anywhere. It fit the grump personality she had these days.
Jerry James the constable. And my, didn't the eyes in his mask look just like his eyes? The way he always looked at them like he was ready to pull his gun and put them under arrest.
May Bloom, the town librarian, who had grown so foul in her old age. No longer willing to help the boys find new versions of King Arthur or order the rest of Edgar Rice Burroughs's Mars series.
And there was the face of the weird guy from Cab's Pizza, Jake was his name.
"Now wait a minute," Joe said. "All these people have got something in common. What is it?"
"They're grumps," Harold said.
"Uh huh. What else?"
"I don't know."
"They weren't always grumpy."
"Well, yeah," Harold said.
And Harold thought of how Jake used to kid with him at the pizza place. How the constable had helped him get his kite down from a tree. How Mrs. Bloom had introduced him to Edgar Rice Burroughs, Max Brand, and King Arthur. How Alice Dunn used to make her rounds, and come back special with a gift for him when he was sick.
"There's another thing," Joe said. "Alice Dunn, the Avon Lady. She always goes door to door, right? So she had to come to the Fat Man's door sometime. And the constable, I bet he came too, on account of all the weird rumors about the Fat Man. Jake, the delivery boy. Mrs. Bloom, who sometimes drives the bookmobile . . ."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying, that that little liquid in the bottom of each of these jars looks like blood. I think the Fat Man skinned them, and . . ." Joe looked toward the puppets on the wall, "replaced them with handmade versions."
"Puppets come to life?" Harold said.
"Like Pinocchio," Joe said.
Harold looked at the masks in the jars and suddenly they didn't look so much like masks. He looked at the puppets on the wall and thought he recognized the form of one of them; tall and slightly pudgy with a finger missing on the left hand.
"God, Dad," he said.
"He works for Ma Bell," Joe said. "Repairs lines. And if the Fat Man has phone trouble, and they call out a repairman . . ."
"Don't say it," Harold said.
Joe didn't, but he looked at the row of empty jars behind the row of filled ones.
"What worries me," Joe said, "are the empty jars, and," he turned and pointed to the puppets on the wall, "those two small puppets on the far wall. They look to be about mine and your sizes."
"Oh, they are," said the Fat Man.
Harold shrieked, turned. There at the foot of the stairs stood the Fat Man. And the half-moon tattoo was not a half-moon at all, it was a mouth, and it was speaking to them in the gut-level voice they had heard the Fat Man use to sing.
Joe grabbed up the jar holding Miss Bloom's face and tossed it at the Fat Man. The Fat Man swept the jar aside and it crashed to the floor; the mask (face) went skidding along on slivers of broken glass.
"Now that's not nice," said the half-moon tattoo, and this time it opened so wide the boys thought they saw something moving in there. "That's my collection."
Joe grabbed another jar, Jerry James this time, tossed it at the Fat Man as he moved lightly and quickly toward them.
Again the Fat Man swatted it aside, and now he was chasing them. Around the table they went, around and around like little Black Sambo being pursued by the tiger.
Harold bolted for the stairs, hit the bottom step, started taking them two at the time.
Joe hit the bottom step.
And the Fat Man grabbed him by the collar.
"Boys, boys," said the mouth in the Fat Man's stomach. "Here now, boys, let's have a little fun."
"Run," yelled Joe. "Get help. He's got me good."
The Fat Man took Joe by the head and stuffed the head into his stomach. The mouth slobbered around Joe's neck.
Harold stood at the top of the stairs dumbfounded. In went Joe, inch by inch. Now only his legs were kicking.
Harold turned, slapped his palm along the wall.
Nothing happened.
Up the stairs came the Fat Man.
Harold glanced back. Only one leg stuck out of the
Jerry James the constable. And my, didn't the eyes in his mask look just like his eyes? The way he always looked at them like he was ready to pull his gun and put them under arrest.
May Bloom, the town librarian, who had grown so foul in her old age. No longer willing to help the boys find new versions of King Arthur or order the rest of Edgar Rice Burroughs's Mars series.
And there was the face of the weird guy from Cab's Pizza, Jake was his name.
"Now wait a minute," Joe said. "All these people have got something in common. What is it?"
"They're grumps," Harold said.
"Uh huh. What else?"
"I don't know."
"They weren't always grumpy."
"Well, yeah," Harold said.
And Harold thought of how Jake used to kid with him at the pizza place. How the constable had helped him get his kite down from a tree. How Mrs. Bloom had introduced him to Edgar Rice Burroughs, Max Brand, and King Arthur. How Alice Dunn used to make her rounds, and come back special with a gift for him when he was sick.
"There's another thing," Joe said. "Alice Dunn, the Avon Lady. She always goes door to door, right? So she had to come to the Fat Man's door sometime. And the constable, I bet he came too, on account of all the weird rumors about the Fat Man. Jake, the delivery boy. Mrs. Bloom, who sometimes drives the bookmobile . . ."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying, that that little liquid in the bottom of each of these jars looks like blood. I think the Fat Man skinned them, and . . ." Joe looked toward the puppets on the wall, "replaced them with handmade versions."
"Puppets come to life?" Harold said.
"Like Pinocchio," Joe said.
Harold looked at the masks in the jars and suddenly they didn't look so much like masks. He looked at the puppets on the wall and thought he recognized the form of one of them; tall and slightly pudgy with a finger missing on the left hand.
"God, Dad," he said.
"He works for Ma Bell," Joe said. "Repairs lines. And if the Fat Man has phone trouble, and they call out a repairman . . ."
"Don't say it," Harold said.
Joe didn't, but he looked at the row of empty jars behind the row of filled ones.
"What worries me," Joe said, "are the empty jars, and," he turned and pointed to the puppets on the wall, "those two small puppets on the far wall. They look to be about mine and your sizes."
"Oh, they are," said the Fat Man.
Harold shrieked, turned. There at the foot of the stairs stood the Fat Man. And the half-moon tattoo was not a half-moon at all, it was a mouth, and it was speaking to them in the gut-level voice they had heard the Fat Man use to sing.
Joe grabbed up the jar holding Miss Bloom's face and tossed it at the Fat Man. The Fat Man swept the jar aside and it crashed to the floor; the mask (face) went skidding along on slivers of broken glass.
"Now that's not nice," said the half-moon tattoo, and this time it opened so wide the boys thought they saw something moving in there. "That's my collection."
Joe grabbed another jar, Jerry James this time, tossed it at the Fat Man as he moved lightly and quickly toward them.
Again the Fat Man swatted it aside, and now he was chasing them. Around the table they went, around and around like little Black Sambo being pursued by the tiger.
Harold bolted for the stairs, hit the bottom step, started taking them two at the time.
Joe hit the bottom step.
And the Fat Man grabbed him by the collar.
"Boys, boys," said the mouth in the Fat Man's stomach. "Here now, boys, let's have a little fun."
"Run," yelled Joe. "Get help. He's got me good."
The Fat Man took Joe by the head and stuffed the head into his stomach. The mouth slobbered around Joe's neck.
Harold stood at the top of the stairs dumbfounded. In went Joe, inch by inch. Now only his legs were kicking.
Harold turned, slapped his palm along the wall.
Nothing happened.
Up the stairs came the Fat Man.
Harold glanced back. Only one leg stuck out of the
Similar Books
