Sammy Keyes and the Runaway Elf by Wendelin Van Draanen Page B

of my mouth was, “You know Mrs. Graybill?”
    “That meddlesome woman down the hall?”
    I nodded. “She’s in a nursing home.”
    He studied me for a minute, then looked up at the sky. “I wouldn’t wish a nursing home on anyone.” He smoothed back an eyebrow and said, “In your case, though, it doesn’t seem to be providing the relief that one might expect.”
    I let out a big sigh, then told him about how she’d acted like I was a long-lost friend, wanting to hold my hand and stuff. And when I got to the part about Billy McCabe and her sister, he shook his head and said, “That’s a shame. Worse, that’s a waste. From the outside it seems so senseless, but from inside, spite is like an addiction. Like greed or power. It’s certainly as strong a motivator.” He cupped his cocoa in his hands and blew on the steam. “The cure’s a little forgiveness, but it seems hard to come by for some.” He turned to me. “She has no one?”
    I looked back up at the moon and shook my head. No one, I thought.
    No one but me.
    *  *  *
    I was on my way home to Grams when I got an idea. A very bad idea. Now, there’s no way I look anything but underage, but the more I thought about it, the more Irationalized that Palmer’s was a bar and
grill
, not just a bar, and that maybe—just maybe—there was an area of video games where I could hole up and spy on Paula Nook.
    Palmer’s is out on West Main. Not quite as far as Petersen’s Prints, but almost. And I don’t really know what I was going there to watch Paula do; it just seemed more constructive than sitting around the Senior Highrise wishing for an answer.
    Now, I wasn’t really thinking about Mr. Petersen—he was like a block away in my mind. But as I walked past the parking lot I did a double take, because sitting right there between an old Toyota and a lowered four-by-four was his Bug on Wheels.
    That got me a little nervous. I mean, Paula Nook might not really remember me. Not if she looked at me with both eyes, anyway. But Mr. Petersen? That was another story.
    So I stood there in the parking lot, watching the martini glass in the Palmer’s sign flicker, telling myself that I should go home. I really should go home. But finally I decided that it couldn’t hurt to check things out a little.
    I peered in the front door but couldn’t see much past an entry wall, so I went back around the corner, past the Bugmobile, and crouched behind a garbage can that was propping open a side door. Inside were two men working in the kitchen; one was rinsing down the sink, and the other was smashing the grease out of a patty on the grill. There were boxes all over the floor—like someone had been stocking up on paper towels and onions—and right in front of the refrigerator was a rolling rack of hamburger buns and bread. There wasn’t a copper pan in sight.
    Next to the grill, on a back burner, was a big pot of soup that was bubbling and spurting like lava from a volcano. The guy at the sink yelled something in Spanish to the guy at the grill, who reached over and turned the heat down.
    So there I am, cuddled up to a garbage can, holding as still as I can, when what comes crawling across my feet? A rat. And I’m not talking mouse, here—I’m talking this thing could eat cats.
    I banged the trash can pretty good trying to get away from it, and when the goulash gourmets looked over to see what was causing all the commotion, well, I didn’t wait for them to chase me down. I just scrambled around the corner and hid in the back alley.
    The alley was a trash heap. I kept one eye out for monster mice while I watched for the cooks to appear at the kitchen door. When they didn’t show, I took a look down the alley and noticed that Palmer’s back door was propped open, too.
    I worked my way through the garbage to the back door and peeked inside. There was a skinny hallway that ramped up to some pool tables at the back of the restaurant. On one side of it were more boxes; on