Gremlins Read online

  “Sounds like gremlins to me.”

  “You mean all those cars used to act like that?”

  Futterman laughed. “Guess you’re too young to recognize the word gremlin as anything but an American Motors car,” he said.

  “What else is it?”

  “A little devil,” Futterman said. “They love to fool around with machinery. I saw a lot of ’em in World War Two. I was a tail gunner on a Flying Fortress. Bet you didn’t know that.”

  Billy shook his head even as he tried to remember whether one of Futterman’s endless ramblings had once contained that information. Looking at Futterman now and doing some quick arithmetic, he was amazed that the man was old enough to have taken part in a conflict that had ended nearly four decades ago. He was old, of course, but somehow Billy automatically coupled World War II veterans with men in rocking chairs or nursing homes. Compared to them, Futterman was very much alive.

  Billy said the diplomatically correct, and as it turned out, accurate, thing. “You must have been a teenager.”

  Futterman nodded. “Eighteen when I went in, nineteen when it was over. But I saw a lot of life in those twelve months.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Most important thing I learned was that gremlins really exist. You gotta keep watching for them.”

  Billy couldn’t suppress a smile.

  “You think I’m pullin’ your leg,” Futterman deadpanned. “But it’s true. Like I said, they like to fool around with machinery. With all them planes flying, World War Two was their meat. Let me tell you, those gremlins were everywhere during the war. I mean, all over our ships and planes. I think that’s why our machinery’s better than that foreign stuff. In the war we learned to deal with gremlins and make our equipment better. For some reason, gremlins didn’t go after the Japanese and Germans the way they went after us.”

  “Why was that?” Billy asked.

  “Don’t know for sure, but I think it’s because we—our side—had a better sense of humor. You know how human nature is. It’s like, well, you only play tricks on people who’ll laugh, right? After a while, you don’t play tricks on people who get all ruffled, ’cause it’s no fun. That’s why the gremlins took after us. Half the time we’d end up laughin’ at what they’d do.”

  “And what did they do?”

  “You name it. Now I was a tail gunner, right? They’d knock my sights out of line so I’d miss. Or they’d chisel tiny holes in the glass window so cold air would get in. They’d even slide down the gun barrel and jam the trigger as I was about to fire. Or they’d stick a pin in my rear just as I was about to fire.”

  Billy laughed. “You actually saw them?”

  “Well, yes and no,” Futterman replied. “You’d see them out of the corner of your eye, but just as you shot them a full glance, they’d duck out of view.”

  “Sounds like you were making them up, Mr. Futterman,” Billy said candidly.

  “No. They were there. Other guys saw them and would swear to it. Now Jackson—he was my navigator—he used to see them outside the plane all the time, dancin’ in the slipstream of the wing. Or they’d chew little bits of rubber out of the de-icing boot on the wing’s leading edge so we’d pick up ice. Sometimes they’d make sputtering noises in the pilot’s ear so he’d think one of the engines was missing. They could even imitate our voices. Once they snuck up to our pilot and shouted, ‘You’re flyin’ upside down, you fool!’ That was really a close one, ’cause the pilot turned us over in a split second. You shoulda seen how the coffee cups and maps and people went sailin’ every which way.”

  “But that could have been dangerous,” Billy said. “From the way you described them, I thought the gremlins were just playful.”

  “Oh, they were. They didn’t mean to put us in dangerous spots like that, but some of their pranks turned out that way.”

  The snowplow crossed the intersection of Carver and Clark, a normally busy corner now nearly deserted except for a few cars nearly buried in drifted snow. Looking at his watch, Billy noted that he was ten minutes late, but he was comforted by the fact that with luck he’d make it before the bank opened to its customers.

  “Before the war was over, we’d learned to deal with all kinds of ’em,” Futterman continued. “The strato-gremlins were the worst. They used to show up above ten thousand feet. Spandules were middle-aged gremlins and fifinellas were females. There was also jerps and bijits. Each kind was different. There was even a song we used to sing . . .”

  Fearing the worst, Billy looked away from Futterman, noting with mixed emotions that Barney was trotting behind them, apparently determined to follow them no matter how far they traveled.

  A moment later the rasp of Futterman’s snowplow engine blended with his off-key singing voice.

  “When you’re a thousand miles from nowhere.

  And there’s nothing below but the drink,

  It’s then you’ll see the gremlins,

  Green and gamboge and gold,

  Male and female and neuter,

  Gremlins both young and old.

  White ones will wiggle your wingtips,

  Male ones will muddle your maps,

  Green ones will guzzle your glycol,

  Females will flutter your flaps,

  They’ll freeze up your camera shutters,

  They’ll bite through your aileron wires,

  They’ll bend and they’ll break and they’ll batter,

  They’ll jab toasting forks in your eyes.

  They’ll—”

  A giant convulsion of the snowplow stunned Futterman to silence and nearly threw Billy off the side. A second explosion, accompanied by an arc of red fire, caused the engine to shudder.

  “Darn,” Futterman rasped. Reaching forward to turn the ignition key, he lifted himself off the seat, pulled the hood latch, and grabbed a wrench from beneath the seat in one fluid motion. “Don’t worry, I know what it is,” he apologized. “Won’t take me but a minute or two to adjust that darn thing.”

  Billy slid to the ground, gave Barney a pat, and called across the flat hood to Mr. Futterman.

  “I’ll cut across Mrs. Deagle’s,” he said. “Thanks a lot for taking me this far.”

  “Won’t take me a second to get this working,” Futterman repeated. “It’s the only thing wrong with this snowplow. Doesn’t usually act up, but I guess all this talk about gremlins brought it on.”

  “Yeah,” Billy laughed. “Thanks again.”

  Leaving Futterman with his head thrust deeply into the engine well, Billy started to trot across the vast expanse of Mrs. Deagle’s lawn, a carpet of virgin snow marred only by a few squirrel tracks. Barney followed.

  As he moved along the edge of the property toward a break in the iron fence, Billy noted that once again Mrs. Deagle’s place was the only piece of property in this, the main square of Kingston Falls, with no Christmas lights. Even the Union Savings and Trust Bank, his place of employment, sported a double line of holiday lights, which twinkled in bright ironic contrast to that firm’s new get-tough policy with its customers.

  A beeping horn and crunch of car chains against packed snow diverted Billy’s attention from further thoughts of disaffection concerning his employer.

  “Get outa the way, you dumb cat!”

  From the rolled-down window of the Kingston Falls police car protruded the thin, weasel-like face of Deputy Brent. In the passenger’s seat sat Sheriff Reilly, a husky, friendly-faced man with thick dark hair.

  “Move, you stupid rat with legs,” Brent yelled.

  The few pedestrians near the scene paused to watch—Billy; Dr. Molinaro, on his way to his office; and Father Bartlett, a white-haired elderly priest. Beneath the front wheel of the police cruiser crouched a large gray tabby cat, its refusal to move caused by either fear or stubbornness. As Brent continued to shout at the cat, a stream of happy chatter emanated from the car radio, contrasting sharply with his venom. “Good mornin’ to all you late risers,” the unseen voice wa
rbled. “Rockin’ Ricky Rialto here with a list of school closings. But first, let’s listen to a Motown Christmas classic, the Jackson Five bringin’ you some chestnuts roastin’ on an open fire—”

  A protracted blast on the horn overwhelmed the ebullient announcer. Simultaneously, Billy darted quickly into the street and grabbed the cat.

  “Thanks.” Sheriff Reilly smiled.

  “It’s one of Mrs. Deagle’s,” Billy said.

  “If I’da known that,” Brent groused, “I’d have kept right on drivin’.”

  Reilly nodded, rolled up the window, and indicated that Brent should continue driving. After checking to make sure Barney was behind him. Billy started a diagonal path toward Mrs. Deagle’s front door, the squirming cat tucked firmly in the crook of his arm. Even as he did so, he noticed the edge of a living room curtain fall and her sharp, unsmiling face disappear into the dark recesses of the house. Before he arrived at the front door, it opened to reveal Mrs. Deagle, clad in a singularly unattractive housedress and obviously taken by surprise, judging from the lopsided position of her metallic auburn wig. Her lips were pursed, her expression as formidable as that reserved for an IRS agent.

  “I told you not to walk on the grass,” she said sharply.

  Billy cast a quick glance behind at his footprints in the snow. “I didn’t walk on the grass,” he responded. “I walked on the snow.”

  “Don’t be smart,” Mrs. Deagle shot back.

  Billy shoved the cat at her, his eyes locking on her face for only an instant. Unlike most old people, whose faces shone with character and wisdom, Mrs. Deagle’s expression generated only sadness and revulsion within him. Large, tacky earrings dangled from her ears, and her eyes were outlined by thick mascara-covered lashes through a heavy layer of ghostly white powder. Yellow teeth contrasted bizarrely with purplish red lipstick smeared below and above the thin lips of her mouth. With her sharp, nervous gestures, she resembled an evil mannikin or puppet, the sort of creature Billy had seen in TV cartoon shows.

  “Well, I brought your cat,” he murmured softly. “It was nearly run over by the police car.”

  Mrs. Deagle took the animal, dropped it quickly to the floor behind her.

  “The way you were carrying her, it’s lucky she can still walk,” Mrs. Deagle rasped.

  Billy shrugged.

  “All right. Get off my porch. I hope you’re not waiting around for a reward.”

  “No, Mrs. Deagle,” Billy replied. “I guess a thank-you was even too much to expect.”

  With that, he turned and started off the porch with Barney. As her parting shot, he half heard Mrs. Deagle shout something about making sure Barney didn’t befoul any of her precious shrubs. Mostly his mind was occupied with thoughts of self-loathing. “Dummy,” he said aloud. “You should have known better than to bother . . . Dropping the cat in her yard would have been good enough.”

  And would have gotten him to work a few minutes earlier—or less late, he thought. As he turned the corner of Mrs. Deagle’s property, he began to run, a movement that caused Barney to do likewise. The sudden acceleration brought the dog into contact with a large ceramic snowman, the only frivolous object the old woman allowed on her property. Crinkled and spotted with tiny fracture lines, the snowman’s head had started listing to its right several years before; now, as Barney brushed the bottom of the figure, the head leaned sharply downward, hesitated, and then rolled onto the snow.

  Peering at the departing figures from her dining room window, Mrs. Deagle inhaled sharply as the ceramic head of the snowman disappeared into the snow.

  “Those destructive little beasts!” she hissed. “I’ll get both of them for that.”

  She watched silently as young Billy Peltzer and his dog went into the bank, a look of determination slowly replacing her expression of horror. Then, righting her wig before the dining room mirror, she made the decision that had eluded her so far this morning—whether or not to brave the elements in order to take care of some business.

  “Blast the snow,” she said now. “It’ll be worth getting my feet wet to teach that young punk a lesson.”

  C H A P T E R

  THREE

  It was always so difficult getting something truly different and exciting for his family, Rand Peltzer mused, and every Christmas it got worse.

  Rather than grow despondent, however, he accepted selecting the proper gift as a challenge. Which was the way he looked at his life in general. Rand considered himself a survivor, a grown-up boy from the poorest section of town who, without benefit of college or any other specialized training, somehow had managed to marry the finest woman in Kingston Falls and support a family reasonably well. True, he had to scramble, but wasn’t that part of life’s fun? People laughed at him when his inventions failed to perform as they should, but didn’t that make it even more enjoyable when they did work?

  Now, although bothered by his inability to find the ultimate present for Billy, he was happy. He loved Christmas and everything it stood for—the bringing-together spirit, the stepped-up economy, a feeling of mellowness, and especially the opportunity to be nice to people without their looking at you oddly.

  How he arrived in Chinatown he was not exactly sure. He had no recollection of ordering a cabbie to “take me to Chinatown,” or even of deciding that he should take himself there. Probably, as he meandered through shop and mall and stall in search of the elusive unique present, he had arrived in Chinatown almost by osmosis. He had never shopped here before, although he had visited as a tourist. But why not? Why shouldn’t this be the place where he found it?

  Whatever it was.

  With a slightly puzzled expression on his round face, Rand resembled any other middle-aged shopper. A genial-faced man who might once have been quite handsome, he still possessed an attractively thick head of ruffled gray hair and penetrating green eyes. Below the neck he had aged less gracefully, the burly chest yielding to a thick waist that stopped just short of being a beer-belly. (Although some of his less diplomatic friends used that term occasionally.) One might have imagined him as a professional football player, say a lineman, who retired in 1965 and had been losing the battle of the bulge grudgingly. Dressed in a tweed jacket, corduroy pants, and a gray pullover sweater, he was obviously a man who put comfort over style.

  “There’s got to be something here,” he muttered.

  He surveyed the articles on the counter of the Chinese curio shop, a glittering array of souvenir-type items. There were ashtrays, tie pins, pen and pencil sets, even Chinatown toilet paper; above him tinkled mobiles from which dangled acrobats, gargoyles, unidentified artistic shapes. On the walls were clocks and dart boards, posters and plaques, paintings and etchings, but nothing that appealed to him. Nothing, he knew, that would bring that light into Billy’s eyes he loved so much.

  “Help gentleman?”

  With typical (to Rand Peltzer) Oriental furtiveness, a tallow-faced Chinese woman had suddenly appeared from beneath the counter by the simple process of standing up. Rand started, nearly dropping the brass ashtray he had picked up.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’d like something for my son. Something different.”

  The woman pointed to a stereo, then to a watch when Rand shook his head.

  “He like mechanical things?” the woman asked.

  “No. He’s an artist. Cartoonist. Maybe you got some sort of gizmo an artist could use.”

  “Gizmo?”

  “Yeah,” Rand replied, with sudden inspiration. “Maybe something like a combination easel and brush holder, or . . .” His eyes drifted toward the ceiling as he began to feel his inspirational juices flowing. “Or maybe an easel you can fold up and carry in your pocket. You know, for the artist who travels a lot . . .”

  “Gizmo?” the woman repeated, holding a rechargeable battery for Rand to see.

  He shook his head, starting for the door as he continued to ponder the problems of constructing a portable easel.

  “One minute,” the wom
an called out.

  Rand hesitated as she darted from behind the counter through a small door leading to the back room. No sooner was she gone than Rand became aware of another presence.

  “Mister want something different?” asked a new voice.

  It belonged to a very thin Chinese boy. He had long legs, which made him appear taller and no doubt several years older than he really was, which Rand guessed to be about nine. He was dressed in a faded Los Angeles Dodgers jacket, a wrinkled Springsteen T-shirt, washed-out torn Levi’s, and high-top sneakers, an outfit, Rand observed inwardly, that made him look like a walking advertisement for unclaimed-freight auctions. Still, there was something about him Rand liked and trusted.

  “That’s right,” he replied, his glance alternating between the huge dark eyes of the kid and the doorway through which the woman had departed. “Something unusual, something nobody else has.” Then, realizing that such a description fit only a very few items, such as the Hope diamond, he amended himself. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be expensive or the only thing of its kind, but I’d like it to be . . . well, different, you know.”

  The youngster nodded. “Follow me, please,” he said.

  “Can’t you just tell me what it is?”

  “No, sir. It defies description.”

  Oh-oh, Rand thought. So it “defies description,” does it? If the kid had picked up that phrase at such a tender age, he must be a truly precocious con artist. Perhaps he was the bait for a gang of muggers or kidnappers. Good sense warned Rand to give up his quest as soon as possible. On the other hand, when had he ever listened to his own good sense?

  The old woman reappeared, dragging a huge inflatable—and now quite inflated—red dragon, which would have filled all but the largest bathtubs.

  “Gizmo?” she asked.

  “No.” Rand smiled, backing toward the exit. “But thanks anyway.”

  A moment later he was on the street, the Chinese youngster at his elbow. “Trinkets,” the boy said disparagingly. “You want something different and she offers you trinkets.”