The Scavengers (10 page)

Next we stop at the grocery. Toad and I carry in Arlinda’s pies and preserves and the hams and bacon, and some of Tilapia Tom’s crated fish. Then Toad produces a list put together by Arlinda and hands it to the grocer, who brings us salt, flour, and other basics we can’t make ourselves. When we’re finished, the grocer tallies all the things we brought in minus all the things we’re taking, scribbles a number, circles and signs it the same as Freda did, and hands it to Toad.

We call these numbers BarterBucks. After the Bubbling, money was worthless. A lot of the banks were robbed and looted, but it didn’t do the thieves any good because the money wasn’t useful for much more than starting fires. For a while people just traded directly with each other. That works for some things, but the trouble is that Freda the blacksmith doesn’t have the salt Toad needs, and the grocer isn’t going to trade a bag of salt for the axle from an old manure spreader. Instead, Freda writes down how many BarterBucks she’s willing to pay for our iron. Later today, Toad will take the paper to Banker Berniece, who works out of the old bank building. Banker Berniece will subtract the number from Freda’s account and add it to Toad’s account.

For keeping track of everyone’s BarterBucks, Banker Berniece gets a percentage of everybody else’s BarterBucks. Basically, Banker Berniece is a banker with no money. In a bigger, faster-moving world, this system would never work. But here in tiny Nobbern it works just fine because everybody knows everybody else—including Banker Berniece. If she doesn’t play fair, word gets around, and no one will trust her or trade with her. Same goes for her customers.

After the grocery, we stop at the hardware shop for leather repair supplies, the tailor shop for thread, and the diner, where we unload more of Arlinda’s pies and Tilapia Tom’s fish. At each stop, we leave with another signed and circled number on a piece of paper. Toad folds each note and keeps it in his pocket.

Finally, Toad pulls the
Scary Pruner
to the curb before a three-story brick building with tall, narrow windows on each floor. A large hand-painted sign nailed above the door reads “MAGICAL MERCANTILE.” We unload the whirligig crates and stack them on the sidewalk. When we’re ready to carry them inside, I climb back aboard the
Scary Pruner
, open the hidden compartment beneath the seat, remove the bundle of rags hiding Porky Pig, and tuck him in the bottom of my pack.

Stepping inside Magical Mercantile is like stepping into a museum inside a circus inside an antique store. The floors are made of long, narrow boards that make creaky squeaks when I step on them. Each room is filled wall to wall with long wooden tables, and along the walls there are shelves that go clear to the ceiling and can only be reached by wooden ladders hung on rolling rails. The shelves and tables are stacked with everything you can imagine and even more things you can’t imagine: one-armed dolls, patched rubber boots, plastic silverware, board games in beat-up boxes, books, mismatched dice, used paintbrushes, cans of half-used paint, thumbless mittens, jars of broken crayons, half-empty bags of balloons, colored drinking straws, and a thousand other odd things.

“Toad Hopper!”

I look up just in time to see a short, bright-eyed man leap from the top stair of the second floor and slide down the wooden banister. It’s Mad Mike, the owner of Magical Mercantile. He is wearing a green eyeshade, a pair of bright orange coveralls, a polka-dotted bow tie, and ballet slippers. Toad says Mad Mike wears the ballet slippers because he’s always running up and down those three sets of stairs from floor to floor, and heavy boots would add up. Other people say Mad Mike was once a circus acrobat. The way he leaps off the banister and lands lightly on his feet, it could be true.

“Whaddya got?” says Mad Mike, skipping around behind a long counter.

We arrange our crates and Mad Mike digs through them eagerly, commenting now and then. “These mini-boomerangs are real hot sellers! Kids love these kaleidoscopes!” After he inspects each new item, he scribbles on his list. But this time, just before he circles the final number, I cover it with my hand. “Hold on,” I say. “I’ve got one more thing.”

I reach into my pack and pull out my carefully wrapped treasure.

18

“PORKY PIG!” SAYS MAD MIKE, THE MOMENT I REMOVE THE RAGS.
It’s a race between his eyes and his grin to see which can go wider. “Oh-ho-ho! That’s a
beauty
!”

I hand him the pig and he studies it from every angle. “Porky! I haven’t seen him in
years
!”

Then he looks at me. “You just dug this up?”

“Yep,” I say. “Just dug it up.”

He places it on the counter and stares at it, cocking his head this way and that. Finally, he scribbles a number on a piece of paper and hands it to me.

The number is bigger than I could have dreamed.

But I am Ford Falcon. Falcons have clear vision and know when to go in for the kill. When I saw the excitement in Mad Mike’s eyes, I knew I really had something. I stare at the number and suck slowly on one tooth so it makes a long, sad, squeaky sound. Toad taught me that move. It’s a way to give yourself a little time to think, and also to make the other person worry about losing the deal. Finally I make a face like someone just offered me a dish of cold fiddleheads and shake my head.

“Who else you gonna sell it to?” says Mad Mike.

“Oh, I’m gonna sell it to
you
,” I say, “but for twice that.” I’m bluffing, because he’s right, no one else will buy this pig, but I also know from the look on his face that he already has this pig sold.

“Hmm . . . ,” says Mike, looking at the pig again. Now he has his poker face on, but it’s too late. I guess maybe he thought he was dealing with some sweet little girl. Mad Mike, meet
Ford Falcon
.

“You need me, I need you,” I say. “Give me a good number.”

Mad Mike crosses out the old number and scribbles a new one. On the inside, my heart leaps. But on the outside I don’t show a thing.

I suck my tooth again and make Mad Mike wait a little. Then I point to a red rubber ball on the shelf behind his head. “Throw in one of those for my little brother,” I say, “and we have a deal.”

Mad Mike takes the paper, circles the number, and signs his name. As he turns to get the rubber ball, Toad jabs me in the ribs and whispers, “Well played, Ford Falcon.”

I grin, and sneak another peek at the number. Even though there was a lot of luck in finding that pig, I feel proud, because if I hadn’t been down there digging it wouldn’t have happened. Now I will be able to buy extra supplies to help my family. Before we leave I will stop back at the grocery to buy salt and sugar and molasses. At the hardware store I’ll get sulfur matches, a good soup ladle for Ma, and a pickax for Dad. I’ll even buy a sack of hard candy for my snot flicker of a brother, Dookie. A little treat to go with the red rubber ball.

But first, there is something else.

“Mad Mike, I need to buy some tea.”

I could just buy some tea at the grocery, but it’s plain old stuff and usually stale. Not only does Mad Mike have tea that is fresh, he has tea in tins. Pretty tins, decorated with scrolls and designs and frilly letters, just like you’d want if you were going to brew up a batch and settle in with a book. Even in the hardest of times, you’d be amazed at what you can find if people want it bad enough. And if you want something odd or hard to get, Mad Mike is your man. The heavy steel-toed boots on my feet right now came from Magical Mercantile. The sulfur and saltpeter Toad uses to make his Whomper-Zooka powder come from Mad Mike. There are rumors that if you want guns, Mad Mike can get those, too. How Mad Mike gets ahold of some of these things is anybody’s guess. He may be a tad shifty in his wheelings and dealings, but he’s good at what he does.

“Whaddya have in mind?” says Mad Mike. All of a sudden he’s all perked up again, like a fox that spots a mouse. Or like
he’s
the falcon.

“Earl Grey,” I say. “For my ma.”

“Oh boy,” he says, heaving a sigh. “It’ll cost ya.” He speaks regretfully, shaking his head as if each word is breaking his heart. At least he doesn’t suck his tooth.

“I know. But lucky me, I sold an overpriced pig earlier today, so I’m loaded.” Toad grins and elbows me again. But Mad Mike is grinning too. The one thing a wheeler-dealer likes to do is wheel and deal.

Mad Mike disappears into the back room, returning with a small square container. It’s deep black and trimmed in dark red and bright silver. He hands it to me, and the tin feels glossy smooth against my palm. On the front a scroll is unfurled like a banner, and inside the scroll, in golden letters that are pressed into the tin so I can feel them with my fingertips, are the words “Earl Grey Tea.”

We dicker over the price a little, but I let Mad Mike off pretty easily. I can buy a lot of tea with what he paid me for that pig. He wraps the tin in a soft cloth, and then a paper bag. As I carry it out the door I think of Ma and how she’ll smile when she sees it and I figure it’s worth all the Porky Pigs in the world.

I do the last of my shopping, picking up the things for Ma and Dad and the candy for Dookie, then Toad and I take our BarterBucks to Banker Berniece. She’s a small, quiet woman with her hair up in a tight bun who always wears a man’s suit and tie and sits behind a huge wooden desk that makes her look even smaller. The desk sits squarely in front of the gigantic bank vault door with polished steel handles and big dials and thick brass hinges. This makes Banker Berniece look tinier still.

“Activate yer abacus, Miss Mathematicus!” says Toad as we enter the bank. Honestly, sometimes it’d be nice if he could just say hello like a normal person. Banker Berniece doesn’t smile or frown, she just looks up and in a flat voice that is neither friendly nor unfriendly, says, “Good morning, Mr. Hopper,” then reaches out to take the wad of BarterBucks slips Toad has dug out of his pocket.

One by one she smooths the crumpled papers and arranges them neatly on the desktop. Then she opens a desk drawer and takes out a fountain pen, a bottle of ink, an envelope, and a giant book that says “LEDGER” on the cover. She arranges them all on the desk, each in its place, as carefully as she arranged the BarterBucks slips. Then she goes through the slips one by one, entering them in the ledger with the fountain pen. After the last one is written in, she reaches into another drawer and pulls out a wooden rack that holds a bunch of colored beads mounted on slim iron rods. The first time I saw it, I thought it was some kind of weird rattle-toy, but Toad wasn’t being completely goofy when he mentioned the abacus, because that’s exactly what it is.

While the index finger of one hand moves slowly down through the numbers she just wrote in the ledger, the index finger of Banker Berniece’s other hand dances over the abacus, flicking beads back and forth. I can hear soft little
click-clack
sounds as she works her way down the page. When she adds in the last number, she writes it in the ledger and circles it. Then she adds everything up again, puts a check beside the number in the ledger, and turns the heavy book so Toad can sign it. Then she writes the same number on a piece of paper, signs and dates it, and hands it to Toad along with an envelope. He initials the piece of paper, seals it in the envelope, and writes his name and today’s date across the seal.

Now I hand her my slips. When she smooths out the piece of paper that shows how many BarterBucks I got for Porky Pig, I watch for her reaction, because for me, it’s a pretty big number, but Banker Berniece’s expression doesn’t change. She just goes straight to flicking the abacus. Toad says that’s part of why he trusts Banker Berniece. She treats everybody and every number just the same. You don’t want somebody who’s oohing and aahing over the details, Toad says, because that’s the kind of person that will be just dying to tell someone else. Actually he said “deceasing to yammerize the populace,” but sometimes it’s easier just to say things my way.

After I sign and date my envelope, Banker Berniece turns to the safe and, standing so we can’t see, spins the dials, flips the handles, and swings open the safe door. Following her inside, I take a key from a string around my neck and insert it in the lock on a safety deposit box. Banker Berniece puts a key in the other slot, and we both turn until the door springs open. I put my envelope inside with the envelopes from previous trips, close the door, then we both turn our keys again and the box is locked. At the end of the day Berniece will lock the ledger in the safe also, but the “envelope system,” as we call it, is Berniece’s way of making sure there’s a backup record of how many BarterBucks each person has.

After Toad locks his envelope away, Banker Berniece places the ledger on a shelf inside the safe, then closes and locks the heavy door. On our way out of the bank, Toad turns and says, “Thank you, Berniece,” just as plain as you please.

“Yes,” says Banker Berniece.

Back on the street, Toby has fed and watered all the animals. While he goes in to settle up with Banker Berniece for the fish he sold, Toad reaches into a compartment on the
Scary Pruner
, pulls out a small canvas bag, and tosses it to me. It jingles when I catch it. “Arm the secret weapon!” says Toad, and I sigh. In addition to the chain mail he made for the dogs and oxen, Toad made Hatchet a pair of razor-sharp spurs, a set of tiny barbs that attach to the tip of each wing, and a stainless steel pick that clamps over the tip of his beak. We usually wait to put these things on Hatchet until the more dangerous ride home, and it’s always a painful tussle.

Suddenly I realize I left Magical Mercantile without taking Dookie’s red rubber ball. I toss the bag back to Toad. “Gonna leave that to you and Toby,” I say, over my shoulder, as I run across the street.

I find Mad Mike at the counter. He’s packing Porky Pig into a crate. “Aren’t you going to put him on the shelf?” I ask. Mad Mike looks down at the pig already half-ready to ship, then back at me. It’s like he’s taking a moment to form a careful answer. “Well, I . . .” Then he just sets the pig aside and says, “I have a customer who likes these sorts of things. He has a standing order for anything that fits his memory space.”