The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp, Page 2

  He pulled into the entrance of the underground parking lot and slid a plastic card into a machine. The gate opened and he drove slowly into the nearly empty lot.

  “Who owns Samson Towers, Alfred?” he asked.

  “A guy named Samson?” I guessed.

  “A guy named Bernard Samson,” he said. “You don’t know anything about him, but let me tell you. Bernard Samson is a self-made millionaire many times over, Alfred. Came to Knoxville at the age of sixteen with nothing in his pockets and now he’s one of the richest men in America. You want to know how he got there?”

  “He invented the iPod?”

  “He worked hard, Alfred. Hard work and something you are sorely lacking in: fortitude, guts, vision, passion. Because let me tell you something, the world doesn’t belong to the smartest or the most talented. There are plenty of smart, talented losers in this world. You wanna know who the world belongs to, Alfred?”

  “Microsoft?”

  “That’s it, smarty-pants, make jokes. No. The world belongs to people who don’t give up. Who get knocked down and keep coming back for more.”

  “Okay, Uncle Farrell,” I said. “I get your point. But what about the future?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “The future! Come on, Alfred. You won’t find the future in this garage.”

  We took the elevator to the lobby. Uncle Farrell led me to his horseshoe-shaped desk that faced the two-story atrium. About halfway between the security desk and the front doors was a waterfall that fell over these huge rocks that Uncle Farrell told me had been hauled down at great expense from the Pigeon River in the Smokies.

  “Funny thing about life is you never know where it’s going to take you,” Uncle Farrell told me. “I’m working at the auto body shop when in strolls Bernard Samson. He strikes up a conversation, and next thing I know here I am making double what I pulled in at the shop. And for sitting—for nothing! Double for nothing, just because the richest man in Knoxville decides to give me a job!”

  Mounted on the desktop were dozens of closed-circuit monitors set up to survey every nook and cranny of Samson Towers.

  “This system is state-of-the-art, Alfred. I mean, this place is tighter than Fort Knox. Laser sensors, sound detectors, you name it.”

  “That’s pretty cool, Uncle Farrell.”

  “Pretty cool,” he echoed. “You betcha. And this is where I sit, eight hours a day, six nights a week, in front of these monitors, staring. Watching. What do you think I’m watching, Alfred?”

  “Didn’t you just say you were watching the monitors?”

  “I am watching nothing, Alfred. Eight hours a day, six nights a week, I sit in this little chair right here, watching nothing.”

  He leaned very close to me, so close, I could smell his breath, which did not smell very good.

  “This is the future, Alfred. Your future, or something like it, if you don’t find your passion. If you don’t figure out what you’re here for. A lifetime of watching nothing.”

  3

  I studied hard for my driver’s test, but I flunked it. So I took it a second time and flunked again, but I didn’t miss as many questions, so at least I was improving as a failure. Uncle Farrell pointed to my scores as proof I lacked the guts to achieve even something as simple as a learner’s permit.

  Things were not much better at school. Barry Lancaster’s wrist was still badly sprained, which meant he was now a bench player just like me. Barry wasn’t happy about this. He went around telling everybody how he was going to “get Kropp,” so I spent my days looking over my shoulder, waiting for the getting to start. I became jumpy; every loud noise, like the slamming of a locker door, was enough to make me nearly wet my pants.

  One afternoon in early spring, I came home to find Uncle Farrell already out of bed.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “What’s what?”

  “Why are you out of bed?”

  “Aren’t you the king of Twenty Questions.”

  “That was only two questions, Uncle Farrell, and they were kind of related, so that probably would only count as one and a half.”

  “You know, Alfred, people who think they’re funny rarely really are.”

  “I don’t think I’m funny. I think I’m too tall, too fat, too slow, and too much of a screwup, but I don’t think I’m funny. Why are you out of bed, Uncle Farrell?”

  “We have company coming,” he said, wetting his big lips.

  “We do?” We never had anyone over. “Who’s coming?”

  “Somebody very important, Alfred. Put on some clean clothes and come into the kitchen. We’re eating early.”

  I changed my clothes and found my Salisbury steak frozen dinner fresh from the microwave sitting at my spot on the kitchen table. Uncle Farrell was drinking a beer, which was unusual. He never drank beer at dinner.

  “Alfred, how’d you like to move out of this dump and live in one of those huge mansions in Sequoia Hills?”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, where all the rich people live.”

  I thought about it. “That’d be great, Uncle Farrell. But when did we get rich?”

  “We’re not rich. But we might be. Someday.” He was smiling a mysterious smile while he chewed his Salisbury steak.

  “And you’ll be taking your driving test again next week—how’d you like a Ferrari Enzo for your first car?”

  “Oh, boy, that’d be great, Uncle Farrell,” I said. He got like this sometimes. It’s no big secret that it’s lousy being poor. But there’s poor and then there’s really poor, and we weren’t really poor. I mean, I never went to bed hungry, and the lights always stayed on, but I guess it wasn’t easy working a lonely night job for the richest man in Knoxville. He wasn’t getting much sleep lately either, and that can make you a little loopy. “But I’d rather have a Hummer.”

  “Okay, a Hummer. Whatever. The kind of car doesn’t matter, Al. This guy who’s coming tonight—he’s a very rich man and he’s got this proposition that . . . well, if it works out the way I hope, you and me, we’ll never have to worry about money again.”

  “Honestly, Uncle Farrell, I didn’t know we worried about it now.”

  “His name is Arthur Myers and he owns Tintagel International. You ever hear of Tintagel International?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s one of the biggest international conglomerates there is, maybe bigger than Samson Industries.”

  “Okay.”

  “So here’s the deal, Al. One night I’m on my shift and it’s just like any other night, nobody but me at the desk, doing nothing, when all of a sudden the phone rings and guess who’s on the other end.”

  “Mr. Myers.”

  “Right!”

  “What’s a conglomerate?”

  “It’s a business that owns businesses, or something like that. That really isn’t the point. Alfred, you need to stop interrupting me and focus a little, okay?”

  “I’ll try, Uncle Farrell.”

  “So anyway, Mr. Arthur Myers says he’s got a business proposition for me.”

  “The owner of one of the biggest conglomerates in the world had a business proposition for you?” I asked.

  “It’s crazy!”

  “It sure sounds crazy.”

  “That’s what I thought!” Uncle Farrell tapped his fork on the plate and started talking really fast. “Who am I but this lowly little night watchman? But I met with him and it turns out he’s the real McCoy, and he needs my help. Our help, Alfred.”

  “Our help?” The more he talked about this funny deal, the funnier I felt.

  “See, Myers and Bernard Samson go way back. Good buds from, I don’t know, the old country or something. Anyway, Myers convinced Samson to invest in this big business deal—I’m not sure of all the ins and outs but apparently there was a lot of money involved and it went bad. It went real bad. Samson lost a lot of money and he blamed Myers for it.”

  “Why did he blame Myers?”

  �
��I don’t know. Now listen, and stop interrupting, Alfred. We don’t have much time.”

  “Why don’t we have much time?”

  “I’m getting to that.”

  “To what?”

  “The reason we don’t have much time!”

  He took a deep breath.

  “Mr. Samson blamed Mr. Myers for this deal that went bad. He took it pretty hard, Samson did, and so he did a terrible thing.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He stole something.”

  “From Mr. Myers?”

  “No, from the Louvre in Paris. Of course from Myers! Samson stole it and locked it away in his office.”

  I started to get it. “His office in Samson Towers?”

  “That’s right. Now you’re getting it. Samson Towers, the night watchman of which happens to be yours truly.”

  “And Myers wants you to get it back for him.”

  “Right. That’s right, and—”

  “What is it?”

  “What’s what?”

  “The thing Samson stole.”

  “Oh. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  Uncle Farrell slowly shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  “Uncle Farrell, how are you going to get it if you don’t know what it is?”

  “That’s a detail, Alfred. Just a detail. The point is—”

  “A pretty big detail if you ask me.”

  “Do you want to know what the point is?”

  “Sure.”

  His mouth was moving but no sound was coming out.

  “You interrupt me and every thought in my head just flies away! Whoosh! Right out the window! Where was I?”

  “You were going to tell me the point.”

  “The point? Oh. Yeah! The point is he’s paying me one million dollars to get it.”

  I stared at him. “Did you say one million dollars?” I asked.

  “Well, I didn’t say one million pesos, that’s for sure!”

  I thought about it. “This is illegal.”

  “No, it isn’t illegal.”

  “But if Mr. Samson stole it, why doesn’t Mr. Myers go to the police?”

  Uncle Farrell wet his lips. “He said he didn’t want the police involved.”

  “How come?”

  “He said he wanted to keep everything real quiet. He doesn’t want to press charges because the papers and the TV would pick it up and he doesn’t want that.”

  “Maybe this thing belongs to Mr. Samson and Mr. Myers is lying. Maybe he’s just using you because you’re the guy with the keys.”

  “Well, I am the guy with the keys—that’s why he needs me—but I’m no thief, Al. Look, I didn’t bring this up to get your permission. I brought this up to ask for your help.”

  “My help?”

  “That’s right,” Uncle Farrell said. “I can’t do it alone, Al. And I figured who’d be better to help me than you, since you stand to gain in this operation too. One million dollars! Think about it, Al, because you’re only fifteen; you haven’t lived very long, not as long as me, and things like this, these kinds of opportunities, they’re once-in-a-lifetime!”

  “I’ll have to think about it,” I said.

  He stopped chomping his microwave steak, his mouth hanging open a little so I could see the food.

  “What do you mean you’ll have to think about it? Think about what? I’m your uncle. I’m all the family you got left since your good-for-nothing father abandoned you and your mother died of cancer, God rest her soul. This could be the sweetest deal ever to come down the pike, one million smackers for an hour’s work, and you’re telling me you got to think about it?”

  “It’s just a lot to think about, Uncle Farrell.”

  He snorted. “Well, you better think quick, Alfred, because—”

  The doorbell rang. Uncle Farrell gave a little jump, then forced a smile. Uncle Farrell had very large teeth.

  “That’s him; he’s here.”

  “Who’s here?”

  “Myers! I told you we didn’t have much time.”

  “Mr. Myers is here?”

  “You know something, Alfred? You would think, with a head the size of yours, you’d be able to think a little bit quicker. Clear off the plates and meet us in the living room, will ya? You don’t keep a man like Arthur Myers waiting.”

  He hurried from the kitchen. I heard the front door open and Uncle Farrell say, “Hey, Mr. Myers! Right on time. Come on in, make yourself at home. Alfred! Alfred is the kid I told you about.”

  I heard the sound of a man’s voice talking, but I couldn’t understand the words, he was speaking so softly. I carried the plates to the sink and wiped down the kitchen table.

  In the living room, I heard Uncle Farrell say, “Would you like something to drink, Mr. Myers?” And then he yelled to me, “Alfred! Make some coffee, will ya?”

  So I got the coffee going, and then I stood there by the sink, chewing on a thumbnail. I knew he wanted me in there to meet this Arthur Myers, but for some reason I was scared. The whole thing struck me as some shady deal. Why would someone as rich and powerful as Arthur Myers give Uncle Farrell a million dollars to pull a “recovery” job for him? What was in Samson Towers that was so valuable?

  But my biggest question was what would happen to me if Uncle Farrell got caught breaking into Bernard Samson’s office. If he was in jail, it was back to the foster home for me.

  I waited until the pot was finished brewing, then poured two cups and carried them into the living room.

  Uncle Farrell was sitting on the edge of the sofa, leaning toward the chair in which Arthur Myers sat. I noticed a large leather satchel with gold clasps sitting on the floor beside him.

  Arthur Myers was thin, with long brown hair pulled into a ponytail hanging halfway down his back. His silk suit was a funny color, almost multicolored, and when he moved, the light played off the material and made it shimmer, first blue, then white, then red. But the most noticeable thing about him were his eyes, set very deep into his head under a jutting brow. They were so brown, they almost looked black. And when he turned those eyes toward me for the first time, I shivered, as if I’d walked over a grave.

  “Alfred!” Uncle Farrell said. “Coffee! Great! How do you like your coffee, Mr. Myers?”

  “Black, thank you,” Mr. Myers said. He took the cup from me. He had an accent that sounded kind of French but kind of not; I don’t know, I’m no good with accents.

  “So you are Alfred Kropp,” he said. “Your uncle thinks a great deal of you.”

  “He does?” I turned to Uncle Farrell. “Cream and two scoops of sugar,” I said, and handed him his cup.

  “Indeed he does,” Mr. Myers said. “But he failed to mention your impressive . . . proportions. Tell me, do you play football in your school?”

  “I went out for the team,” I said. “I made second-string right guard. Coach wouldn’t put me in much because I couldn’t remember the plays. But if we got ahead by twenty points he put me in. I blew a play in practice and our star quarterback got hurt. I may have ruined his only chance to get into college and I think he’s going to kill me for it.”

  “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.”