The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (Alfred Kropp 1)

“No, it isn’t illegal.”

“But if Mr. Samson stole it, why doesn’t Mr. Myers go to the police?”

Uncle Farrell wet his lips. “He said he didn’t want the police involved.”

“How come?”

“He said he wanted to keep everything real quiet. He doesn’t want to press charges because the papers and the TV would pick it up and he doesn’t want that.”

“Maybe this thing belongs to Mr. Samson and Mr. Myers is lying. Maybe he’s just using you because you’re the guy with the keys.”

“Well, I am the guy with the keys—that’s why he needs me—but I’m no thief, Al. Look, I didn’t bring this up to get your permission. I brought this up to ask for your help.”

“My help?”

“That’s right,” Uncle Farrell said. “I can’t do it alone, Al. And I figured who’d be better to help me than you, since you stand to gain in this operation too. One million dollars! Think about it, Al, because you’re only fifteen; you haven’t lived very long, not as long as me, and things like this, these kinds of opportunities, they’re once-in-a-lifetime!”

“I’ll have to think about it,” I said.

He stopped chomping his microwave steak, his mouth hanging open a little so I could see the food.

“What do you mean you’ll have to think about it? Think about what? I’m your uncle. I’m all the family you got left since your good-for-nothing father abandoned you and your mother died of cancer, God rest her soul. This could be the sweetest deal ever to come down the pike, one million smackers for an hour’s work, and you’re telling me you got to think about it?”

“It’s just a lot to think about, Uncle Farrell.”

He snorted. “Well, you better think quick, Alfred, because—”

The doorbell rang. Uncle Farrell gave a little jump, then forced a smile. Uncle Farrell had very large teeth.

“That’s him; he’s here.”

“Who’s here?”

“Myers! I told you we didn’t have much time.”

“Mr. Myers is here?”

“You know something, Alfred? You would think, with a head the size of yours, you’d be able to think a little bit quicker. Clear off the plates and meet us in the living room, will ya? You don’t keep a man like Arthur Myers waiting.”

He hurried from the kitchen. I heard the front door open and Uncle Farrell say, “Hey, Mr. Myers! Right on time. Come on in, make yourself at home. Alfred! Alfred is the kid I told you about.”

I heard the sound of a man’s voice talking, but I couldn’t understand the words, he was speaking so softly. I carried the plates to the sink and wiped down the kitchen table.

In the living room, I heard Uncle Farrell say, “Would you like something to drink, Mr. Myers?” And then he yelled to me, “Alfred! Make some coffee, will ya?”

So I got the coffee going, and then I stood there by the sink, chewing on a thumbnail. I knew he wanted me in there to meet this Arthur Myers, but for some reason I was scared. The whole thing struck me as some shady deal. Why would someone as rich and powerful as Arthur Myers give Uncle Farrell a million dollars to pull a “recovery” job for him? What was in Samson Towers that was so valuable?

But my biggest question was what would happen to me if Uncle Farrell got caught breaking into Bernard Samson’s office. If he was in jail, it was back to the foster home for me.

I waited until the pot was finished brewing, then poured two cups and carried them into the living room.

Uncle Farrell was sitting on the edge of the sofa, leaning toward the chair in which Arthur Myers sat. I noticed a large leather satchel with gold clasps sitting on the floor beside him.

Arthur Myers was thin, with long brown hair pulled into a ponytail hanging halfway down his back. His silk suit was a funny color, almost multicolored, and when he moved, the light played off the material and made it shimmer, first blue, then white, then red. But the most noticeable thing about him were his eyes, set very deep into his head under a jutting brow. They were so brown, they almost looked black. And when he turned those eyes toward me for the first time, I shivered, as if I’d walked over a grave.

“Alfred!” Uncle Farrell said. “Coffee! Great! How do you like your coffee, Mr. Myers?”

“Black, thank you,” Mr. Myers said. He took the cup from me. He had an accent that sounded kind of French but kind of not; I don’t know, I’m no good with accents.