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  I took the escalator up to the mezzanine, hung a right in front of what used to be Bamberger’s, and made for the exit at the far end. There were a couple of pay phones right before the glass doors leading to the parking lot and wooden benches just outside, so you could usually find some kids making prank calls or ducking out to sneak a smoke. That end of the mall was pretty vacant, like they hadn’t finished it yet or couldn’t rent all the space, and I could see nobody was clogging up the exit well before I’d gotten near the pay phones. I poked my head out the exit doors and checked the benches anyway, and saw a freckled Yeti with a shock of red hair relieving himself against the wall to the right of the benches. His back was to me, but I knew instantly it was Tommy Sharpe, even though he looked a lot different from the last time I’d seen him at the beginning of summer. He used to be fat, but over the past couple of months he’d lost all his flab and gut and had replaced them with shoulders the size of bowling balls, a neck just slightly thinner than a fire hydrant, and patches of swollen zits so peaked and red across his hulking arms that they must’ve been visible from outer space.

  For a second I caught myself wondering what in the hell you’d feed a kid to grow him so goddamn big, and more important, where I could get my hands on some. But I got over it fast, backed up silently the way I’d come, and spun around quickly to check my rear flank, because if Tommy Sharpe was at the mall, then dimes to doughnuts Razor was with him, and that spelled hard times for any preteen who wandered aimlessly into their path. Razor was nowhere to be seen in the long, vacant corridor ahead of me, but I knew I wasn’t safe out in the open where I was, because that end of the mall was the perfect place to corner a kid and spring a trap.

  I darted into the small hardware store near the pay phones as fast as I could, hustling toward the back. I passed an aisle with handsaws, jigsaws, and hacksaws; another with hammers, screwdrivers, and pliers; and shortly arrived at the end of the line—the paint section. There were plenty of colors to choose from, and that struck me as a damn good thing. Not because I had anything I wanted to paint, but because the shelves were tall and wide and easy to hide behind. All I had to do was wait a few minutes, make sure the hall was clear, and then I’d be on my way again. In the meantime, though, I had to make it look like I was mulling over a purchase or the salesclerks might escort me out the door to certain doom. So I got busy.

  As I pretended to read the label on a gallon of latex indoor paint, it finally occurred to me where I was, and it gave me an idea. I walked into the far right corner, pulled out the smallest can of black paint they had, went to the hammer aisle, picked up a tape measure, and made a mental note: a small can of black paint was about three inches tall, three and a half inches in diameter, and cost exactly $2.49. Back in the paint section, I found out that a paintbrush with bristles small enough to fit into that size can came in two different lengths—a four-inch model and a six-inch—but no matter which you preferred, you could still get it for under a dollar. Add a small screwdriver from the screwdriver aisle to pry open the lid, and you were looking at less than five bucks to get yourself started in a life of crime.

  A salesman came over and asked if I needed any help as I was putting everything back, and I fed him the same line I’d used at the jewelry kiosk—nope, I was just checking something. He raised an eyebrow at me, nodded his head, and left me alone. Yeah, it worked like a charm, but it was also true. I was checking something: I was reconstructing how the crime had been committed, building a picture of it in my head, so I could keep running through the image in my mind, studying it from different angles until a new or overlooked detail popped up and gave me a better lead, like the height of the sign had earlier. Because in detective work it was just like Holmes and Thoreau were always saying: it wasn’t always what you saw but how you saw it that mattered.

  Right now I could see that a small can of paint, a paintbrush, and a screwdriver meant something to carry them in, because only extra-large clown pants would have pockets big enough, so my next stop was the sporting goods store in the middle of the mall. Sure, to get there I’d have to run the risk of strolling right into the not-so-welcoming arms of two knucklescrapers, but running risks was what detectives were supposed to do.

  I edged to the front of the hardware store and peered out, first one way, then the other. All was clear. I stepped out, sliding along close to the wall, speeding up like a racewalker as I crossed store windows and slowing down to below Livia’s speed as I passed each entrance, just in case I had to duck in. My body tensed up as I went, and the way I kept shifting gears and looking in every direction, ready to break for it at a moment’s notice, made me feel like I was in the final round of the first annual Musical Chairs Championship. I got back safely to the main corridor, passed Orange Julius and the pretzel place without incident, and shortly after that the escalators in the center of the mall came into view.

  There were a few standing plants and bushy, potted trees to the right of the escalators, while the sporting goods store was across on the left. At about thirty feet away, I dropped the pedal and sprinted all out until I’d reached the escalators, where I dipped into the foliage for cover. I crouched behind one of the biggest, bushiest planters and took a glance toward the sporting goods store opposite me—just in time to see Razor and Tommy coming out of it. Jesus, that was close. But I’d made it. I could tell they hadn’t seen me, because they were too busy pulling the price tags off the matching Jets jerseys they’d either just bought or shoplifted. There was nothing for me to do but stay where I was and wait for them to leave, which was exactly what I was doing when the hair on the back of my neck sprang up. It was a strange as hell kind of feeling, like I was being watched. I panned my eyes slowly to the left, turning my head to see over my shoulder, and found myself staring a security guard dead in the eyes. He was a different security guard from the earlier one, much younger, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with a long, gangly frame, a massive Adam’s apple, and the most ridiculous mullet you’d ever seen—like there was a porcupine with a foot-long beaver tail nested on the top of his head. Worse still, he was about eight or nine yards away and had obviously been staring at me for a while, watching me hiding in the bushes and acting suspicious. Then again, I was wearing enough red, yellow, and orange to be about as camouflaged behind all that greenery as a flaming banana in a bowlful of spinach. And I’d just turned my head and made eye contact.

  Shit. Any second I knew he’d walk over with his tan uniform and bad mess of hair and blow my cover, and Razor and Tommy would see all of it and tail me outside and give me a primer on the finer points of pain. All of a sudden I was in a tight spot, and I had to think of something fast. Still looking the security guard in the eye, I raised my index finger to my lips and tilted my head twice, quick and sharp, in the direction of the sporting goods store. He stood his ground for a second, not moving, then knelt down to tie his shoe, lowering his head as he did, and then gave me a wink and a slight nod on his way back up. It worked, just like in the detective books. I’d given him the signal for undercover surveillance and he’d bought it. Maybe he’d seen Razor and Tommy taking the tags off the shirts they’d worn out of the store, or maybe he thought we were all playing a game of Manhunt in the mall. Whatever. I couldn’t be bothered to give a shit. As he sidled up to them, and they fumbled around in their pockets to show him receipts, I flew out from behind the planter, booked up the escalator steps, and slipped away.

  I triple-timed it toward JC Penney’s, seeing a few girls with moms or college-aged sisters getting a head start on their back-to-school shopping and some nerdy-looking teenagers acting, well, nerdy, in front of Radio Shack, but not much of anything else as I whizzed by. Once I was in the store, I took refuge behind a group of mannequins to see if anyone was hot on my heels, and although I didn’t see anyone coming, I realized that checking to make sure I wasn’t being followed only made me feel like I was. Since JC Penney’s had a sporting goods section in addition to hardware, appliances, clothes, and whateve
r else, it hit me that I could finish what I was doing in one stop, and then scram. And because nobody ever went into JC Penney’s except parents dragging their unwilling kids and old people so old they didn’t even like bingo anymore, I knew I’d be safe.

  I grabbed a shopping basket, filled it with painting supplies in hardware, and weaved my way in and out of lawn care, patio furniture, and seasonal, through electronics and lighting, and over to sporting goods. Standing in front of an entire aisle of backpacks, rucksacks, gym bags, tote bags, and duffel bags of all sizes, colors, and styles, it took me about half a second to figure out that just about all of them were more than big enough for the contraband I was lugging. The backpack I had on was big enough, too, and Thrash said I could’ve just used that as a gauge. I told him I agreed, but it hadn’t seemed thorough enough.

  And I had to be thorough, so I dropped the basket in sporting goods, went to house and kitchen wares, and was glad I did when I got there. Right away I saw that stepstools or short ladders were a problem; even the smallest fold-ups that extended high enough to reach the middle of the sign were too bulky or too heavy or too awkward to carry easily, while the really small ones wouldn’t get you anywhere near the correct height. My picture of the crime was off, but it was good to know how, because the perpetrators still must’ve stood on something.

  I kept searching the store and saw that a metal trash can turned upside down would do the trick but was too conspicuous; a flipped-over laundry basket was too low; and a large cardboard box with someone on top would collapse under the weight. I noticed some plastic containers the same shape, size, and construction as milk crates near the back-to-school stuff, so I picked one up, felt how light it was, stacked two together, one on top of the other, and saw that they would work. That was just it, though: you needed at least two of them, and even if one criminal carried one and the other criminal carried the other, Perry Mason could still hawk them down without breaking much of a sweat.

  I was drawing a blank, ready to head out, and noticed a male cashier and the old lady beside him staring right at me. It made me feel uneasy, like I was the only one who’d forgotten to wear pants, so I turned quickly to go and almost smacked face-first into the special-offer display directly in front of me. It was an entire pyramid of lightweight ten-foot, roll-up plastic rope, home fire-escape ladders, complete with hooks at the top to hold the sill of a second-story window. I stopped short just before I crashed into the display, but I almost fell over anyway. That was it. It had to be. Rolled up, one of those ladders could fit into a large backpack or duffel bag. You could sling it over your shoulders like a quiver of arrows, get it out of the bag fast, throw the hooks over the top of the sign from the ground, do your business, pack it up quick, and still have free hands to pump like crazy as you fled. And you could do all that for just $19.99.

  It was a bit pricey, sure, but I bet plenty of families around here already had ladders like that, especially families by the reservoir. Light, portable, a cinch to use—shit, I sounded like a commercial—but most important, it fit. My picture of the crime was complete: a small can of black paint, a paintbrush, a screwdriver, a roll-up ladder, and two bags or backpacks, one for each culprit, to split up the load. I knew how it’d been done; now all I had to find out was who’d done it.

  I rode the escalator inside JC Penney’s to the ground floor, just to be safe, and was cautious going out into the mall. It took me all of about three steps to wish I’d been even more cautious, though, because that’s when I felt that meaty mitt slap down on my shoulder. I craned my neck back to see who it was but still only managed to take in a small fraction of Tommy Sharpe’s colossal upper body.

  “Hey, Razor,” he called out, “look what I found.”

  All of a sudden Razor was trotting toward me from out of nowhere, kind of like Pepé Le Pew, only he was taller and warming his knuckles.

  Shit. The trap was closing and I only had a split second before the lid snapped shut. I took a quick lunge step away from Tommy, to get the arm holding me fully extended, then spun back toward him as hard and fast as I could, into his thumb, so he couldn’t clamp his grip all the way. If he did, I’d be tenderized, seasoned, and cooked for sure: dinner for two. But he couldn’t tighten his grip with my shoulder pushing his thumb back—his wrist folded up and his hand loosened. I jammed my arms out, shoved him in the chest to make some space, and floored it for all I was worth.

  “You are so dead, shit dick!” Razor yelled from behind.

  Funny, I didn’t feel dead, but I knew I could be if I was stupid enough to let them catch me. I chugged hard toward the escalator, shortening my strides and cutting left, right, left, right to avoid the late-afternoon shoppers. Razor’s cursing was getting softer behind me; I was putting some distance between us. All I had to do was make it up the escalator and I’d be gone. But as I got close, a lady with a baby carriage wheeled in front, taking her sweet time making a half-circle to back it up the parading steps.

  Fucking baby carriages. I couldn’t get past her; there wasn’t enough room. I hit the brakes, spun on my heels, and came to a full stop with Razor and Tommy, all green-and-white jerseys, red cheeks, long arms, and blazing eyes, thundering full bore at me. I didn’t think; I didn’t have time to. I just squatted down low like a catcher to cover up, and both of them swung high, hit air, and blew right by me. But that’s what happened when you only played offense; you weren’t taught you had to breakdown before you tackled your man.

  Fucking idiots. I gassed it, dropping the accelerator to the floorboard. Well, almost. They were after me again and I was tempted to light it up for real and leave a molten lava of fake marble floors in my wake. But I’d just had the narrowest of escapes and probably wouldn’t be lucky enough to make another if I outran myself and took a tumble. So I popped it into as close to all out as I could control, and let them sample some of my dust.

  In a few seconds, I was pulling away from them. Only thing was, I was running the wrong way: Abraham and Straus was at the other end of the mall. But I also knew it was dumber than hell to lead them there, because with them on my tail I’d never be able to get the Cruiser unlocked in time to ride off. And Razor had a moped, so it might not make any difference if I got to the Cruiser anyway. Shit. Even worse: Sam Goody’s, end of the corridor, was dead ahead. I was cornered. There was nothing for it—I’d have to turn around, face them, and run the gauntlet again.

  I stopped and turned. This time Razor and Tommy were ready. They’d chopped their steps, slowed down, and fanned out. There were only two of them, but they were so big and broad, it looked like a whole mob of angry teens was headed my way. Tommy was on the left and Razor was on the right, and they were close enough to me that I could hear the profanities and promises of violence through their panting breaths. Razor was the faster of the two—that was obvious—so I inhaled deeply and ran right at him, about two-thirds full speed. Not right at him, actually, but wide to my right, his left, so he had to step laterally and cross his feet to cut me off. When he was within range, maybe a yard or two from contact, I played it like a kick return, stopped short, made a three-quarter reverse spin, and busted all ass far, far left, to get around Tommy, who was cruising over to mop up the carnage. Tommy was caught off guard by my cutback, tried to stop, grunted, swiped a hand out at me, grabbed the collar of my shirt, and tore it clean off just before Razor, quickly reversing his field, slammed into him. I heard what sounded like the dull plonk of their heads whacking together, and wanted more than anything to stand around pointing and laughing at them till I puked.

  But it wasn’t time to celebrate just yet; they’d recover soon and be back on the chase. They were well behind me now, though, so all I had to do was make it up the escalator in the center of the mall, out the nearest exit, and then take the sidewalk outside to the entrance of A&S, where the Cruiser was. And if I got out the exit quickly enough, by the time they’d reached the escalators and looked around for me, I’d just be gone. I pushed forward again, breathing
evenly, keeping my upper body relaxed as I pumped my arms, gobbling up the distance between the escalators and me like Pac-Man after a hunger strike. The fountain up ahead seemed as if it were racing toward me on a conveyor belt, and I saw that I was in luck, because the escalator was clear.

  I looked left and right to see if anyone was moving toward the escalator, crossing into my path before I got there, but all I noticed was the shiny-black skin and low-top fade of a really tall kid disappearing behind one of the shelves in the bookstore. I didn’t have a chance to look again because I was hopping up the escalator steps two and three at a time, but I was positive it was Orlando. Nobody else in town looked anything like him, unless he’d gone out and found himself a twin. I wondered if he’d seen me, and I wondered more if he knew that Razor and Tommy were there. Then I just felt worried.

  But there was nothing much I could do about it, so I burst through the exit doors and kept motoring along the sidewalk to A&S. I unlocked the Cruiser, jumped on the seat, and heard a loud metallic thud directly beneath me. I scanned the entrance and the surrounding sidewalks, my heart hammering and my stomach spiraling down to my feet. Somebody had let the air out of both my goddamn tires! I got off the Cruiser and started running with it across the parking lot. I had to get out of sight in a serious goddamn hurry, or Razor and Tommy might pick up my trail. And that would mean curtains.