I put down the megaphone, confident in
the power of my voice.
“Well, Rollo Tookus, if you worried less
about megaphones and more about who you
let in to the meetings of this charitable organi-
zation, perhaps things would have turned out
differently.”
“Huh?” asks Toody.
“Corrina Corrina infiltrated your organi-
zation!” I reveal. “And once here in this sacred
room, she learned of the vast amount you had
stored in your treasury.”
“So?” interjects Nunzio.
“So on the eve of her trip to Chicago, she
looted said fund.”
“She went to
Key Largo
. Not Chicago!”
says Rollo. “I told you that already. Your hotel
guy wrote it down wrong.”
“What’s the difference?” I ask.
“About fifteen hundred miles,” says Rollo.
“Listen!” I shout. “Brilliance like this is
not commonplace.”
“Oh, God,” says Rollo.
“But then the Weevil Bun panicked,” I
announce dramatically. “As squirrelly thieves
always do. For she knew that if she crossed
state lines with that amount of cash, she was
sure to get nabbed. So she passed off the loot.”
“To who?” asks Nunzio.
“As if you don’t know,” I answer.
“I don’t.”
“To
you
!” I declare, staring at Nunzio.
“Me?” asks Nunzio. “Why me?”
“Because, Nunzio Benedici, as Rollo
Tookus once told me,
it was
you who was mold-
ing all the bunnies
.”
“Oh, God,” says Rollo again. “Please don’t
involve me in this.”
“Bunnies?” interrupts Toody Tululu.
“What bunnies?”
“
Chocolate
bunnies,” I explain. “And why
was Nunzio molding chocolate bunnies, you
ask? Because chocolate bunnies are hollow!
The perfect place to hide stolen cash!”
“I’m lactose intolerant,” says Nunzio.
“Exactly,” I answer, still standing astride
the YIP YAP podium. “So you smashed the
poor defenseless bunnies with a hammer and
gave all the cash to someone you thought you
could trust.”
“Who?” asks Nunzio.
My eyes gaze slowly across the room, land-
ing squarely on the rotund kid.
“Me?” shrieks Rollo Tookus. “Oh, my God!
He’s lost his mind.”
“Yes, members of YIP YAP, the man you
foolishly elected as your sergeant-at-arms has
a long history of criminal activity. Need I
remind you who took the Miracle report from
Mr. Jenkins’s storage closet?”
“That was an accident!” cries the rotund
kid, rising to his feet.
“Shush your piehole!” I tell Rollo. “Or I’ll
get out my megaphone again.”
“That really hurts my ears,” says Nunzio.
“If you think
that
hurts your ears, listen to
this next part,” I tell the rapt crowd.
“What’s the next part?” asks Nunzio.
“That Rollo Tookus panicked! As nervous
ninnies like him always do! And so he
smuggled the stolen funds off to the most
notorious criminal of our generation.”
“Who are we talking about
now
?” asks
Toody Tululu.
“MOLLY MOSKINS!” I shout. “A woman
whose criminal enterprise is so vast that even
the great Timmy Failure has trouble ascer-
taining its full scope.”
“I think I have a headache,” says Nunzio.
“I am so confused,” adds Toody.
“Well, don’t be,” I answer boldly. “Because
here is where I tell you everything.”
“Oh, God,” says Rollo. “What now?”
“That Molly Moskins, ever fearless and
cunning, fled the state, bound for Chicago,
home of pitchforks and giant beans. And on
the way there, she stopped at the E-Z Daze
Motel.”
I hop off the podium and pace down the
center of the table for effect.
“So what happened at the motel?” asks
Nunzio.
“There, the villainous Molly Moskins
broke under the heat of my relentless inter-
rogation,” I answer. “Confessing to the crime
and giving me all of the stolen cash.”
“So
you
have it?” asks Nunzio.
“No,” I answer as I pace the length of the
table like a seasoned prosecutor. “Because I
spent it. On miscellaneous travel expenses. I’m
a very generous tipper, you know.”
“So what does
that
mean?” asks Nunzio.
I suddenly stop pacing and twirl around to
face them.
“That I am the criminal,”
I confess.
“Oh, God,” mutters Rollo. “I give up.”
“This is ridiculous!” shouts Toody Tululu.
“I’m going home,” says Nunzio.
“You listen to me, Timmy Failure,” says
Toody. “As I was about to explain to everyone
before you barged in, there
was
no theft.”
“No theft?” asks Rollo.
“
This
I’ll stay for,” says Nunzio.
“Arrest me,” I calmly mutter, placing my
hands behind my back. “For the good guy is
now bad.”
“I was doing the YIP YAP books,” contin-
ues Toody, “just trying to figure out what we
had in the treasury, and I forgot to carry the
decimal point.”
“You what?” asks Rollo.
“Carry the decimal point. I wrote down
that we had twelve cents. But I goofed. Now,
if I had just remembered to move the decimal
point three places to the right, you’d see we
actually had a hundred and twenty dollars,
just like we’re supposed to.”
“So we have the money?” asks Rollo. “It
was all just a math error?”
“Yep.” Toody smiles. “Sorry for all the
hullabaloo.”
“We’re saved!” cries Nunzio.
I remain standing on the table, my head
down, and my hands behind my back.
Toody and Nunzio leave the room. Rollo
“I’m going to turn the lights off now,
Timmy. You might want to get off the table.”
Fearless, I remain motionless, prepared
for my arrest.
Rollo turns off the lights and closes the
door.
“It’s grown dark,” I announce.
“With my impending arrest, I have no choice
but to rehire you,” I announce.
The bear is not pleased.
“There’s just no other way,” I explain.
“My imprisonment could be long. I will be
separated from friends and associates alike.
And I’ll
need someone to run the detective
agency.”
But he’s too worn-out to argue.
That’s because ever since he escaped the
Drakonian by riding empty railcars home,
he’s been working for my mother.
Mostly washing dishes.
All to pay off the exorbitant hotel bills
he racked up when he was His Highness in
Chicago.
But Total also knows that his rehiring
marks the start of a new phase.
Namely, the end of the free bonbons.
Because while there may be a provision
in his contract specifying what I have to give
him if he’s
fired,
there is no such provision for
if he’s
hired
.
“Remain brave,” I tell him, patting him on
the back as he dries another dish.
But I know all this grunt work has been
hard on him.
So when he is done doing the dishes for
the night, I give him something that I’ve had
with me since Chicago.
And for the first time since coming home,
he is happy.
I sneak behind the pockmarked stucco walls
of the low-rise building and stoop down beside
the trash bins.
Bathed in the cheap neon light of the city,
I sit still, the smell of rotten fruit wafting from
the soggy pile of cardboard beside me.
For it is a tough life, but it is a detective’s
life. And it is what I signed up for. And if you
want dolled-up glamour, then look somewhere
else, kid.
So I wait patiently, immersed in the sound
of honking cabs and muscle-car engines. The
symphony of the street.
And as the appointed time nears, I glance
at my watch. Each tick echoing the beat of this
cold detective’s heart.
Aware of the risk. But staring right down
the barrel of it.
And when the click of heels across broken
pavement grows near, I know that danger has
arrived.
In a little pink dress.
“Hello, Timmy Failure!” chirps Molly
Moskins.
“Not so loud, Molly!” I answer. “I’m not
supposed to be here!”
“Me either!” she says. “I’m grounded just
like you!”
“The world’s gone mad,” I remind her.
“I know!” she replies.
We are in the back parking lot of the E-Z
Daze Motel.
Well, not
the
That one was too far away.
But it’s a chain. And this one is not far
from home.
“Did you hear that Yergi Plimkin got his
books?” asks Molly.
“I did not,” I answer.
“Yes, a lot of them. But they weren’t in his
language. So he uses them to mount his llama.”
“I’m glad,” I tell Molly Moskins, “but I
didn’t ask you here so we could talk about
llamas.”
“Why
did
you ask me here?” asks Molly.
I don’t answer, but I know why.
And that is because detectives are tough
men, but decent men.
And so, after making sure no one is
around, I press
PLAY
on my portable music
player.
And to the tune of flamenco guitar, I make
somebody’s night.
All while the E-Z Daze man smiles down
on me.
Forgiving me as he should.
The bad guy now good.
www
.candle
wick.com
For more shenanigans, visit www.timmyfailure.com
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