Gremlins Read online

  Kate smiled, flattered but anxious that Billy sign before Gerald Hopkins got to the window and started asking questions. She thrust the petition beneath Billy’s pen and watched as he wrote his name. A moment later, Gerald Hopkins was at their side.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  At twenty-three, Hopkins was already fast approaching middle age. Gerald’s mind, in fact, seemed to have attained that goal and only awaited his body to catch up. The bank’s junior vice-president, he was tall, slender, and good-looking in a somewhat sneaky way. Perhaps because he smiled too quickly and his eyes darted nervously from side to side—those were the things that gave him away—he laid bare his ambition to become an important man in as short a time as possible. Young people—most of them, at any rate—distrusted Gerald, but that did not bother him as long as Mr. Corben and other grown-ups continued to compliment him on his efficiency, drive, and initiative. They, after all, were the ones who made the decisions.

  Kate, ignoring Gerald’s question, started for her window. For a moment it seemed that Gerald was about to follow, then he turned abruptly to Billy.

  “Mr. Corben and I want to see you.” he said.

  Billy shrugged, walked slowly behind Gerald into the sumptuous but very formal office of Roland Corben. Around the walls of the oak-paneled room were portraits of every United States president, generals George Patton, Omar Bradley, William Tecumseh Sherman, John Pershing, and, looking decidedly underdressed in a toga and a bit embarrassed, Julius Caesar. Beneath this panorama of greatness were bookcases, each locked and filled with soporific-looking, legal, identically bound books except for a long bottom row filled with the complete works of Horatio Alger, Jr. Every time he was summoned into Mr. Corben’s “vault” (as Kate termed it), Billy’s eye fell on the end Alger volume, which was entitled Luck and Pluck. He wondered if Mr. Corben had read it as a boy. Perhaps Gerald Hopkins had read it only a few weeks ago.

  Seated judgelike behind his mammoth desk, a gold nameplate in front proclaiming his identity, was Roland Corben in a perfectly fitting three-piece gray suit. In his early sixties, he was the epitome of the word distinguished, his neatly trimmed white hair framing a face that was lightly tanned and only slightly wrinkled. If he smiled. Mr. Corben might have been almost handsome. As it was, he usually frowned, a movement that collapsed and pinched his features like someone pulling the drawstring on a leather pouch, His habit of putting his thumbs and fingers together to form a son of prayerful tent had become a trademark of both him and his protégé, Gerald.

  “Seventeen minutes and thirty-three seconds,” Corben said now in ex cathedra tones. “That’s how late you were, William.”

  “I’m sorry,” Billy stammered.

  “Punctuality is the politeness of kings,” Corben said fatuously. “Do you know who said that?”

  Billy hesitated. For a fleeting moment he was tempted to suggest that the dull aphorism was coined by Gerald Hopkins, but then he thought better of it. No sense making a bad situation worse. Instead he shook his head.

  “It was Benjamin Franklin,” Gerald interjected.

  “Louis the Eighteenth,” Corben corrected, intimidating Gerald with a baleful glare. Returning his attention to Billy, he added: “If King Louis the Eighteenth could be on time, so can you.”

  “Yessir,” Billy said. “Except that King Louis never had a temperamental Volkswagen.”

  Gerald snorted derisively.

  “We didn’t call you in here to listen to excuses, Peltzer,” Gerald said. “Your job carries a lot of responsibilities. One of them is to be here on time.”

  “Well said, Gerald.” Corben nodded, obviously impressed with young Hopkins’s didactic tone.

  “Thanks, Mr. Corben.” Gerald smiled.

  “Straighten your tie,” Corben shot back.

  “Yessir.”

  He did so. Corben watched him briefly before directing his glare once again at Billy. “See that this doesn’t happen again,” he said. “If your car’s temperamental, get a new car. Or leave earlier so you’ll be prepared for problems.”

  Billy nodded enthusiastically, just as if Mr. Corben had come up with a miraculous solution to his dilemma. Then, as he turned to leave, he heard Corben harrumph.

  “Yessir?” he asked.

  “Your shoes, William,” Mr. Corben growled. “They’re brown.”

  Billy looked down, nodded once again. No doubt about it, his shoes were indeed brown.

  “No one wears brown shoes with dark blue trousers,” Corben intoned.

  “Oh, thanks. I’ll remember next time,” Billy replied as respectfully as possible.

  He was allowed to slink out then, but his troubles were only just beginning. The doors of the bank having been opened to the public during his trial and conviction, there were perhaps a dozen customers in the process of doing business, most of them withdrawing money for Christmas purchases. One of the group was Mrs. Deagle, who in pushing her way to the front of the line suddenly found herself next to Mrs. Harris. Harris, a genial middle-aged woman, was known to have had a bad year in that both she and her husband had lost their jobs and had medical problems. She seemed almost jovial today, however, as she tugged at Mrs. Deagle’s coat sleeve.

  “Mrs. Deagle,” she said in a voice loud enough to be overheard by Billy. “My husband got another job.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Deagle replied sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean to me?”

  “It means we’ll be able to make a few back payments—soon as Christmas is over.”

  “What’s Christmas got to do with it?”

  “Well, there’s presents to buy, you know . . .”

  “And in the meantime, I wait. Is that it?”

  “No, not exactly. I just thought that since things are lookin’ up for us, you might be willing to wait a while longer.”

  “Mrs. Harris,” the old woman said. “This bank and I have the same purpose in life—to make money. Why should we have to wait around until you decide to pay your legal obligations?”

  Mrs. Harris frowned. “But we don’t have the spare cash now. It’s Christmas.”

  “Then you know what to ask Santa for,” Mrs. Deagle replied, dismissing her with a wave of her hand.

  She moved toward Billy’s window, the bodies parting in front of her like the Red Sea obeying Moses. Under her arm she carried the severed head of the ceramic snowman, which, seen close up, looked tacky and ugly. Yellowed and pockmarked from the weather, the object’s mouth hung open in what seemed more a crazed stare than a happy smile.

  “Hello, Mrs. Deagle,” Billy stammered. “What can I do for you today?”

  “You mean, in addition to what you’ve already done!” she announced grandly.

  “I’m sorry,” Billy said. “I don’t understand.”

  “This is what’s left of my imported ceramic snowman,” she nearly shouted. “Your dog broke it this morning.”

  Billy had no recollection of the incident but was at too decided a disadvantage to protest. “Gee, I’m real sorry,” he said. “Just tell me what I owe you . . .”

  To his surprise, she replied: “I don’t want money.”

  “That’s a switch,” a phantom voice to Billy’s right whispered. It was Kate, looking straight ahead at her own customer but totally enmeshed in Billy’s dilemma.

  “I heard that, young lady,” Mrs. Deagle rasped, glaring at Kate. “You’d better watch out. I’m on to you, scheming and plotting behind my back.” Suddenly her accusations seemed to include everyone within earshot. “I know what’s going on, what you think, what you’d like to see happen. But it’ll never work, because I’m one step ahead of all of you.”

  Kate, returning Mrs. Deagle’s glare, waited patiently until the old woman looked back to Billy.

  “Now then,” she said. “Since you’ve admitted your guilt in breaking this, and before a bank full of witnesses, what do you propose to do?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Deagle,” Billy muttered. “I mean, if you don’t w
ant money, what can I do? Do you want me to clean up your yard or—”

  With an angry gesture, she cut him short. “I want your dog,” she said.

  “Barney?”

  “Such a stupid name. Yes. The ugly mongrel that follows you around. I want him.”

  “But why?” Billy asked.

  “Because he’s a menace to this town and I aim to see that he’s punished.” An evil smile broke across Mrs. Deagle’s face, revealing her singularly unattractive teeth. Excess lipstick clinging to her teeth made it seem as if she had just finished a bloody meal. “Yes, I’d like to punish him,” she said. “Do you know that in the old days they used to put evil animals on trial and punish them? They hung an elephant once, by his neck until he was dead.”

  “Guess who the star witness against it was,” Kate whispered, her voice discreetly lower this time so that the content of what she said was heard only by Billy.

  Stifling a laugh, he looked directly at Mrs. Deagle. “I’m sorry you feel he’s a menace,” he said. “I don’t see how you can say that.”

  “He snapped at the Hagen boy. And my nephew Douglas.”

  “They were trying to burn off his tail with a propane torch,” Billy said, causing a ripple of laughter from the customers nearest the arena of battle.

  Mrs. Deagle dismissed Billy’s defense with a wave. “He’s always barking and growling at my cats, scaring them half to death.”

  “Well, cats and dogs just don’t . . . get along so well,” Billy replied. “You’ve seen the cartoons . . .”

  “I hate cartoons,” Mrs. Deagle grated.

  Billy looked away, suddenly conscious that he was facing a double jeopardy now. Having heard his name, Barney had arisen from his sleeping position and was now trying to jump onto Billy’s lap. The leash, fastened not too tightly about his neck, was slowly coming loose as Barney tugged at it. The rasping sound of his claws against the bank’s polished wood floor caused Billy to break into a cold sweat. Why didn’t the old woman leave him alone? Why did his normally obedient dog pick this time to get playful? Pushing gently at Barney not only did no good; it made Mrs. Deagle think he was preoccupied with something on his lap, which inflamed her to new outreaches of anger.

  “Pay attention,” she shouted. “I’m telling you, I want that dog. I’ll take him to a kennel where he’ll be put to sleep. It’ll be quick and painless . . . compared to what I’d like to do.”

  More to distract her from Barney’s restless maneuvering beneath his chair than to find out, Billy asked: “What . . . what would you like to do, Mrs. Deagle?”

  Her response was immediate. “I’d like to say, ‘Here, Barney . . .’ ” she began. “ ‘Come here, nice Barney, so I can strangle you with my own bare hands . . .’ ”

  It was over in a split second. Freeing his neck suddenly from the leash, Barney hurled himself onto the edge of Billy’s chair and toward the sound of his name. With only a brief bounce on the counter top, his next destination was Mrs. Deagle’s shoulders, on which he came to rest with both floppy, and still slightly wet, front paws. Face to face with her enemy, Mrs. Deagle shrieked and dropped the ceramic head, which promptly shattered into a thousand bits and splinters. Barney took the occasion to lick her face, starting at the cleft in her chin and continuing until his tongue became enmeshed in the wiry dankness of her auburn wig. He then started to gag, the first violent heaves throwing him and Mrs. Deagle to the bank floor in a tangle of arms, legs, and paws.

  “Help! Help!” she screamed.

  Instantly the twin figures of Gerald Hopkins and Mr. Corben appeared, each bumping the other in his eagerness to assist the bank’s greatest benefactor to her feet.

  “William!” Mr. Corben shouted accusingly. “What is that dog doing here?”

  “He followed me, Mr. Corben,” Billy replied weakly. “I couldn’t help it and there was no time to take him home because I was already late—”

  “Peltzer, this is a bank, not a pet store,” Gerald offered.

  Mr. Corben nodded agreement, then turned his attention to the disheveled Mrs. Deagle, who stood adjusting her hair and trying not to look undignified. “My dear lady,” he murmured solicitously, “are you all right?”

  Taking the cue, Mrs. Deagle placed a fluttering hand over her breast. “My heart,” she whined. “I can’t take this kind of shock . . . I’m not supposed to have any excitement . . .”

  Billy looked at Kate. Her expression, which he read perfectly, seemed to say, “Well, if you’re not supposed to have excitement, why do you run around causing trouble?”

  “Barney wouldn’t have hurt you, Mrs. Deagle,” he began.

  “Lies and excuses,” she shot back. “You’re just like your father. I’ve been listening to his excuses for months. How he ‘forgot’ to make a payment. He’s a loser, a crackpot and a loser—do you hear that?”

  Billy shook his head, started to protest, but Mr. Corben intervened.

  “Please, Mrs. Deagle,” he soothed. “You said yourself you’re not supposed to have any excitement.”

  “I can tell him what I think of his no-good father and no-good dog,” she snapped. “That’s not excitement. It’s a public duty!”

  Gerald laughed appreciatively.

  “I’ll get that mangy beast,” Mrs. Deagle continued, the blue veins in her neck standing out starkly against the powder-bleached paleness of her throat. “Someday when you least expect it, I’ll get even.”

  Barney, not comprehending the threat in the least, wagged his tail in response.

  With one final, hateful glance at the entire group, Mrs. Deagle propelled herself out of the bank.

  “If I ever see that dog in the bank again, you’re fired,” Mr. Corben said, turning on his heel and heading for his office.

  “Yessir.” Billy nodded.

  Gerald Hopkins shrugged and smiled scornfully. “I hope he’s bankbroken,” he sniggered. “If not, your time may be here sooner than you think.”

  As Billy started back toward his window, he reflected darkly on the fortunes of this day. If the downward spiral continued at the same rate, by evening he would be in a degree of trouble experienced by few mortal men.

  C H A P T E R

  FIVE

  The Mogwai, nearly asleep only minutes after finishing the delicious candy bar given him by the mysterious burly stranger, thought at first that the disoriented feeling was part of the prelude to the dreamland he often experienced following a hearty meal. The box was moving so slowly, so subtly, he barely noticed it. Then he heard the voices, soft and sibilant, as if the speakers were making a conscious effort to be quiet. Accompanying these symptoms were a rise in unfamiliar background noise and a sudden change in temperature. A cry of terror caught in his throat and then burst forth. He was being moved!

  Now the voices outside the box spoke quickly, as if panicked, and the movements of the Mogwai’s tiny home were quick and jolting, all pretense at secrecy having been abandoned. Tossed back and forth in the box, the victim of some terrible upheaval, he tried to cry out to the Chinese man. Again and again he tried to form and pronounce the words of the strange language he had heard so often, but because of problems built into his species by Mogturmen, he was unable to emit more than a shriek of gibberish.

  “Woggluhgurklllll . . . ,” he called out. “Mevvaffrummlldrd . . .”

  Just when he began to think his body was about to shatter from the turbulence and dizziness he was experiencing, the box came to rest. The floor was at a slant but at least the earthquake was over. Two loud metallic slams, a grinding sound, and an engine roar followed, then a gentle, continuous rocking that would have been comforting had he not been utterly terrified. The tears came a few minutes later when he faced the probability that he would never see his Chinese man again.

  “Don’t worry, Gizmo,” a deep soft voice soothed. “It’s gonna be all right.”

  The edge of the burlap was lifted from outside, admitting the sudden flash of a neon sign through the openings in the box. Th
e Mogwai screamed, threw his hands to cover his eyes. Abruptly the burlap fell and the voice said: “Sorry, old buddy, I didn’t realize . . . I guess what he said was true . . . But don’t worry, I’ll be careful. We all will.”

  It had happened again. He knew it would, of course, since by Earth life standards he was virtually immortal. These beings lived such brief lives. Why couldn’t they hang on longer so that there would be less upheaval in his existence? He had been with the Chinese gentleman nearly forty Earth years, had seen him bend from a healthy and strong young man into a frail specter of his former self. Fortunately, the man’s mind remained active and alert; they understood each other. The Chinese man knew the rules, even a few words of the Mogwai’s language, and seemed to sense much more.

  These transferals always threw him into such a fit of depression. He tried not to think of the numerous times he had barely escaped death because his “owner” knew nothing at all about his needs—or, knowing his needs, simply didn’t care to see that they were provided for. Even worse were those who discovered his powers and—how was it possible these humans could be so dense?—actually used him as a source of amusement. That they were amused only briefly before having to face the ultimate terror was of little solace to him. He merely wanted an enlightened caretaker, someone who understood or was as responsible as the old gentleman.

  This burly man who was now transporting him heaven knows where did not seem exactly responsible to the Mogwai. For one thing, he kept calling him “Gizmo” over and over, as if trying to have him accept that as his name or description. Yet the man knew his was Mogwai—the Chinese man had told him so. Was it the first harsh reality of his new situation that he would have to be called Gizmo? It sounded truly terrible.

  There were worse things, of course. Thinking back as they bumped gently along, he remembered the China Sea crossing just before he had encountered his owner-friend of nearly forty years. They had gotten loose then—there had been no way to prevent it. He shuddered. What would have happened had he not been rescued by the Chinese man just a few minutes before the ship was torpedoed? Before that was the incident at the Royal Air Force base. Incident? A near-tragedy of epic proportions! Somehow an extended joke had been made of the thing, but Mogwai knew differently. What would he do if it happened again? Probably nothing very much, as had been the case in the past, because he was largely powerless to act once it started. That’s why the Chinese gentleman had been such an exemplary guardian; without being told, he seemed to know how important prevention was. Even better, he realized that Mogwai did not mind strictures or avenues of freedom being closed off. That’s why the past decades had been comparatively hazard-free. The Chinese man had enough responsibility for both of them.