Spoonbenders

Matty held the stub of joint between his finger and thumb, flicked the lighter, and puffed to bring it to light. His last bit of rocket fuel…

—

He flew back to Mitzi’s Tavern, wasting no time in transit. Inside, it was more crowded than it had been all afternoon, but it was Bomb Squad Silent. A dozen men of various ages sat at the bar or at the round, pockmarked tables, staring at their drinks as if trying to decide whether to cut the green wire or the red one.

Matty skirted and skittered around the edge of the room, anxious to leave, but knowing he couldn’t face Frankie unless he at least figured out if payday was in progress. Jabba the Bartender had returned, but he wasn’t talking to anyone, either.

Matty could feel the tug of his body back at the house. He’d made Uncle Frankie promise to keep his mom away from the backyard when she came home from work. He’d started to ask why, and then abruptly said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it. You do what you do.”

The bar was depressing him. Mitzi’s door was closed, and no one was making a move to walk in. He decided to take one quick pass through, just to make sure the safe wasn’t hanging open, and then head home to face Frankie’s wrath. He was drifting toward the door when the bartender pointed at a customer, and the man got up and started walking toward Mitzi’s office. Was Frankie right after all, and payday was on?

Matty slipped through the wall into Mitzi’s office and was surprised to see somebody new behind the desk. The man was at least as old as Mitzi and Grandpa Teddy, but looked like an Elvis left too long in the sun: gray pompadour, white teeth, beef-jerky arms. His clothing was period, too. His black short-sleeve shirt had flames on it, as if he were ready not so much to hop into a ’57 Chevy but to become one.

The guy from the bar didn’t sit down. He handed over an envelope, and Ancient Elvis pulled out the cash, sorted it in front of him, slapping the bills onto the desk as if sure he was going to catch the guy stiffing him.

Mitzi wasn’t like that. She would barely glance at the money, just run her finger across it while it was still in the envelope, and then talk politely to the client. Sometimes everybody was all smiles. Sometimes the client had to start explaining.

Evidently the money added up. Elvis waved the customer away and turned toward the safe before the guy was out of the room. Then he picked up a scrap of paper, and started dialing.

Matty zipped forward.

Elvis pulled open the safe, still holding the scrap of paper. Matty stretched himself, willing his invisible eyeballs closer.

28. 11. And—thumb. Elvis’s fat, grease-stained digit covered the only digit Matty cared about.

“Thumb, thumb, thumb…” Matty chanted.

The man swung his head toward the door—maybe someone had knocked?—and then dropped the paper. Matty swooped down, tried to focus on the digits, and the man snatched it off the floor.

“Oh come on!” Matty yelled. What he wouldn’t do for a pair of spirit tongs. Anything.

The door opened, and Mr. Pompadour started talking to the next client. Matty looked forlornly at the safe—and then realized the door was still open.

Still open.

Matty flew a few feet and turned until he could see the face of the door. The dial was still resting at the last number:

33.

“Twenty-eight, eleven, thirty-three,” Matty said.

He spun, held up his ghost hands. “Twenty-eight, eleven, thirty-three!” Pompadour and the new guest talked on, oblivious.

Matty zipped through the roof, chanting the digits to himself so he wouldn’t forget. He stretched out his arms like Superman and headed for home. God, he loved flying. And now, he knew Grandma Mo had loved it, too. Screw Destin Smalls. Let the evil government agents come for him. He was going to save Frankie! Save his mom!

Two blocks from home, he zoomed low over rooftops, buzzed a series of parked cars. Something about one of the vehicles pinged on his cannabis-fogged brain. He hovered in the air, turned back.

A silver van was parked under a tree. Then the driver’s side door opened, and a gray-haired black man stepped out. Cliff Turner. He put his hands on his hips, looked up at the tree, then turned—and locked eyes with Matty.

Turner nodded slowly, and then saluted.

Matty, in a panic, was snapped back into his body like a yo-yo. He shouted and opened his eyes and saw—

—Grandpa Teddy.

He sat in a lawn chair, legs crossed, hat on his knee.

Matty jumped up. “Grandpa!”

His grandfather held up a hand. “Settle down. You’re not—”

Matty spun around. The silver van was so close. He could be here any minute.

“What’s the matter with you?” Grandpa Teddy asked.

Matty tried to calm himself. “Nothing,” he said.

“You know, marijuana can cause paranoia.” Grandpa Teddy held the nub of the joint between two fingers. “I had to pinch it out. You don’t want to waste it. It’s expensive.”