“Have you seen Micah?” he asks.
I haven’t. Which means that by now he
has destroyed something.
“Oh, God,” I say, pointing at a sculpture.
“He’s torn the arms off that statue.”
Mr. Moskins smiles and points to a photo
of the sculpture on his map.
“No arms then, either,” he says.
We continue our walk down the main hall
until we get to a large gallery. And see Snot.
With a museum map wrapped around his
head.
“INO WUD DADOO MINSES,” he yells
—
his incomprehensible babble of choice.
I remove the map from his head.
“TIMMYYYY!” he shouts in my face.
“We’ve been looking everywhere for you,”
says his father. “Where have you been?”
Snot holds up a pen and the unrolled
museum map.
He has written his name all over it.
“Your name is Micah,” his dad says to
him, and then turns to me. “His sister gave
him that nickname. Drives his mother and me
crazy. Now he thinks it
is
his name.”
He takes Micah’s map and folds it up so the
writing can’t be seen. And he turns to me again.
“About earlier today,” he adds, “I’m sorry
you had to see all that, Tim. Molly just needs
to learn to be responsible. That’s why I asked
her to stay at the hotel with her mother. She
can see the museum another time.”
I don’t say anything. But I know the real
reason they asked her to stay home:
She is a felon.
And she would steal every piece of art her
brother didn’t break.
We continue our tiresome walk through
the museum. And find a painting of a farmer
and his wife.
“This is called . . .
American Gothic,
” says
Mr. Moskins, checking the museum brochure
to be sure. “It’s very famous.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because it’s on the brochure,” says Mr.
Moskins. “They only put the famous ones on
the brochure.”
I stare at the painting.
“I think he killed a man,” I say.
“Who killed a man?” asks Mr. Moskins.
“The farmer. And he did it with that
pitchfork.”
A museum guide overhears me.
“This painting is not about a murder,” the
guide interrupts. “It represents
—”
“She had her suspicions about the old guy
when she married him,” I add, pointing to the
farmer’s wife. “Who wouldn’t? I mean, look at
his criminal face.”
The museum guide rubs his eyes.
“And now the wife knows what he did,”
I continue. “The wife knows
everything
.
That’s why she’s staring so nervously at the
pitchfork.”
The guide starts to talk, but I stop him.
“So now the old farmer is thinking,
Maybe
I’ve got to get rid
of her, too.
”
“Okay. That’s all I can take,” says the
guide.
“Please, sir, I’m a detective. I know what
I’m talking about. My only question for you
is, Has this man been arrested?” I point at the
man in the painting.
“It is a
painting,
” he says slowly. “He is
not
real
.”
“I thought the same thing about
Meriwether,” I answer.
“Who?” he asks.
“Meriwether Lewis. The man Clark made
fun of.”
“What does Meriwether Lewis have to do
with Grant Wood?” he asks.
“Who is Grant Wood?” I answer.
“The man who painted this,” answers the
guide. “Which I’m afraid shows how much you
know about this painting.”
I smile.
“It shows how much
you
know about
the painting,” I answer, staring down at the
been crossed out and written in with pen.
I point down at the placard.
“It was painted by this fellow.”
You’re probably wondering why I haven’t
mentioned the polar bear in a while.
That’s because ever since he got his paper
crown in the E-Z Daze parking lot, he has come
to believe he is an actual king.
So now he spends his entire day in the
crown and a hotel bathrobe.
The robe has small gold letters embossed
on the breast pocket. The letters are “HH.”
I don’t know what the letters stand for.
But I do know how Total has chosen to inter-
pret them.
All that would be bad enough.
But then the bear discovered room
service.
Now I’m pretty sure that like the tele-
phone, all the food here is free.
But if it isn’t, somebody is going to get a
very large bill.
And that bill may also include something
that I’m pretty sure
does
cost money:
Pay-per-view television.
Because that fat bear is ordering one
television show after another.
Cooking shows.
Talk shows.
Soap operas.
And his new favorite:
So now Total doesn’t leave the room. And
the room doesn’t get cleaned.
Because no housekeeper wants to spend
an extended amount of time with an omnivo-
rous polar bear.
I’ve tried to explain to the hotel’s house-
keeping staff that the polar bear is well fed.
And that as such, he is not likely to eat a
person.
But they are not reassured.
But it’s all academic now.
Because like it or not, King Total’s reign is
about to be brought to a crushing end.
By a tyrant who weighs a lot less than he
does.
“Well, hello, stranger,” my mother says, hug-
ging me in the hotel hallway.
“I just finished moving Dave’s stuff into
his new apartment,” she says. “You should
see his view. He can practically see all of Lake
Michigan.”
“Did you say good-bye to him?” I ask.
“Thank him for the memories?”
My mother smiles.
“No, I didn’t say good-bye. He’s coming
back here to the hotel after he unpacks some
more boxes. He wants to spend time with all of
us this afternoon.”
“So where am I staying?” I ask.
“In my hotel room. With me. It’s one floor
up from here.”
“But I’m already sharing a room with
Molly and Snot. It’s attached to Mr. and Mrs.
Moskins’s room.”
“Don’t call him Snot, Timmy. His name is
Micah. But sure, you can stay with them if you
want.”
&nb
sp; “Then I want to stay with them.”
“That’s fine,” she says, hugging me again.
“I just thought we could stay up late. Maybe
even get room service. If the hotel has it.”
“Oh,
they have it
,” I answer. “But I’ll stay
with Molly tonight.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. The girl is a flight risk.”
“Is that so?”
“Please, Mother. Don’t you remember the
last time we left her alone? She fled to Peru.”
3
“Okay, Timmy. You keep an eye on Molly.
But keep a spot on your dance card open for
me today.”
“I don’t dance, Mother.”
“It’s just an expression, Timmy. It means
save some time for me today. I was hoping to
talk to you.”
I hear the phone ring in my hotel room.
I run to answer it, and as I do, I yell back
to my mother.
“Sorry, Mom.
Dance card full!
”
3.
A
reference to my third masterpiece,
T
i
mmy Failur
e
:
W
e
Meet
Again
. If you have not read it, shame on you.
“What now?” I ask Rollo.
“I forgot to tell you something,” he answers.
“Events are moving rapidly, Rollo. It bet-
ter be good.”
“It
is
good. It’s about the last YIP YAP
meeting. The last one before the theft. I saw
someone there. Now, I don’t think
—”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “
You
saw
someone there. What were
you
doing there?”
“No, Timmy, that’s not the point. The
point is
—”
“Rollo Tookus, I am in the midst of a cross-
country investigation that’s left a trail of exor-
bitant hotel bills, and you surprise me with
that fact
now
?”
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“You just admitted you were at the last
meeting of YIP YAP before the theft.”
“I’m the sergeant-at-arms! So what?”
“So being at that meeting makes you a
suspect.”
“Me?” chimes Rollo. “Why would I steal
funds meant for some poor Yergi Plimkin kid?”
“You tell me,” I answer. “Maybe you
wanted his books. And if you’re about to con-
fess, tell me now, because I’ll need to read you
your Carmen Miranda rights.”
“
‘Miranda’ rights, Timmy. Not ‘
Carmen
Miranda’ rights. Carmen Miranda was a singer
with fruit on her head.”
“Calm down, Rollo. You’re being very
defensive.”
“And you’re being crazy. Timmy, I’m the
person that YIP YAP asked to
find
the stolen
money.”
“Perfect cover, isn’t it?”
“But I would never steal anything!” pro-
tests Rollo.
“Interesting,” I answer. “And who took
the Miracle report from Mr. Jenkins’s stor-
age closet? The paper that every student in the
class wanted to cheat of
f
?
”
4
4.
Another reference to my famed third volume,
T
i
mmy
Failur
e
: W
e
Meet
Again
.
Y
ou really need to read that book.
“My taking the Miracle report was an
accident!”
“You better stop talking now, Rollo Tookus.
Or I’m going to have to read you your rights.
With or without fruit on your head.”
There is a loud wail.
“What was that?” asks Rollo.
“My polar bear. I think he just ran out of
Real Housewives
episodes.
“I’ve got to go, Rollo. The forsaken beast
could tear up the entire room.”
I hang up the phone and watch as Total
grabs the bedsheet and covers his head in
mourning.
On a professional level, I am angry at
the bear. He has betrayed the agency and
abused our contractual relationship for the
sole purpose of attaining a lifetime of creature
comforts.
But on a personal level, I know that he
and I have a history together. And a friendship
that probably shouldn’t have been mixed with
business in the first place.
So I calm him down.
And coax him onto the sheetless bed.
And hand-feed him the last of the bonbons.
Molly Moskins won’t stop jabbering.
“My cousin Mimi is fifteen and she does
anything she wants, and we’re gonna go see her
tomorrow because she lives here in Chicago.
She’s very bad. I can’t wait.”
I am forced to listen to her chatter because
I am stuck next to her at lunch.
Though it is better than sitting next
to Mr. Moskins. And it is better than sit-
ting next to Snot, whose punishment for his
museum behavior appears to be eating here,
at a pizza joint where writing on the walls is
encouraged
.
And it was better than sitting next to my
mother and Doorman Dave, who, with no sense
of taste or decency, hold hands with each other
while eating.
“And my cousin Mimi has a boyfriend in
Denver!” Molly continues. “Can you believe
that? Her family says she can’t have a boy-
friend, but she doesn’t tell them, and so they
don’t know. She even visited him once. Isn’t
that fantastical?”
She stops talking. It is a relief. Like a cool
breeze on a hot summer day.
“What’s the matter, Timmy?”
“I’m trying to focus, Molly Moskins.”
“On what?”
“On a number of profound things. And I
really don’t want to hear about your cousin in
Denver.”
“She’s in Chicago. Her boyfriend’s in
Denver.”
“I don’t care where he is, Molly Moskins.
I just want to think. I’m a detective. It’s how I
put food on my table.”
Reminded of food, Molly eats the last of
her pizza crust.
I stare out the window.
And see a park.
“That’s Millennium Park,” she says. “It’s
really wonderful. They have concerts there in
the summer. And they have a giant silvery
bean where you can see your reflection.”
“Okay,” she adds, “I’ll stop talking now
so you can do your detective concentration
thing.”
I don’t answer.
She looks to the other side of her, to
ward
her mother.
“Can I have another slice of pizza?” she
asks her mom.
Her mom is doing something on her phone,
so she doesn’t answer.
But her father does.
“You’ve had enough, Molly. My goodness.
You’re not a horse.”
And the table grows suddenly quiet.
Save for the sound of Mr. Moskins’s knife
cutting his pizza. And the tapping of Mrs.
Moskins’s fingers upon the screen of her
phone. And the scrawl of Snot’s pencil across
the wall.
And a voice.
“I want to see that bean right now, Molly
Moskins!”
It is me, and my mouth has momentarily
lost its mind.
Her eyes widen.
“Can I go, Mom?” she pleads. “Can I go?
It’s right across the street! I’ll be with Timmy!”
Her mom looks up from her phone and
over to Mr. Moskins, who says nothing.
“Fine, sweetie,” she says, looking back
down at her phone. “But you two stay together.
And stay where we can see you.”
“You take good care of Molly,” adds my
mother.
So we exit the restaurant and Molly is
jumping up and down and she is skipping and
she is talking.
Talking like there is a countdown to a time
of no more words, and she must use them all
before the deadline.
But I listen. And listen.
And listen.
For detectives are tough men. But decent
men.
And when we approach the giant bean,
I escape momentarily to walk underneath
it. Where I stare up at the broad curve of its
underside.
And see myself.
Stretched tall.
Almost grown.
With strangers from the park around me.
And when Molly finds me under the bean,
I interrupt her monologue to say only one
thing.
“I want to leave.”
When we get back to the hotel after lunch, the
desk clerk says there’s a message for our room.