Thieving Weasels Read online

“Of course.”

  “Good, then let me see those, and maybe we can get to the bottom of this.”

  “I mean, I don’t actually have them here with me. They’re in my dorm room upstate.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Then, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  Anger flared inside me. “Listen,” I hissed. “I pay my bills, okay?”

  “Please lower your voice, sir.”

  “Why? Will that help you solve my problem?”

  “No, but if you don’t, I’ll have to call the police.”

  The P word calmed me down right away. “Look,” I said in a somewhat less threatening voice, “I’m sorry I shouted at you, but I need that phone. My mother’s in a mental institution, and I have to be accessible.”

  The sales rep leaned in. “Why don’t you just buy a Pay as You Go phone. That way you’ll at least have a working number until your bill gets straightened out.”

  I pulled out my debit card. “Fine, give me one of those.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t sell you anything until your account is paid in full. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but they carry them at lots of other stores around town.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  After a childhood of crime, few things gave me greater pleasure than paying my bills on time. Verizon had messed up big time, and as soon as I got my hands on those receipts I planned on jamming them down the nearest sales rep’s throat. Walgreens carried a disposable phone for seventeen bucks, and that plus fifteen dollars for extra minutes turned my debit card into a pumpkin. I walked outside and dialed Claire before I even got to my car.

  “Hey,” I said when she answered. “It’s me.”

  “Cam! Are you okay? I’ve been calling you nonstop since we pulled out of the parking lot yesterday.”

  “Verizon screwed up my account, and I had to get a temporary phone until they fix my old one.”

  “Thank God it’s just that. I was beginning to think you were abducted by aliens.”

  “Nope. Just a little institute of higher learning named Princeton University.”

  “You got in!” Claire shrieked so loud I thought she was going to blow out the earpiece of my new phone. “That’s so freaking fantastic! When did you find out?”

  “Right after you left.”

  “Oh man! I’m sorry I wasn’t there to celebrate with you.”

  “Me too. This place is like a prison without you. Can you believe it’s only been twenty-four hours since you left? It feels like a week.”

  “More like a month. My mother’s driving me bananas and keeps bugging me to clean my room so she can donate all my stuff to the Junior League rummage sale.”

  “Isn’t your mother a little old to be in the Junior League?”

  “Only by a couple of decades. And you won’t believe how competitive she is about it. Last year she even bought a ton of stuff on eBay so she’d have the best items to donate.”

  “That’s nuts! And speaking of things that are nuts, why the hell haven’t you written your Princeton essay yet?”

  “I’m practically finished. Do you want to read it?” she asked.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Great. I’ll e-mail it to you right now.”

  I glanced around the Walgreens parking lot, but didn’t see a place to check my e-mail. “Actually,” I said, “I was just about to take the bus to Saratoga Springs and deal with Verizon. Can I do it later?”

  “Oh. Okay, sure. I just thought you might want to check your e-mail now.” Then after a dramatic pause added, “But maybe you’re not that interested in the Possibility of Expulsion.”

  “The Possibility of Expulsion?” I said, unlocking my Mustang. “Give me ten minutes.”

  “Great! And don’t worry about your phone.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see,” she said, and hung up.

  The Possibility of Expulsion was our secret code for the next stage of our relationship. According to the Wheaton handbook, students caught having sex were subject to all sorts of disciplinary measures, including “the Possibility of Expulsion.” Unlike drugs and alcohol, I would have happily risked expulsion to spend the night with Claire. Unfortunately, between her adenoidal roommate, my insanely attentive housemaster, and the stacks at the Stokes Library being closed for renovation, the opportunity had not presented itself.

  I pulled out of the Walgreens parking lot and raced to the nearest public library with the possibilities of expulsion dancing in my head. As happy as I was that Claire had almost finished her essay, part of me was jealous that she had banged it out so quickly. But that was Claire. It didn’t matter what the class or assignment, she always put in half the effort and got twice the results. This used to drive me crazy until I’d learned to tolerate it in the same selfless manner I’d learned to tolerate her brains, beauty, and charm.

  I fast-talked my way onto an unoccupied computer and clicked on Claire’s e-mail, but instead of finding her essay there was an invitation to something called Claire’s Christmas Extravaganza.

  “Surprise!” she said when I called her back.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “Remember when I told you my parents were leaving for Virgin Gorda right after we opened presents on Christmas morning?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d planned on spending the week between Christmas and New Year’s working on my essay, but now that it’s practically finished I decided to throw a party in your honor. I invited all my old friends, and they can’t wait to meet you.”

  “Sounds great, but I’d still like to read your essay.”

  “Don’t worry. You can read it when you get here.”

  My e-mail pinged, and a message from the Wheaton Financial Aid Office appeared in my in-box. I clicked on the link, and a very real possibility of expulsion appeared on the screen:

  Dear Cameron,

  It has come to our attention that you failed to disclose a significant amount of income on your financial aid form this year. If there’s a reasonable explanation for this oversight, please contact our office immediately. Otherwise, we will be forced to rescind your scholarship for the remainder of the academic year.

  Yours truly,

  Dean Bell

  Director of Financial Aid

  I stared at the computer and began to shake. Accepted or not, my admittance to Princeton was contingent on completing my last semester at Wheaton. A reasonable explanation for this oversight? Of course there was. Uncle Wonderful knew a guy, who knew a guy, who hacked into Wheaton’s computers and did something to my account. And now that I thought about it, he had probably done the same thing to my phone. I stared out the library window and wondered why, out of all the families in the world, I had been born into mine. Was I simply unlucky, or was there something more nefarious at work? Maybe the father I never knew stole a valuable trinket from the gods, and I was doomed to suffer for the rest of my days. It was as good an explanation as any.

  Claire asked me a question, and I snapped back to reality.

  “What was that?” I replied.

  “I said, ‘Do you want me to send you the train schedule to Saratoga?’”

  “Uh, sure. That would be great.”

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “Your voice just got all funny.”

  What I should have said was “Funny? Funny how?” but I was so freaked out by my financial aid fiasco that I accidentally told the truth.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “This thing with my mother has me totally freaked out.”

  “Your mother?” Claire said after a pause. “I thought your mother was dead.”

  Busted.

  I shifted into Weasel Mode and tried to figure out my next move. I hated lying to Claire, and if there was ever a time to tell her the truth about my family this was it. Then I thought abou
t my mother, and Uncle Wonderful, and the hundreds of people I’d robbed, and knew I couldn’t tell her. It didn’t matter how much she cared about me, Claire was an honest and upright person and would have dumped me before I had even finished my story.

  So, I lied. I lied hoping I would never have to lie to her again.

  “My mother is dead,” I said. “Today is the anniversary of her death.”

  “Oh, Cam, I’m so sorry. You never talk about her.”

  “I know,” I replied truthfully. “It’s just too hard.”

  We finished our conversation, and as I walked out of the library I remembered something Grandpa Patsy told me the day he gave me my good name.

  “Remember, Skipper,” he said, pulling my passport and birth certificate out of his storage locker, “your good name is the most valuable gift I can ever give you so take very good care of it.”

  His words still echoed in my ears, and I looked up at the sky and said, “I tried, Grandpa Patsy. I really did.”

  Then I got in my car and went to kill Uncle Wonderful.

  10

  TEN MINUTES LATER I PULLED UP TO UNCLE WONDERFUL’S HOUSE ready to pound his nose through the back of his head. After all he’d done for me, it was the least I could do. I barreled up the front walk with my fists squeezed tight and was about to kick down the door when it flew open and Uncle Wonderful appeared holding a gun.

  “Hello, Skipper.”

  “Hi, Uncle Wonderful. Could you do me a favor and put that gun away so I can beat you to death without getting shot?”

  “Beat me to death and you won’t be going back to that fancy school of yours.”

  “I’m already not going back to that fancy school of mine, thanks to you.”

  He held up his hands like a scale. “Uncle Wonderful giveth and Uncle Wonderful taketh away.” Then he lowered his arms and said, “Actually, it’s more like the other way around.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m saying come inside and maybe, just maybe, we can come to an arrangement that’s beneficial to both of us.”

  Seeing no alternative, and not wanting a murder conviction on my permanent record, I unclenched my fists and followed him inside.

  “You want a biscotti?” he asked, leading me into the kitchen.

  “No, I don’t want a biscotti.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He set the gun on the counter and pulled a package of Stella D’oro from the cabinet. As he crumbled two biscotti into a bowl and poured milk over them, I glanced down at his gun and thought about all the times Roy and I had played with it when we were kids. It seemed like every time Uncle Wonderful and Aunt Marie left the house one of us would sneak into their bedroom and get it from the closet shelf. It was a miracle we didn’t shoot each other.

  Uncle Wonderful sat down at the kitchen table and mashed up his biscotti with a spoon. “So, here’s the deal,” he began. “We need a second man for a job Roy’s planning and we want that man to be you.”

  “No way,” I replied before the last word was out of his mouth.

  “But you haven’t heard the terms of the deal yet.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m out of the game. End of story.”

  He sighed then stuck his fingers deep in his mouth and pulled out his teeth. Uncle Wonderful had always been vain about his looks, and the slicked-back hair, golf-pro image he’d been cultivating since I was a kid looked totally ridiculous without teeth.

  “Yuck,” I said, turning away. “Do you have to do that right at the table?”

  He placed the teeth on a saucer and said, “What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever seen a pair of falsies before?”

  “Not on you.”

  “Get used to them, kiddo, because they’re a permanent part of my life from now on.”

  “What happened to your old ones?”

  “Nothing special. I always had lousy teeth, and when I figured out a way to get the Veteran’s Administration to pay for them I figured it was time for an upgrade.”

  “But you’re not a veteran,” I said.

  “A mere detail,” Uncle Wonderful said with a smile. “They had to make three sets, the incompetent jerks, but this pair fits like a glove. The only problem is I haven’t gotten used to wearing them while eating.”

  “What did you do with the other two pairs?” I asked.

  “I keep them for backup in case something happens to these. Now back to the business at hand.” He shoveled a spoonful of mushy biscotti into his mouth and said, “Maybe I didn’t explain myself properly a minute ago, so let me say it differently. You help Roy with this job, and I’ll make sure that problem with your scholarship goes away.”

  “What about Vinny? I thought he was Roy’s partner.”

  “Vinny’s good people, but this job requires a little more finesse than Vinny’s capable of.” He picked up his teeth and gun and said, “Think about it for a minute. I gotta wash these things off and apply more adhesive.”

  “To the dentures or the gun?” I asked with a grin.

  “Don’t be a wisenheimer.”

  He walked away, and I looked around the kitchen. Despite the fact that I wanted to murder Uncle Wonderful, I had nothing but fond memories of this house and eating Sunday dinner there with Aunt Marie and Grandpa Patsy. It was one of the few permanent things in my life.

  As was my family’s nonsense.

  I grabbed a biscotti from the package and weighed my options. There were two, as far as I could tell: I could say yes to Uncle Wonderful’s offer and go back to school and a life of infinite possibilities. Or I could say no, and . . .

  And what? Live on the streets? Sleep in a cardboard box?

  My choices were limited, and they both stank. I racked my brain trying to think of an alternative, but there wasn’t one. I had to take Roy’s job, and my only wiggle room was in the details.

  Uncle Wonderful reappeared with his teeth back where they were supposed to be and sat down at the table.

  “So?” he asked. “What’s it gonna be?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Good.”

  Then I held up a finger and said, “After I hear about the job.”

  “It’s Roy’s deal. He’ll fill you in on the details.”

  “Okay, but just remember. I’m strictly backup on this. I’ll drive, do recon, make phone calls. I’ll do whatever it takes as long as no one outside the family knows I’m involved.”

  Uncle Wonderful nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

  “So what’s my cut?”

  “Your cut? Your cut is I don’t break your arms for stealing Grandpa Patsy’s money.”

  “Grandpa Patsy’s money?” I replied with an innocence I’d been rehearsing for the last four years. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Save it. We opened Grandpa Patsy’s storage locker after the funeral, and it was empty. You were the only one besides me and your mother who knew where it was.”

  I looked him in the eye. “Did you ask her if she stole it?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “And?”

  “She said she didn’t.”

  “And you believed her?” I said with a laugh. “Why?”

  “Because you took off.”

  “I took off because I didn’t want to be a thief for the rest of my life. Think about it. Where did the money for Mom’s new house come from? And that Mustang out there didn’t just buy itself.”

  A look of confusion crossed his face, and I thought I had him until he gritted his dentures and said, “Listen up, you little snot. You say one more bad thing about your mother and, job or no job, I’ll break your arms.”

  I held up my hands and said, “Sorry, but I still need to be compensated for the money I would have made working in the cafeteria back at school.”


  “How much are we talking about here?”

  “Let’s see, twenty hours a week for two weeks, plus double time on Christmas. With tax and tip that’s . . .” I pretended to run the numbers in my head. “Three-hundred-and-fifty dollars.”

  Uncle Wonderful burst out laughing. “Three-hundred-and-fifty bucks for two weeks’ work? You’re getting taken.”

  “It’s honest money.”

  “If you say so. I just never realized honesty came at such a steep discount.” He pulled out his wallet and said, “I’ll tell you what. Just to show you what a nice guy I am, I’ll throw in an extra fifty bucks and make it an even four hundred.”

  Uncle Wonderful counted out four hundred dollars and handed it to me. I felt a little guilty lying to him—the school cafeteria was closed for the holidays, and I wouldn’t have made a dime during the break—but I needed the money to visit Claire. Better still, the cash said Uncle Wonderful believed—at least a tiny bit—that my mother had robbed Grandpa Patsy’s storage locker. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized he must have thought that all along.

  Otherwise, he would have already broken my arms.

  11

  THE AMOUNT OF MONEY IN GRANDPA PATSY’S STORAGE locker was always this big family mystery, and estimates ranged everywhere from five hundred thousand dollars all the way up to five million. Imagine my surprise when I broke into it, and there was only a hundred thousand dollars inside. But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Growing up, I’d watched Grandpa Patsy throw away hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars each week betting on football and basketball games. Those kinds of losses add up, and I knew of at least two bookies who had sent their grandkids to Catholic school on Grandpa Patsy’s nickel. This last fact weighed heavily on my grandfather and was why, when I showed him a brochure for Wheaton Academy, he offered to pay my way. After a lifetime of betting on losers, he said with a tear in his eye, he wanted to go out backing a winner.

  The only problem was Grandpa Patsy died without telling anyone about his promise to me. This was probably a good thing, considering my mother or Uncle Wonderful would have talked him out of it, but it put me in the tricky situation of having to steal money that was rightfully mine. Wheaton cost thirty thousand dollars a year, and my intention was to take only what I needed for four years of school. This plan went up in flames the moment I saw how much money was really inside that locker. My family had been drooling over Grandpa Patsy’s fortune for years, and there was no way they’d believe there was only a hundred grand left, and it all belonged to me.