The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (Alfred Kropp #1)(7)

“Come here, Al, and take a load off,” Uncle Farrell said, patting the couch. He was wetting his lips. He turned to Mr. Myers. “I’ve filled Al in on most of the details of the operation.”

“I had my reservations, as I told you,” Mr. Myers answered. “But I understand the necessity for an accomplice. As long as he can be trusted.”

“Oh,” Uncle Farrell said. “You bet.”

“I’m not sure I can,” I said. Both men stared at me. “I mean, I’m not too quick on the uptake—I can’t even memorize a football playbook—and this whole thing smells fishy to me.”

Arthur Myers crossed his long legs, rested his elbows on the armrests, steepled his thin fingers together, and said, “In what way does it ‘smell fishy’ to you, Mr. Kropp?”

“Well, Mr. Myers, for one thing you just used the word ‘accomplice.’ That kind of implies you’re putting Uncle Farrell up to no good.”

“An unfortunate choice of words, then. How is ‘partner’? Would you prefer that word?”

“Hey, I think that’s a great word,” Uncle Farrell said.

“The other thing is,” I said, “how do we know this whatchamacallit in Mr. Samson’s office is really yours? Maybe it belongs to Mr. Samson and you’re making this story up to get us to steal it for you.”

“Alfred!” Uncle Farrell cried. He mouthed to me, “Ixnay on the ealing-stay.”

Mr. Myers raised his hand. “That is quite all right, Mr. Kropp. The boy has a sense of honor. All in all, not a bad thing, particularly in one so young.” Then he turned those dark eyes right on me and I felt a pressure in my chest, as if a huge fist was squeezing me. “What would you like, Alfred Kropp? Testimonials? Eyewitness accounts? A certificate of authenticity or proof of purchase, as from a cereal box? It is a family heirloom, a treasure that has been handed down from generation to generation. Bernard Samson took it from me in retaliation for a business deal gone awry, an unfortunate occurrence that was nevertheless not my fault. If you know anything about the man, you understand why he took it.”

“I don’t know anything about him,” I said. “I’ve never even met him. Why did he take it?”

“For revenge.”

“Have you asked him to give it back, whatever it is?”

Mr. Myers stared at me for a second before Uncle Farrell said, “Yeah, that’s a good point, Mr. Myers. I mean, what exactly is it you need recovered?”

“This,” Mr. Myers said, pulling a long manila envelope from his pocket and handing it to Uncle Farrell. He was still looking at me.

“I was just thinking maybe you don’t need to shell out a million dollars to get it back,” I said. “Maybe you and Mr. Samson should just make up and then he’ll give it back.”

“Really, Mr. Kropp?” He was smiling at me. My face felt hot, but I barreled on.

“Well, I’m not pretending to know how things work in the world of big business and conglomerations, but if I had a fight with a friend or he borrowed something and wouldn’t give it back, I’d invite him over to hang out, maybe play some video games, or you would probably have martinis, and I’d schmooze a little and then I’d ask for whatever it was back. I’d say, ‘Hey, Bernie (or Bernard or whatever you call him), I know you’re pretty sore, but that thing you took means a lot to me, been in my family for generations, and maybe we could work something out, because I’d hate to get the cops involved,’ or something along those lines. Have you thought about doing that?”

“You’re correct, Mr. Kropp,” Mr. Myers said, the same stiff smile frozen on his lips. “You do not know how ‘conglomerations’ work. Are you and your uncle turning down the job? Time is of the essence.”

“How come?” I asked.

“My, Mr. Kropp,” Arthur Myers said to Uncle Farrell. “How proud you must be of this boy. So direct! So thoughtful. So . . . inquisitive.”

“I’m all the family he’s got left,” Uncle Farrell said. “Plus he spends a lot of time alone, you know, because I’m sleeping during the day and away all night. It’s a miracle he isn’t in juvie hall, if you ask me.”

Uncle Farrell had opened the envelope and pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy photograph that he now held out to me.

I looked at the picture.

“It’s a sword,” I said.

“Yes.” Mr. Myers laughed for some reason. “And the Great Pyramid is just a headstone.”

It was mounted in a glass case, like a museum piece. A dull silvery color with a fancy handle. But “handle” wasn’t the right word. There was a word for the handle of a sword. I bit my lip, trying to think of the word. There was some kind of writing on the flat part of the blade, or maybe just a fancy design, I couldn’t tell.

“I took that picture years ago,” Mr. Myers was saying as I stared at the picture. “For insurance purposes. Samson was fascinated by our family heirloom from the moment he saw it. He offered to buy it from me at a fantastic price, but of course I refused. It is hardly worth what he offered, but its sentimental value is astronomical.”

“I know how that is,” Uncle Farrell said. “I’ve got a baseball from the 1932 Cubs that—”