The Mutual Admiration Society(2)
I told her, “Thank you,” even though my knees buckled under the weight of Modern Detection and I had 0% interest in reading the darn thing, but what choice did I have? I had to keep up my front.
I almost sprained my arm pulling home the nine regular-sized mystery books and the other giant one Miss Peshong gave me in my Radio Flyer wagon, but I knew that baby-smelling librarian meant well, so I didn’t hold it against her. I also knew that she would ask me what I thought of Modern Detection the next time I stopped by the Finney, because she had to, if I wanted the book to count for the Billy the Bookworm contest, which I did. So to have at least a little something to make her believe that I’d read it, I reluctantly cracked it open that night, but in no time at all . . . I found myself flipping through those pages with fingertips that felt on fire! And at Mass the next morning, I went ahead and said a few Hail Marys for Miss Peshong, because it was thanks to her that I learned I could play both sides of the fence. I could steal a cake and eat it, too!
Due to extenuating circumstances—my mother—I hadn’t found the time to finish the book that has turned out to be such an eye-opening life changer, but I had learned in Chapter Two of Modern Detection that when it came to crime, it was extremely important for me to arrive at the scene of it sooner rather than later. So I snatched the double-Dutch jump rope from the closet, knotted it to the bedpost, and got ready to climb out of my bedroom window. The second my feet hit the ground, I was going to run across our backyard to the black iron fence that surrounds Holy Cross Cemetery and monkey over it faster than King Kong scaling the Empire State Building to do some gumshoeing.
On the other hand—I’ve come to learn that there is always another hand to slap you around, usually about the time you’re feeling like you got the world by the tail—no matter how much my detecting mind was telling me that heading over to the cemetery in the dead of night was a swell idea, my guts were reminding me about that other famous saying, “Haste makes waste,” which means a person should never be too fast to act or they could end up holding the shit end of the stick.
Believe me, if I coulda, I woulda shaken awake my sleeping sister so we could snoop at the cemetery together, but since there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in h-e-double-hockey-sticks that I could get Birdie up and running at that hour of the night—she has never been much of a night owl—it was just me and my churning tummy that wrestled my trusty Roy Rogers flashlight out from under the mattress, slid Daddy’s lucky Swiss Army Knife from under my pillow, and got down to business.
Watching my father die taught me the most important lesson I’ll ever learn in life—BE PREPARED—so I was already wearing my regular snooping clothes—black shorts, a navy-blue T-shirt that matches my eyes, and filthy white sneakers—when I slid my always nicked-up legs out of our bedroom window, shot a quick look over at Holy Cross to plan the quickest route to where I thought the voice and the scream might’ve come from, and . . . and . . . lo and behold! In the glow of one of the flickering streetlights alongside the road that snakes through the cemetery, I caught sight of a guy slithering through the gravestones with what looked like a limp body in his arms seconds before he disappeared behind Mr. Gilgood’s mausoleum!
FACT: That tall, thin man definitely wasn’t Mr. Howard Howard.
PROOF: Due to my weekly surveillance of his Precious Gems and Jewelry store on North Ave. that I might have to heist someday if things go from bad to worse around here, I’ve watched the stumpy owner lock up his shop and waddle next door to Dinah’s Diner dozens of times to stuff his mouth with jelly donuts and wash them down with a cup of joe with three sugars.
So there I was, all set to sleuth after that mystery man and the no-longer-screaming gal he was lugging around, when my wiggle over the windowsill was stopped in its tracks by even more suspicious noises ripping out of the black, velvety night. Not more shouting or another screech coming out of the cemetery. These sounds hit even closer to home and were even more blood-curdling. Elvis Presley was warbling about a hound dog out of a car radio, and then the hot rod that belongs to our mother’s new boyfriend laid squealing rubber down Keefe Ave.
12:21 a.m. I barely had enough time to scramble back into bed and yank the sheet up to my chin before our mother, Louise Mary Fitzgerald Finley, came through the front door of our two-story wooden house that looks about the same as most of the other two-story wooden houses that beam out in blocks from St. Catherine’s Church and School like rays on a holy card.
After Louise turned on the bathroom light so she could swipe off her makeup with Noxzema cream and tinkle out the beer she wet her whistle with at Lonnigan’s Bar, she kicked her red high heels off in front of the Finley sisters’ bedroom door. All she probably wanted to do was hit the hay after her big fat date, but she had to make sure that Birdie and me weren’t sneaking around the neighborhood the way we do any time we get the chance, because she’s got something she wants really bad and she’s worried our “shenanigans” might screw it up for her. (For a gal who blew out twenty-nine candles on her last birthday cake, our mother is such a sucker. She’s fallen for the old stuff-pillows-under-your-sheet prison trick at least six times. In the last month.)
Of course, I kept my eyes shut when she came to the side of our bed, but I knew she was looking down at Birdie and me. I could smell the beer and peanuts wafting off her, the same way they did when Daddy would come home from working his late-night shift at Lonnigan’s. Only he wouldn’t stand next to our bed and sigh. “Good Time Eddie” Finley would belly flop onto the mattress between my sister and me, gather us in his strong arms, and belt out his favorite song. But instead of him sticking to the real words, “We belong to a mutual admiration society, my baby and me,” Daddy would wail, “We belong to a mutual admiration society, my babies and me.”