Case Closed by Jan Burke Page B

Society.”
    His eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah? Where’s your little collection can?”
    â€œI can’t carry it and move around on the crutches,” I said.
    â€œHmpf. You won’t get anything there,” he said, nodding toward the other apartment. “The place is empty.”
    â€œOh. I guess I’ll be going then.”
    I tried to move past him, but he pushed me hard against the wall, making me drop one of my crutches.
    â€œNo hurry, is there?” he said. “Let’s see if you’re really a cripple.”
    That was easy. I dropped the other crutch, then reached down and pulled my right pant leg up. He did what anybody does when they see my bad leg. They stare at it, and not because it’s beautiful.
    I used this chance to look past him into his apartment. From what I could see of it, it was small and neat. There was a table with two things on it: a flat, rectangular box and the part of a shot they call a syringe. It didn’t have a needle on it yet. You might think I’m showing off, but I knew it was called a syringe because I’ve spent a lot of time getting stuck by the full works, and sooner or later some nurse tells you more than you want to know about anything they do to you.
    Mackie picked up my crutches. I was trying to see into the paper sack, but all I could make out was that it was some kind of can. When Mackie straightened up again, his neck and ears were turning red. Maybe that’s what made me bold enough to say, “I lied.”
    His eyes narrowed again.
    â€œI’m not collecting for Crippled Children. I was just trying to raise some movie money.”
    He started laughing. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar. He dropped it into my shirt pocket. “Kid, you earned it,” he said and went into his apartment.
    I leaned against the wall for another minute, my heart thumping hard against that silver dollar. Then I left and made my way to the hardware store.
    No other customers were in there. The old man behind the counter was reading a newspaper. I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, sir, but Mackie sent me over to pick up another can.”
    â€œAnother one? You can tell Mackie he’s got to come here himself.” He looked up at me and then looked away really fast. I’m used to it. “Look,” he said, talking into the newspaper, “I’m not selling weed killer to any kid, crippled or no. The stuff’s poisonous.” That’s the way he said it: “crippled or no.” Like I had come in there asking for special treatment.
    I had too much on my mind to worry about it. I was thinking about why a guy who lived in a place like the Coronet would need weed killer. “What’s weed killer got in it, anyway?” I asked.
    He folded his newspaper down and looked at me like my brain was as lame as my leg. “Arsenic. Eat a little of that and you’re a goner.”
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    At home that night, I kept an eye on Harvey. I noticed that even though he was still laying it on thick with my mom, he was nervous. He kept watching the clock on the mantel. My mom was in the kitchen, making lunches, and he kept looking between the kitchen and the clock. When the phone rang at eight, he jumped up to answer it, yelling, “I got it.” To the person on the phone, he said, “Just a sec.” He turned to me and said, “Get ready for bed.”
    I thought of arguing, but changed my mind. I went into the hallway, and waited just out of sight. I hoped he’d talk as loud as he usually did. He tried to speak softly, but I could still hear him.
    â€œNo, no, that’s too soon. I have some arrangements to make.” He paused, then said, “Saturday, then. Good.”
    That night, when my mom came in to say good night, I told her not to let Harvey fix her anything to eat, or take anything from him that came in a rectangular box. “He wants to