The Mapmaker and the Ghost(23)
When the whole thing looked just right, Mrs. Moram took the tray and set off upstairs.
She entered Birch’s quiet room. He was lying very still on his bed. He must be really sick, she thought to herself, feeling sorry for her poor son.
She gently put the tray down on his bedside table and went to rearrange the covers around him.
BUZZ!!!
It was their exceptionally loud doorbell. Mrs. Moram jumped and, in doing so, moved the covers a little with her hand, causing her to think that Birch had stirred.
“Seed of the Month Club Delivery,” she heard a loud and cheerful voice calling.
“Oh, I’m sorry to wake you, sweetie. Let me go get that, and I’ll come check on you in a bit, okay? Have some soup,” she said, as she hurried excitedly out of Birch’s room and toward the front door.
16
A DISHONEST LIVING
Spitbubble was proud of his height; it allowed him to look rather menacing when he walked, as he placed one firm marchlike step in front of the other. It also helped that he kept his fists balled up at all times, as if ready for a brawl with anyone in his warpath. But he knew that his strongest weapon was his black glare, the way it could, and had, stopped many people in the middle of a conversation, made them falter, made them show weakness.
He was using this glare now as he stared across a glass counter to a leather-faced man with a stringy ponytail hanging morosely from his otherwise bald head. The man was examining Toe Jam’s gold coin minutely.
“Looks dirty,” he finally grunted.
“That’s because it’s old. Antique. Check out the date.” Spitbubble pointed to the ancient date inscribed on the coin’s surface.
“Humph,” the man, called Barnes, said.
They were standing inside Barnes’s Barn, Pilmilton’s tiny pawnshop that was filled to the brim with useless junk that people had cast off through the years. The case Barnes and Spitbubble were leaning over was filled with probably at least fifty items in and of itself: clocks that had no hands, tarnished earrings with no mate, an object that might have either been a medieval torture device or a really dirty spork.
Spitbubble, however, knew that this junk wasn’t how Barnes really made his living. The store mostly served as a front for the kinds of things that Barnes really collected and sold to handpicked clientele. Things like famously misplaced paintings and the rare and valuable coin he was now turning over in his hands.
“I’ll give you seventy-five bucks,” Barnes finally said.
“That’s not what this is worth,” Spitbubble said calmly.
“If you can find someone else who’s willing to pay more, I’ll gladly consider a counteroffer,” Barnes sneered. Being the only pawnshop owner in town had its advantages, especially if you also happened to be okay with more than a little dishonesty.
Spitbubble thought for a minute, took in a deep breath, and then quick as a flash snatched the coin out of Barnes’s hand and returned it to his pocket. “All right. No biggie. See you later, then.”
He barely got a glimpse of Barnes’s utterly startled face as he calmly turned on his heels and strode the two steps it took to reach the front door. He had just pushed it open when he heard, “Wait.”
He turned around calmly and stared at the man, who was now stretching his cracked lips into something that might be considered a smile in a creepy, horror-movie-bellhop sort of way. “I can see I’m dealing with a pro here,” Barnes said.
“I don’t have time for your hot air,” Spitbubble said breezily. “We both know that I have a one-of-a-kind and valuable item.”
“And we both know it wasn’t exactly left to you by your dear, dead aunt Gertrude,” Barnes grumbled.
They glared at each other for a moment. “Three hundred,” Barnes finally said.
“Five hundred,” Spitbubble said.
“Three-fifty is my final offer,” Barnes said. “I could have you arrested, you know.”
“Ditto,” Spitbubble said coolly. He used his black glare one more time with his hand still on the shop door.
“Fine! Four hundred. But that is absolutely it, you sniveling brat.”
Spitbubble smiled as he marched into the most perfect-looking suburban block any television show creator could have imagined. The whole street was lined with big, leafy maple trees, and each house was a slightly different color combination than the next. One was pink with a gray roof. The next, green with a black roof. The next, yellow with a blue roof. And so on. Each different, but the same.
With his infamous glare, Spitbubble zoned in on one particular house, the gray one with the black roof, and strode up to it. He opened the gate of the house’s white picket fence, marched up the driveway, and banged a fist on the front door, causing it to swing open easily. He strode into the quiet, pristine house as if he owned the place, smirking a little at the mahogany furniture, matching beige sofa set, and, most especially, ginormous framed black-and-white photo that hung over the fireplace. It was of a young dark-haired boy in a patterned sweater, grinning a missing-toothed grin, and posing with one hand under his chin.
“Stannie, is that you?” came a low female voice from some other part of the house.
“Yeah, Ma,” Spitbubble said. He strode through the front hallway and down a few steps into the den, which was filled with more matching furniture and a fake green Persian rug with an intricately hideous pattern on its surface. He sat down on a sunken violet couch and took out a large wad of cash from the pocket that had once housed the heavy, gold coin. The cash was a lot less shiny, but a lot more attractive to Spitbubble’s eye.