Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man by Wendelin Van Draanen Page B

are about ten old beat-up cars right around the Oil Man’s house. He wipeshis hands on a rag. “I ain’t breaking any ordinance. You’ve had the cops down here so many times you ought to know that by now.”
    “That’s because you move them right before they get here!” Cell Phone rubs his forehead and says, “Look.
Please
. I’m trying to sell this house, and it just won’t move with your cars parked out front.”
    Oil Man sneers and says, “Sorry, buddy. That’s your problem, not mine,” then walks away.
    You can tell from the way Cell Phone’s hands are turning into fists that he’d like to
make
it his problem, but he just marches back up to his own house and slams the door.
    I start walking again, and I’m about a block from the police station when something starts rattling around in my brain. At first it’s kind of quiet—just a little rumble. But before you know it, it’s like a gorilla up there, shaking a cage. And when the cage busts open, I quit walking to the police station and cut over to the mall to find a phone booth.
    I flip through the realty section of the yellow pages, trying to remember the name on the sign. I know it’s Sunrise or Sunshine … Sun-
something
, so I keep on looking until I find it: Sunset Realty.
    When a woman answers the phone, I pinch my nose and say, “There’s a house on Orange Street? Six twenty-nine East Orange? Can you tell me a little about it?”
    I listen to her it’s-a-darling-three-bedroom-starter-home-with-the-feel-of-real-country-living spiel, and when she comes up for air I ask, “Has it been on the market long?”
    What does she say? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I slap the phone and say, “Hello? Are you still there?”
    “Um, yes. I’m sorry. What was that?”
    “Has it been on the market long?”
    “A little while, yes, but the price I quoted you is ten thousand
under
the fair market price. The seller is definitely motivated. Would you like to arrange a walkthrough?”
    The last thing I want is a tour of Mr. Chainsaw’s house, so I pinch my nose again and say, “Let me discuss this with my husband first.” Then while she’s trying to get my name and number I say, “Would you mind telling me something about the neighbor first?”
    “The neighbor?”
    “You know—the one with the bushes?”
    She just sighs. “I don’t know what the situation is over there. Look. It’s a darling house. I’m sure you’d fall in love with it if you’d just take a walk-through. I could meet you over there in half an hour if you’d like …”
    I tell her I’ll have to get back to her, and hang up the phone. Then I head back across the street to the police station. And as I’m crossing over the police station driveway, a squad car comes bouncing up and practically runs me down.
    I’m about to say, “Hey! Watch it!” when I realize that it’s Officer Borsch behind the wheel—acting like he doesn’t see me.
    I wave my arm back and forth, but he’s still looking right through me. Finally he starts to maneuver the car around me, but I move over a few steps and block his way again.
    Muscles is sitting next to him, and he motions me to move aside. I hold up the paper sack and call, “I’ve got something to show you!”
    Officer Borsch whips off his sunglasses, throws them on the dash, and hollers, “I told you to stay out of it!” because he knows I’m not there to show him my groceries.
    “But I’ve got some evidence!”
    Officer Borsch tries to rub away a headache while Muscles squeezes himself out of the passenger seat and says, “Let’s talk inside the station.”
    Muscles escorts me in, and when Officer Borsch joins us a minute later, he takes me straight down the hall and practically throws me into an interrogation room. And while he’s hiking up his pants and straightening out his gun belt he says, “Sit down,” like he’s spitting tobacco.
    I sit all right, but I roll my eyes at Muscles and whisper, “That breath