The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (4 page)

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.”

“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—”

“I
have
asked for it back,” Mr. Myers said. “I have even offered him money, all to no avail. I do not see that I have any recourse now but to seize it.”

“I say the old so-and-so has it coming,” Uncle Farrell said.

“I cannot do it myself, of course. And I understand I am putting your uncle's very job in jeopardy. That is why I'm offering this bounty. Speaking of which . . .” He slid the leather case toward Uncle Farrell. “The down payment. I will pay the balance upon delivery of the sword.”

Uncle Farrell's fingers were shaking as he undid the gold clasps. Inside were bundles of twenty-dollar bills.

“Oh, my sweet aunt Matilda!” Uncle Farrell whispered.

“Five hundred thousand dollars,” Mr. Myers said softly. “You may count it if you wish.”

“Oh, I trust you, Mr. Myers,” Uncle Farrell said. “You bet I do! Look at this, Alfred!”

But I wasn't looking at the money. I was looking at the picture of the sword in its glass case. I had a hundred questions racing through my mind, but they were whirling so fast, I couldn't get a grip on one.

Then Mr. Myers said, “As I told your uncle, Mr. Kropp, I need someone to retrieve the sword for me. A man of consummate skill and discretion. A man who is incorruptible, untouched by the temptations of evil men. I need someone who is indefatigable, Mr. Kropp. A man who will not give up or falter when all odds are against him. In short, I need someone who will lay down his life to recover a treasure that is beyond any value mortal men may place on it.”

“ ‘Lay down his life'?” I asked. “Uncle Farrell, he's saying you might have to lay down your life.”

“He's just trying to make a point, Alfred. Some people exaggerate to get across what they're saying. You know, to get your attention. He doesn't mean literally lay down your life. Right, Mr. Myers? Huh? Not literally lay down our lives.” Mr. Myers didn't say anything. Uncle Farrell wet his big lips and said to me, “You should listen to Mr. Myers. You can learn a lot from a guy like him.”

Mr. Myers said, “I could turn to more . . . ruthless men for my purpose. I know such men, but I do not trust them. For the very quality that makes them ruthless makes them untrustworthy. I need someone I can trust. Someone who will not betray me.”

“Well, you've come to the right place, Mr. Myers!” Uncle Farrell said. “You can trust us. You can consider your fancy sword as good as returned.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Myers said. “As I mentioned, time is of the essence. Samson leaves for Europe tonight and will return in two days.”

“We're going in tonight,” Uncle Farrell said firmly. “Or tomorrow night. Tonight or tomorrow, either one, but maybe Al has homework, I don't know.” He looked at me. “Anyway, very soon, one of the two nights. Tonight or tomorrow night, right, Al?”

“How do you know the sword's in his office?” I asked Mr. Myers.

“I don't know for certain, but I do know for certain it isn't in his home.”

“We don't need to know how you know that,” Uncle Farrell said. “Right, Alfred?”

“What happens if it isn't there?” I asked. “Do we have to give back the five hundred thousand?”

“Hey,” Uncle Farrell said. “That's a pretty good question!” He was clutching the satchel to his chest as if he were afraid Mr. Myers might reach over and yank it away.

“Of course you may keep it,” Mr. Myers said. “That money is for your trouble. The rest is for the sword.”

We had a big fight after Mr. Myers left. Despite the money sitting there on the sofa that was ours to keep whether we found the sword or not, I still felt really weird about doing this. It just felt wrong. Maybe Mr. Samson really did take the sword and hide it in his office, but that didn't make stealing it back the right thing to do.

“It's not like he's asking us to knock somebody off or do something really evil. And it's a million dollars, Alfred. We could do anything we wanted, live anywhere we wanted, have anything we wanted!”

It didn't matter how many objections I raised. To Uncle Farrell, money trumped everything.

He even said, “You do what you want, Al, but maybe I need to rethink this whole arrangement of ours—I mean, maybe you're too much for me to handle . . . Maybe I should send you back to the foster care . . .”

That ended the fight. He knew I didn't want to go back to foster care.

4