’t paying attention.”

“What if he’s got our statue head right there in his police car?”

“Don’t go looking for trouble. Just stick to the plan.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Scott grumbled. As he dragged his backpack off the counter, he accidentally knocked one of Callibaugh’s model ships to the floor, where it broke into half a dozen small plastic pieces.

“Oh shit,” I groaned, staring across the store at Callibaugh, who stared back at me with eyes like dinner plates.

Scott bent down, picked up the pieces, and set them atop the counter. “Sorry, man,” he said to me just as Callibaugh marshaled right up behind him. Scott spun around and looked at Callibaugh’s incredulous face. “Sorry, sir,” Scott said to him.

“After a history of noble battles,” said Callibaugh, “the ill-fated USS Monitor is finally, sadly decommissioned.”

“That’s the CSS Virginia, sir,” Scott said.

Callibaugh’s gray eyebrows triggered back and forth. “You speak nonsense.”

“The Monitor had a flat freeboard with only the turret and pilothouse sticking up.” Scott pointed to the broken model. “This ship’s hull is more triangular, like the Virginia.”

Callibaugh made a sound way back in his throat that approximated a grunt of approval. “Well, then, it is the ill-fated Virginia that is finally, sadly decommissioned.”

“The Virginia wasn’t decommissioned. It was blown up off the coast of Craney Island during the Civil War,” Scott informed him.

Callibaugh smiled sourly. “Go home.” He gathered up the remnants of his poor warship and retreated to his office, presumably to resurrect the great ship with some modeling glue and tenderness.