Authors: George Gipe
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I followed a young man in here who told me there might be something truly different for me to see.”
The Chinese gentleman nodded slowly. “My grandson,” he said in a surprisingly deep and resonant voice. The expression accompanying the two-word reply was a mixture of fondness and skepticism, confirming Rand’s earlier notion that the kid was a precocious con artist.
Never one to be discouraged, Rand had already decided to make his pitch. Looking around at the curio shop, which was cluttered with the usual array of frightening Oriental masks, ancient witchcraft tokens, rotting skulls, and dusty books on the occult, he made a sort of sweeping gesture. “Now, sir, if I may say something,” he began, “this is a very nice shop. But what you could use, in addition to this wonderful inventory you already have, are some new and modern items. Like this.”
He held up the object he had taken from his briefcase. A formless thing, it resembled a tuning fork to which clung a variety of smaller contrivances, gadgets, and appendages.
“Now let’s say you get on the train or bus for an important business appointment,” Rand began. “No sooner are you seated than you realize you forgot to brush your teeth. And your mouth feels like the government’s been using it to test deadly chemicals. Normally, you’d have cause for alarm, but not if you’ve got one of these—the Bathroom Buddy. It’s my own invention, just another product from the inventing laboratory of Rand Peltzer, the man who makes the impossible possible and the illogical logical.”
Ignoring the Chinese gentleman’s total lack of interest, Rand slid one arm from the side of the object, producing a sort of crude toothbrush. He then pushed a button, which in turn caused a spray of watery white paste to spurt out so hard it hit the nearby wall, then dribble slowly onto the floor.
“No problem,” Rand said, pushing the
OFF
switch.
The device continued to spew off-white gunk down the length of the object and into the palm of Rand’s hand, burbling thickly as it did so.
“No problem,” Rand repeated. “It cleans up easily. And when it works, it’s just one of ten highly useful parts of this Bathroom Buddy. Of course, I’m prejudiced, but I think you could use a few modern gadgets like this in your shop. How about if I put you down for a dozen? Believe me, even in a place like this, which isn’t exactly Sears Roebuck, they’ll be gone in a week.”
As if to punctuate Rand’s climactic promise, the Bathroom Buddy emitted a single loud noise, something between a belch and an explosion of wet cement, sending forth a thick geyser of gluey glop which eventually came to rest on the inventor’s left lapel.
“Still has a few bugs in it,” Rand said weakly.
The Chinese man broke then. Like Mount Rushmore suddenly coming to life, the lips parted, revealing a set of impressively huge teeth, and gales of laughter began to shake him. First he undulated sideways, then up and down. A trembling finger emerged from beneath the tunic and finally homed in on Rand, an accusing crook that bounced lightly as the old man shook with laughter.
“Tee-hee-hee . . . Thomas Edison,” he giggled. “Thomas Edison.”
Embarrassed but inured to the experience by past mishaps, Rand chuckled good-naturedly, especially when he noticed that the young shill had witnessed the demonstration and was also laughing. For a moment Rand merely faked his own laugh, waiting patiently for the moment of derision to end. As he did so, however, he became aware of a third voice in the choir of laughter. It was higher than those of the old man and boy, rather unearthly, a cross between the gurgle of an infant and shriek of a parrot.
“Wait,” he called out. “What’s that?”
It took a moment for the old man and boy to contain themselves. When they did so, their sudden silence isolated the alien voice, emphasizing its strange intonation as it continued to giggle in the background.
“I’ve never heard anything like that,” Rand muttered, looking from one Oriental to the other. They responded to his implied question with evasive expressions. The old man seemed to have developed a sudden fascination with a piece of paper on his desk; the boy, less subtle, merely turned away. Meanwhile, the bizarre laughter continued to echo from a small room just behind them.
“Boy, that must be something,” Rand said to no one in particular, moving toward the doorway of the room.
As he reached the entrance, he turned to look at the youngster. “Is that it?” he asked. “Is that the reason you brought me here? Is that the ‘different’ thing?”
The boy looked at the floor, intimidated by the sharp glance from his grandfather.
“Yeah, I guess it must be,” Rand replied to his own question. “I’d sure like to see who or what owns that laugh.”
Hesitating at the doorway, he paused as a sense of propriety gripped him. The back room, after all, was private, and regardless of his curiosity he felt it necessary to have their permission to look there.
In response, the old Chinese gentleman shrugged.
“Thanks,” Rand said.
Pushing his way through a set of beaded curtains, he entered the inner sanctum, waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Finally he was able to make out a table on which several dozen shoe boxes, each containing bits of assorted trinkets, were piled. Near them was a small box, about a foot square, draped with a piece of burlap. From behind the burlap came soft sounds—no longer the high-pitched gleeful giggle of a minute previously but something unearthly nonetheless. Moving to the edge of the table, he reached forward, now aware that the two Orientals had followed him and were standing at the doorway, their figures casting elongated shadows into the room.
Gently, almost reverentially, Rand lifted the burlap curtain.
“Wow,” he said softly.
He had never seen a creature like it before.
“What in the world is that?” Rand asked.
“Mogwai,” the old Chinese man replied.
“Mog—what?”
“It’s what he calls himself. It took me a while to find out. I have no idea what it means.”
“Mogwai,” Rand repeated. “Sounds like something from another planet. Too hard to remember and pronounce. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just plain Gizmo.”
The creature looked balefully at Rand, a low sound emanating from its closed mouth.
“What’s he doing?” Rand asked.
“Singing,” the Chinese youngster replied. “He only does that for people he likes.”
Rand smiled. “What’s he eat?” he asked.
The old man returned the smile. “Anything.”
“What do you mean, anything?”
“Anything that can be chewed. Yesterday he ate a rubber washer. He’s also eaten cardboard and packing chips. But I think he most enjoys the things we like.”
“Candy?” Rand asked, suddenly remembering that he had a Milky Way bar in his jacket pocket.
“Oh, definitely,” the Chinese man replied.
Rand found the bar and unwrapped it. Pushing it gently into the cage, he watched intently as the creature sniffed it, then devoured the soft mixture of chocolate and caramel in three or four large bites.
Delighted, Rand found himself applauding. Swallowing heavily, the Mogwai seemed to return a glance that said “thank you.”
“How much do you want for it?” Rand asked.
“Mogwai is not for sale,” the old man replied.
“Aw, c’mon,” Rand persisted. “My son’d love it. And we’d give it a good home.”
“I am sorry.”
“Listen, I gotta have it. This is what your grandson brought me to see, isn’t it?”
“No. I send him out to interest customers in other items of my shop. But not Mogwai.”
“But that’s the only thing you have that’s different. The rest is just curio stuff, the standard souvenirs and—”
“Trinkets,” the young man interjected.
“Not exactly,” Rand added, seeing a pained look in the old man’s eyes. “You’ve got a nice place. That chess set out there is wonderful. My boy doesn’t play chess, though. This here Gizmo is perfect. I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”
“Thank you, no.”
Rand removed his wallet, hoping that the sight of the money itself would change the man’s mind, or at least make him realize how serious he was. Fingering a couple of fifties, Rand added another, then another. The old man continued to shake his head.
“Two hundred-fifty,” Rand said, spreading the bills across the palm of his hand, like a poker player displaying a royal flush. “Take it. Please.”
The old man withdrew his eyes from the money, revulsion and desire blended in his features, a dieter confronted with a juicy meal that he wants and does not want.
“Two-sixty,” Rand persisted. “It’s all I’ve got.”
“Take it, Grandpop,” the young man urged.
“No.”
“We need the money. The rent—”
“No,” the old man repeated. “Mogwai is not like other animal. He is a very special creature. With Mogwai, comes much responsibility.”
“Hey, I’m a responsible person,” Rand interjected. “I go to church every Sunday. Well, a lot of Sundays. I pay my taxes, take the garbage out. What’s wrong with me?”
“It is not you. It is humanity. I’m sorry, but I cannot sell Mogwai at any price.”
With that, the old man turned and left the room.
Rand sighed, slowly pushed the money back into his wallet, noting that the young man continued to eye the bills wistfully.
“You can’t reason with him?” he asked.
The young man took a deep breath, walked slowly to the doorway, and looked out at his grandfather, who was now seated near the front of the store, staring stoically at the passersby. Returning to Rand, he looked at him in the manner of an employer assessing someone applying for a job.
“Listen, mister,” he said. “The old man’s right. This is a very special creature. The person who has him has to be extra careful . . . do some strange-sounding things . . .”
“Like what?”
“Well, there are rules, you see. You gotta keep him outa light. That’s why it’s so dark in here. He hates light, especially bright light.”
“O.K. I think I can handle that. We have a nice dark basement and Billy’s room—”
“And don’t get him wet. Keep him away from the water.”
“No light, no water. I guess a day at the beach is out of the question.”
The kid looked at Rand pointedly. “I’m serious, mister.” he said.
“Sure,” Rand replied. “It’s just that animals need water to drink, right?”
“This one doesn’t.”
“You sure?”
The youngster nodded emphatically. “I’m telling you,” he said. “Light may kill him and water may kill you.”
“What?”
“That’s what my grandfather says. Don’t ask me how he knows. But those are two important rules. If you don’t think you can do that, say so. It’s only ’cause we need the money so bad that I’m even thinkin’ about selling you Mogwai.”
“Sure, I understand.” Rand nodded, reaching for his wallet again.
“I almost forgot the most important thing,” the boy continued. “The thing you can never forget is . . . no matter how much he cries, no matter how much he begs, never, ever feed him after midnight. You got it?”
Rand swallowed, forcing back a sudden impulse to laugh at such a quaint set of rules. Maybe the old man was senile and the kid just plain crazy, but his heart was set on bringing that little animal home to Billy. If that meant playing the game with this kid, he’d do it.
“I got it,” he said seriously. “No light, no water, no food after midnight.”
He started to hand the money to the boy, then thought better of it.
“Where’ll I meet you?” he asked.
“Out back. In five minutes.”
Rand nodded. Whistling softly, he stole another look at Gizmo and then walked briskly out of the curio shop.
C H A P T E R
FOUR
I
t was 8:54, six minutes before the bank opened for business, when Billy pushed through the
EMPLOYEES ONLY
door and began the ridiculous task of trying to look unobtrusive while arriving a quarter hour late with a wet dog in tow.
Luck was with him briefly. Tugging gently at Barney’s collar, he managed to make it to his window, locate the leash he kept in his drawer, and secure Barney out of the way without his breaking into a barking fit. Whipping out his nameplate, he placed it—upside down—on the counter, brushed a bead of sweat from the corner of his eye, and exhaled wearily. Only then did he see the object that he usually looked for first when he entered the bank.
Today she was dressed in blue, a form-fitting but conservative dress that complemented her flashing green eyes and dazzling dark hair. Billy, like so many other young men—and older men too, for that matter—had fallen madly and totally in love with Kate Beringer the first time he laid eyes on her. She was twenty, a perhaps too-intense woman of that age, a champion of the underdog. Considering himself an underdog, that suited Billy just fine, of course, but so far he had found Kate pleasant but somewhat unapproachable. Perhaps it was because she was so smart, never at a loss for words, that he feared being shot down by her should he move too quickly. And so he moved nearly imperceptibly. “By the end of the century,” he once said to himself as he analyzed his longing for her and what to do about it, “by then I’ll have asked her for a date.”
As he began to arrange his money drawer, he noticed Kate moving toward him. Arriving at his window, she reached out to turn his nameplate right side up, smiling briefly as she did so.
“Morning, Kate,” Billy said. Now, with her so close, he could smell her scrubbed freshness, see the fine hairs on her arm as it tapered to a beautifully slim wrist.
“Billy,” she said, her voice warm but not intimate, “will you sign a petition?”
“Sure,” he said.
He reached for a pen.
“Don’t you want to know what it’s for?” she asked with a touch of pique.
“Not really,” he replied. “If you think it’s a good idea, it’s O.K. by me.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
“I’d like you to agree with me that it’s a good idea,” she said archly, “and there’s no way you can do that unless you know what the petition’s for.”
Billy nodded. “What’s it for?”
“We’re trying to have Dorry’s Pub declared a landmark.”