The Mystery of Silas Finklebean by David Baldacci, Rudy Baldacci

have time to order one. So whatever you have that’s close will be just fine.”
    “And don’t forget, we want a purple one,” added Wally, who had tipped the paint can to his mouth and was now drinking it.
    “Hey,” exclaimed the clerk, “You can’t do that.”
    Wally swallowed and wiped his blue mouth, instantly turning his hand blue too. He belched and then looked embarrassed. “Sorry, blueberries always do that to me. You wouldn’t happen to have something in a grapefruit, would you? That keeps me regular.”
    The clerk looked at them both. “Nuclear reactor turbines! Blueberry paint! You two are nuts.”
    “Actually, we’re Fries, but that’s a whole other story,” said Wally, who then caught himself. “Whoops, I’m pretty darn sure I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”
    “Get out of here before I call the cops.” The clerk grabbed the can that Wally was holding and tugged on it.
    “Give me that!” cried out the clerk.
    “Okay,” said Wally, who immediately let go. The clerk went flying backward, and the can of paint landed on his head. As he pulled it off, he discovered his toupee was gone. He yelled frantically, “Where’s my hair?”
    Wally burped, and something flew out of his mouth and he caught it. He handed it to the clerk. It was the toupee — which was now blue too. “It’ll go very nicely with your new coloring,” Wally said.
    When the clerk saw his hair he jumped up, grabbed a broom, and started charging them.
    “Oh, boy,” said Ziggy. “Come on, Wally, run!”
    Wally didn’t move. “Does this mean you don’t have any grapefruit? How about the nuclear reactor thingie?”

    “Get outta here!” yelled the clerk, continuing to charge with his broom. He collided with massive Wally and flew backward into the shelves of paint. As the cans cascaded down, they popped open and showered him with twenty different colors of paint.
    “You know,” Ziggy whispered to Wally, “I don’t think he’s a very good clerk. Look at the mess he made.” He tore the list out of the clerk’s hand, and they raced out of the store.
    “Hey, Ziggy,” panted Wally as they ran down the street. “I’ve got an important question.”
    “What is it?”
    Wally said hopefully, “Do I really look like Lydia the Lunatic?”

CHAPTER 13
    THE JUNKYARD JOUST
    On the outskirts of Pookesville, Si, Meese, and Curly arrived at the junkyard owned by Irvin Dubowski. Mr. Dubowski’s smiling face was plastered on a large billboard over the entrance to the junkyard. In the picture on the billboard the owner was puffing on a large cigar and the caption read, I’VE NEVER MET JUNK I DIDN’T LIKE.
    “Sounds like my kind of guy,” said Si happily. He and Meese were dressed in an orange jumpsuit with heavy work boots.
    “Wowlookatthisplace,” said Curly, staring at the mountains of junk everywhere. Curly had on his football sweater, sweatpants, and tennis shoes.
    They watched as a pudgy man in a shiny suit came out of the stacks of junk and approached them. He held out his hand for Si.
    “Irvin Dubowski,” he said, smiling and chomping on a cigar.
    “I
know
that name,” cried out Si.
    “It’s the guy on the billboard!” said Meese in exasperation.
    Dubowski pointed a finger at Si and smiled. “I can tell you’re gonna be a real tough negotiator, slick. I better watch myself.”
    Si puffed out his chest. “Well, I have been around the block a few times. Yessir, it’d be pretty tough to pull anything over on me.”
    Dubowski held up his hands in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of trying. Just make me look pretty silly going up against a smart feller like yourself.”
    Meese whispered to Si. “Watch out, I think he’s trying to lull you into a false sense of security.”
    Si laughed. “Lull, stimuli, he’s just very perceptive of my outstanding deal-making abilities.”
    Dubowski glanced over at Curly. “You feeling okay, son, you look a little