The Impossible Fortress(26)

“We’re working on a game,” I explained. “I told you I needed time.”

“My customers are getting impatient,” Alf said.

“What about Arnold Schwarzenegger?” I asked. “How do we pass a guard dog that sits in the window all night long?”

“We’re working on it,” Alf said. “We’ve got a couple ideas we’re testing.”

Street traffic was already thin by seven o’clock—most of the commuters were home for the night—so we all noticed when two cute girls came walking down the block. They were fifteen or sixteen years old, with short-shorts and skinny legs. I recognized them from Video City, the store where we rented our movies. Clark stuck his claw in his pocket, and I stared at my sneakers, pretending I was too busy to notice them. Alf dropped the Top Gun soundtrack into cassette deck one so that “Danger Zone” by Kenny Loggins came thumping out of the speakers. Then he reached in his pocket for a bankroll of wrinkled bills. It was an enormous wad of cash, about the size of a hockey puck, and he counted it casually as the girls sauntered past.

“Where did you get that?” I asked.

“I’m giving an early-bird discount,” he said proudly. Alf explained that fifteen of our classmates had already paid for their Vanna White photos in advance, with the understanding that the photos would arrive before the month ended.

I turned to Clark. “And you’re okay with this? Are you selling to early birds, too?”

He shook his head. “Naw, I just want a copy for myself,” he said softly. “But I don’t see the harm in it.”

Alf spread the bills into a giant fan of money, like he was Mr. Monopoly on a Chance card. Then he waved the bills in front of my face. “Smell the profit, Billy.”

I slapped the money away. “Do not spend it,” I warned him. “Not a penny.”

“Why not?”

“In case you have to give it back,” I said. “In case something goes wrong.”

“What could go wrong?” he asked.

I wasn’t ready to explain. I couldn’t tell him there was no chance of getting the alarm code, not yet. I needed to keep trying, or pretending to try, until The Impossible Fortress was complete and submitted to the contest.

“Anything could go wrong,” I said.

Almost on cue, a uniformed Wetbridge police officer rounded the corner of Market Street, walking toward us.

“It’s Tack,” Clark said. “Put the money away.”

“Where?” Alf asked.

“Don’t turn around!”

Tack’s real name was long, Polish, and impossible to pronounce; we all called him Tack because he reminded us of young, super gung ho Eugene Tackleberry in the Police Academy movies. At six foot four, he was the tallest cop on the Wetbridge Police Department. Twice a year he visited our high school to screen horrifying movies on the dangers of drugs, alcohol, and Communism; he warned that movies like Red Dawn “could really happen.” When he wasn’t educating the children of Wetbridge, he patrolled downtown wearing a Kevlar vest and papered windshields with five-dollar parking tickets.

“Evening, boys,” he said, shaking hands slowly and deliberately with each one of us. His grip left my hand feeling hollow and deflated, like a bike-tire flat. “Any signs of trouble tonight?”

This was his default greeting to all the little kids in Wetbridge; Tack warned there was an army of Dolph Lundgren clones just waiting to descend upon our town, and the patriotic youth of America were its last line of defense. At age fourteen we all felt like we were getting too old for this routine, but tonight we were happy to play along.

“No, sir,” I said.

“No sign of trouble,” Alf said.

“No Russkies for miles,” Clark added.

“I’m not talking Russkies,” Tack said. He gathered us into a huddle and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m being completely serious, boys. We had two attempted break-ins on Market Street last week. The pet store and the travel agency. Crowbar marks all around the back doors. Like someone tried to pry off the hinges.”

We were all too panicked to respond. I worried even the slightest phrase might betray what we’d been planning. The bankroll of cash created a very conspicuous lump in Alf’s Bermuda shorts, like he’d pocketed a tennis ball.

“And then last night someone broke a window at Video City. Ran off with a brand-new VCR and a bunch of those head-cleaning tapes. You boys hear anything about that?”

“No, sir,” Clark said.

“Nothing,” I added.

“But we’ll be on the lookout,” Alf promised. “Is there a reward if we catch the guy?”

“I’m sure they’d come up with something. The Merchants Association is freaking out. So city council has us doing night patrols until the ‘crime wave’ tapers off. Dusk till dawn. It’s costing a ton of overtime.”

“Dusk till dawn?” Clark asked.

“Our presence is what we call a deterrent. If a bad guy sees a police officer walking Market Street at four in the morning, he’s likely to think twice. That’s the idea, anyway. In the meantime I need you guys to keep your eyes peeled, understand? Let me know if you see anything squirrelly.”

We all promised to stay vigilant. Tack thanked us for our service to the community and insisted on shaking our hands again before heading on his way. He walked down Market Street and turned left at the train station; minutes later, he arrived on Lafayette, traversing the downtown shopping district in a figure-eight loop.