been painted in thick layers of metallic gold. One of the front legs was missing and a lot of the paint was flaking, but if you squinted, it could definitely be a throne.
Without a doubt, Arthur knew this was the chair Mr. Hampton wanted.
The trick was how to get the thing onto the cart. It took him forever to figure out how to lift it and balance it on the top of the cart, and then he spent more than an hour slowly pushing it back to the garage. As he was crossing one street, a guy in a pickup truck offered Arthur ten bucks for the thing. “I’ll take it off your hands,” he said.
Arthur shook his head and kept going.
Two other people stopped to ask if he needed help. One car full of high school jerks honked and yelled stuff at him. Arthur resisted the urge to make a rude gesture. He just kept staring straight ahead, pretending he’d seen nothing.
When he finally got back to the garage, he left the chair sitting right next to the side door so Hampton wouldn’t miss it. He put the sign that said ARTUR—FIND THRONE CHAIR in the middle of the red velvet seat, as if to emphasize that this was it. He’d found the perfect one.
He couldn’t wait to see what James Hampton thought of it.
TWENTY-SIX
O n the following Saturday, February 8, it was raining. A steady, cold rain. And there were no messages from Mr. Hampton when Arthur arrived. Which was odd.
Arthur was so sure he had found the perfect chair—the perfect throne—for Mr. Hampton that he was kind of disappointed the guy hadn’t left a single word to thank him. A little note would have been nice. Especially after all the hassle he’d gone through to haul the chair back to the garage. He thought he should have gotten a few hours deducted from his probation just for that.
Strangely, the shopping cart was missing too.
Arthur walked around outside, carefully stepping over the piles of old concrete blocks and junk, looking for the cart.
He wasn’t sure what to do. Mr. Hampton had never forgotten to leave him an assignment before, no matter what the weather was—and he’d collected junk for the guy in a lot worse weather than this.
On his second walk around the building, Arthur happened to notice that the side door of the garage was slightly open. Just a small crack.
That was strange, he thought. It had never been open before. Had Mr. Hampton forgotten to lock it? Or did the open door mean he was supposed to go in?
Something about the open door made him nervous. There was no sign of anyone else around. He couldn’t see any lights on inside. He couldn’t hear anyone working.
He glanced toward Groovy Jim’s shop, wondering if he should go and ask him for help. But Groovy Jim had a customer—a rare occurrence—and he didn’t want to bother him. Plus, he thought it would sound kind of crazy if he interrupted someone’s tattoo to say he was jumpy about a missing shopping cart and an open door. It was eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning, not midnight, for cripes’ sake.
Arthur decided he would knock on the side door and call out for Mr. Hampton. If the guy wasn’t there, or didn’t answer, he’d go home and let Officer Billie know that nobody had been around. He hoped he’d still get credit for his four hours and hadn’t slogged around in the pouring rain for nothing.
Taking a deep breath, Arthur rapped his knuckles on the doorframe and shouted through the dark opening, “Hey, Mr. Hampton, it’s Arthur Owens out here. It’s Saturday. Can I help you with anything today?”
He knew it sounded really dumb, but he didn’t know what else to say. It was how his mom always answered the phone at the dentist’s office when he called her.
Hello, this is Linda at Dr. Driscoll’s office. Can I help you with anything today?
Honestly, he wasn’t expecting a reply to his question. But right after he said “Can I help you with anything today?” there was a noise inside the garage. It sounded as if a can—or something metallic—had suddenly hit
Without a doubt, Arthur knew this was the chair Mr. Hampton wanted.
The trick was how to get the thing onto the cart. It took him forever to figure out how to lift it and balance it on the top of the cart, and then he spent more than an hour slowly pushing it back to the garage. As he was crossing one street, a guy in a pickup truck offered Arthur ten bucks for the thing. “I’ll take it off your hands,” he said.
Arthur shook his head and kept going.
Two other people stopped to ask if he needed help. One car full of high school jerks honked and yelled stuff at him. Arthur resisted the urge to make a rude gesture. He just kept staring straight ahead, pretending he’d seen nothing.
When he finally got back to the garage, he left the chair sitting right next to the side door so Hampton wouldn’t miss it. He put the sign that said ARTUR—FIND THRONE CHAIR in the middle of the red velvet seat, as if to emphasize that this was it. He’d found the perfect one.
He couldn’t wait to see what James Hampton thought of it.
TWENTY-SIX
O n the following Saturday, February 8, it was raining. A steady, cold rain. And there were no messages from Mr. Hampton when Arthur arrived. Which was odd.
Arthur was so sure he had found the perfect chair—the perfect throne—for Mr. Hampton that he was kind of disappointed the guy hadn’t left a single word to thank him. A little note would have been nice. Especially after all the hassle he’d gone through to haul the chair back to the garage. He thought he should have gotten a few hours deducted from his probation just for that.
Strangely, the shopping cart was missing too.
Arthur walked around outside, carefully stepping over the piles of old concrete blocks and junk, looking for the cart.
He wasn’t sure what to do. Mr. Hampton had never forgotten to leave him an assignment before, no matter what the weather was—and he’d collected junk for the guy in a lot worse weather than this.
On his second walk around the building, Arthur happened to notice that the side door of the garage was slightly open. Just a small crack.
That was strange, he thought. It had never been open before. Had Mr. Hampton forgotten to lock it? Or did the open door mean he was supposed to go in?
Something about the open door made him nervous. There was no sign of anyone else around. He couldn’t see any lights on inside. He couldn’t hear anyone working.
He glanced toward Groovy Jim’s shop, wondering if he should go and ask him for help. But Groovy Jim had a customer—a rare occurrence—and he didn’t want to bother him. Plus, he thought it would sound kind of crazy if he interrupted someone’s tattoo to say he was jumpy about a missing shopping cart and an open door. It was eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning, not midnight, for cripes’ sake.
Arthur decided he would knock on the side door and call out for Mr. Hampton. If the guy wasn’t there, or didn’t answer, he’d go home and let Officer Billie know that nobody had been around. He hoped he’d still get credit for his four hours and hadn’t slogged around in the pouring rain for nothing.
Taking a deep breath, Arthur rapped his knuckles on the doorframe and shouted through the dark opening, “Hey, Mr. Hampton, it’s Arthur Owens out here. It’s Saturday. Can I help you with anything today?”
He knew it sounded really dumb, but he didn’t know what else to say. It was how his mom always answered the phone at the dentist’s office when he called her.
Hello, this is Linda at Dr. Driscoll’s office. Can I help you with anything today?
Honestly, he wasn’t expecting a reply to his question. But right after he said “Can I help you with anything today?” there was a noise inside the garage. It sounded as if a can—or something metallic—had suddenly hit
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