Gremlins Page 5

  “Gizmo, Gizmo, Gizmo, my friend,” the burly man sing-songed above the sound of the car, “you and me and Billy are gonna have a terrific time together.”

  Gizmo (yes, his Mogwai adaptability had already made him accept his new name) sighed, pulled his great umbrella-like ears over his face, and tried to sleep. A new life was beginning for him and he just didn’t want to think about it.

  C H A P T E R

  SIX

  Somehow Billy got through the rest of the workday, the worst part of which was the succession of triumphant leers from Gerald Hopkins every time their paths crossed. Barney fell asleep under the counter and was good as gold until lunchtime, when Billy took him home. Mr. Corben went to a luncheon given by the Tri-County Businessmen’s Association and didn’t return until nearly four o’clock. He seemed to have forgotten the incident involving Barney and Mrs. Deagle. Kate, as beautiful as ever, was Billy’s only continuing source of visual and—as he contemplated asking her for a date soon—mental pleasure.

  By closing he was in a better frame of mind, although he did not relish the idea of walking everywhere until his car decided to let him rejoin the human race. On the other hand, walking at Christmas time was pleasant in that the town was colorfully decorated and most people seemed in happy moods. Kingston Falls’s main square was lined with lights when Billy closed the bank door behind him and started home. His plan was to mosey along, looking in store windows in the hope he would see something different and interesting for Mom or Dad. In recent years they had become tough cases as far as Christmas shopping went, Mom claiming she “needed nothing,” but she was always delighted when package-opening time came. Dad, of course, either had everything or was in the process of inventing it. He enjoyed the thought behind a nice present, though.

  Crossing to the town square, Billy walked among the rows of Christmas trees, enjoying their fresh pine smell. His mind still preoccupied with the day’s turbulent events, he was the perfect target for Pete Fountaine’s joke. Dressed as a Christmas tree, complete with blinking lights, dangling ornaments, and silver tinsel, thirteen-year-old Pete stood perfectly still near the other trees until Billy was inches away, then reached out and grabbed his arm. Billy jumped.

  “Hi, Billy,” Pete laughed. “Got you, huh?”

  Billy laughed. “Yeah. Guess I was thinkin’ about something else.” He regarded Pete from head to toe. “How’s business?” he asked.

  “Don’t ask me.” Pete shrugged. “Pop sells them and I just act like one.”

  As they strolled along the edge of the tree-lined square, Pete dutifully recited his pitch whenever they approached a potential buyer. “Christmas trees, get ’em here,” he called out. “All sizes and shapes. Get one just like me.” As a frozen-featured man walked quickly by, Pete added: “Hey there, sir . . . Bet you could use a Christmas tree . . . huh?”

  The man, staring at the ground, ignored him.

  “Bet he’s got an aluminum one,” Pete said in a loud voice. “Or he puts lights on his cat.”

  Billy smiled briefly until the cat reference made him think of Mrs. Deagle and her threat to destroy Barney. Was it possible her life was so bitter she would actually consider doing such a thing?

  Pete’s father, an exact replica of him with thirty years added on, gestured to his son. “Help Mr. Anderson load this into his station wagon,” he said.

  Billy grabbed the tall tree and, with Pete, went to the car. Mr. Anderson, an elderly gentleman, opened the back and they placed the tree inside.

  “Thanks, Billy,” Pete said.

  A psychologist, looking at Pete’s eyes and listening to the tone of his voice, would have known instantly that young Pete was expressing gratitude for more than the tree errand. Now at the pimply-faced, gawky, and totally insecure stage and filled with conviction that no one really liked him, least of all older teens, Pete’s admiration of Billy verged on hero worship. He was the older kid who actually treated Pete like a human being. Not that his father was unkind to him, nor was he picked on by his contemporaries. They merely treated him like something that was just there. Billy, on the other hand, seemed interested in him. If he wanted to, Pete felt he could tell him a personal problem, ask his advice, and not be regarded as either a jerk or a potential social offender.

  Now, with business a bit slow and Billy at hand, Pete decided the time was right.

  “Hey, Billy,” he said. “You’re pretty old—”

  “That’s right.” Billy smiled. “I get my first retirement check next week.”

  “I mean, you’ve got lots of experience, right?”

  “Experience with what?”

  “Well, with girls.”

  “Sure.”

  “You ever ask a girl out?”

  “Sure. That’s usually the best way to go out with them—to ask.”

  “Yeah,” Pete murmured. “How did you do it? I mean, what did you say?”

  Billy shrugged. “It depends on the girl and situation,” he said, trying to sound worldly but not blasé. “You gotta be firm. Confident. Make it sound like you’re doing her a favor by asking her out.”

  “Really?” Pete’s eyes were wide and bright with this new piece of knowledge.

  “Sure. You can’t get all gushy and nervous. Never let on how much you really like her.”

  “I get it.” Pete nodded. “Maybe you should zap her with a few insults first.”

  Billy laughed. “That may be carrying it a bit too far. You got somebody in mind?”

  “No, not really,” Pete lied. Then, amending himself, he said, “Well, maybe there’s somebody . . .”

  Billy laughed. He reached out, trying to find a place near Pete’s shoulder to pat without getting jabbed by pine needles. “Let me know how it turns out,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Pete answered, waving as Billy stepped off the curb and headed down the block.

  Billy smiled, recalling their conversation as he walked. Why didn’t life get easier? To Pete he was a wise and cool young man, capable of dealing with life in general and women in particular. To himself he was hardly more proficient than at thirteen; words still got twisted in his mouth and thoughts muddled in his brain before he could articulate them. And yet the very notion that Pete considered him worldly and wise buoyed his spirits to the point where he decided to drop into Dorry’s Pub.

  It was unlikely that Kate would be there yet; she usually went home to change before reporting for work. Even if she didn’t arrive before Billy finished a mug of beer, however, he considered it important to take the initial plunge of going inside. Once or twice in the past he had done so but had emerged in a depressed mood after seeing the attention lavished on Kate by the older men at the bar. Not that she returned their overtures. She was friendly, even joked with them, but was never intimate. That should have pleased Billy. Instead he concluded unhappily that if she rejected those sharp-tongued, sophisticated, successful men, what chance did he have?

  Tonight he was determined to brave his own insecurity. Going inside, he stood at the entrance foyer, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Laid out as an old-fashioned Irish pub, Dorry’s was dimly lit, with small wooden tables and sawdust on the floor. The long bar was already crowded with young and middle-aged men, as well as a scattering of women. In the corner a pair of video games colorfully and noisily zapped aliens or threatened the player’s electronic hero with instant fragmentation.

  Locating an empty table, Billy sat down, ordered a beer from none other than sandy-haired Dorry Dougal himself, the genuine Irishman who operated the pub. Ten minutes later, beginning to feel relaxed, he took out the drawing pad he always carried with him and began to sketch. Soon the lines evolved into recognizable forms—a muscular warrior battling a giant, horrifying dragon with a face too similar to Mrs. Deagle’s to be mere coincidence. In the process, the warrior was defending a young princess with an uncanny resemblance to Kate Beringer. Despite the bad lighting, Billy was pleased with the results he had gotten and was admiring the e
ffect when a sudden shadow falling across the picture brought him back to reality.

  “Terrific,” a sardonic voice said. “The world needs more unemployed artists.”

  It was Gerald Hopkins. In deference to its being after hours, he had unfastened the two bottom buttons of his three-piece suit and loosened his tie slightly. Without being invited, he dropped into the chair opposite Billy and smiled in a superior manner. “Speaking of unemployment, guess who almost applied for it today.”

  “I give up,” Billy said coolly.

  “You.” Taking a long beat so that it could sink in, he then continued. “Mr. Corben had second thoughts, though. He gets all sentimental about the holidays.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “Yeah,” Gerald sneered. “I would have fired you in a second.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too,” Billy deadpanned.

  “You think it’s mean of me to even think about firing somebody, right?” Gerald demanded. “Well, let me tell you something. It’s a tough world out there. To get ahead you have to be tougher. That’s why I’m junior vice-president at age twenty-three. In two or three years I’ll have Mr. Corben’s job. And when I’m thirty, I’ll be a millionaire. When you’re thirty, you’ll probably be only twenty-eight.”

  Billy shrugged. “Well, you have my blessing, Ger,” he said evenly.

  “Don’t call me that. My name’s Gerald.”

  “Sure, Ger.”

  At that moment Kate passed nearby with a tray and drinks, wearing an apron on which DORRY’S PUB was emblazoned in large green letters. Gerald spun his head and snapped his fingers in her direction. With a tight smile, she moved to the table.

  “I’ll have an Irish coffee,” Gerald ordered. “But don’t pour the Irish whiskey in the coffee. Bring it in a separate glass and I’ll do it.”

  Kate nodded, looked at Billy. “You all right?” she asked.

  “Fine,” he said.

  Glancing at the drawing in his lap, she turned her head sideways and smiled. “Do I sense some hostility there?” she murmured slyly.

  “Hostility but no talent,” Gerald countered.

  “I think it’s good,” Kate said.

  “Then you’re still into comic books,” Gerald sneered.

  Billy, somewhat embarrassed by Kate’s praise and intimidated by Hopkins’s arrogance, tried to change the subject. He succeeded only in blurting an obvious statement that Gerald gleefully pounced on.

  “I guess you’re working tonight,” he said to Kate.

  “No, dummy,” Gerald interjected. “She’s modeling aprons.”

  “Every weeknight,” Kate said, ignoring him. “So Dorry won’t have to pay an extra waitress.”

  “No pay?” Gerald said. “You work for free? Suppose everybody did that! It’s ridiculous. Maybe there’s a young mother out there who could use the money.”

  “Dorry’s got to save as much money as he can or Mrs. Deagle will close down this place pretty soon. So everybody’s pitching in to help. It’s not a matter of keeping a paying job from someone else. If this place closes down, a lot of jobs will go.”

  “I think it’s great,” Billy said.

  “It’s dumb economically,” Gerald muttered. “If a business can’t make it without help from charity, it deserves to go under.”

  “I’ll get your Irish coffee,” Kate said, turning to leave.

  “Wait a minute,” Gerald said in a softer tone. “You don’t have to get all bent out of shape because I’m practical. Actually, it’s a very nice thing you’re doing.”

  “Thank you,” Kate replied.

  Gerald reached out to touch her arm. “Hey, Kate,” he said. “You haven’t seen my new apartment.”

  “I haven’t seen your old apartment,” she countered.

  “That’s right,” he retorted. “The lights were out.”

  Seeing the fire in her eyes, Gerald laughed elaborately. “Just kidding,” he said. “But why don’t we have dinner tomorrow night, just the two of us?”

  “I’d love to, but I’ve got to work.”

  “Tell Dorry you’re sick. He won’t be able to dock you.”

  Kate smiled mirthlessly, shook her head no, and left. Gerald watched her with smoldering, lustful eyes. Then he looked at Billy in a conspiratorial manner. “You think she’s got something going with Dorry?” he asked.

  “Dorry?” Billy laughed. “He’s in his forties, maybe old enough to be her grandfather.”

  “Why else would she work for free?”

  “You ever hear of the Christmas spirit?” Billy challenged.

  “Only the kind that comes in a bottle.” Gerald smiled.

  “I’m sorry for you.”

  “Don’t be.”

  Billy swallowed the last of his beer, threw a dollar on the table, and stood up. “That’s for Kate,” he said. “And thanks a lot for the drink, Ger.”

  “I told you never to—”

  But Billy didn’t hear the rest. He was already halfway to the door. As he reached out to push it open, he spotted Kate coming out of the back room and into the bar. She smiled warmly at him and winked.

  It was chilly outside, but during his walk home Billy hardly felt it.

  C H A P T E R

  SEVEN

  Lynn Peltzer always felt an extra twinge of nervousness around Christmas time. It hadn’t always been that way. Growing up in a suburb of Pittsburgh, she had been a fairly normal child of a middle-class family. Christmas excited her because she usually received some new clothes and a few special things. In addition, she enjoyed picking out presents for other people, anticipating their joy as they opened them. Though not especially religious, she also enjoyed the holiday because it seemed symbolic of new hope, kindness, and generosity.

  Not until she met Rand Peltzer did she begin to associate Christmas with danger.

  Neither he nor she had intended it to happen that way. Nearly a quarter century before, when they were married, both of them had had high expectations that someday Rand would have his face on the cover of Time magazine. He had not gone to college, but when he patented a simple device that made it easier for laundries to locate their customers’ clothes, he seemed to be on his way. Taking a smooth-talking friend’s advice, Rand quit his job in the sporting goods department of a large store and “invested in himself,” as he put it. His lifelong desire was to be another Thomas Edison, and to that end he forthwith applied himself. The money ran out soon, most of the inventions gathered dust, and eventually he was forced to find a job selling other people’s wares, but Rand never really gave up. Working in his spare time, he continued to conceive and construct new instruments to benefit society.

  The problem was that they were usually tested first on Lynn, and almost always as Christmas presents.

  The first year Lynn received an automatic, “painless” ear-piercing device for use in the home. It sent Lynn to the hospital emergency room Christmas night and it was well after New Year’s before she could remove the bandages from her earlobes. The next year an improved fingernail polish remover caused something strange and crusty to grow on her nails and remain there for several months. Other devices, such as pineapple parers, automatic shoe buffers, cleaning poles capable of reaching anywhere, and fish cleaners, all came neatly wrapped at Christmas, were duly tried, failed, and recalled for “improvements.” Most, fortunately, never saw the light of day again. A good sport, Rand shook his head and endured the jokes generated by his failures, but the light bulb of inspiration never left its permanent spot above his head.

  Lynn wondered what it would be this year. Her wonder was not alloyed with dread but with uncertainty. It would be nice to prepare herself if that was possible.

  The real problem, she supposed, was that she simply couldn’t tell Rand to just stop inventing things and trying them out on her. She loved the big guy and if he ever gave up this quirky habit, it would kill her. Such feelings of love, however, did not cause her to flinch less as the annual day of present-giving approached.


  “It’ll be all right,” she said aloud to herself, adding optimistically: “Last year was easy with the tomato dicer. We had the ceiling cleaned in minutes, washed our faces, and that was that.”

  Removing the meat loaf from the oven, she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass door. With her styled gray hair and face that was marred only by “character lines” (no sense calling them wrinkles just yet), she was remarkably well preserved for forty-seven. She was reasonably content with life and well aware of the fact that whatever excitement was due her had probably happened already, but she often wondered how things would have turned out if she had been the breadwinner instead of Rand. He was tenacious, but she was a fighter. He traveled circuitous routes; she bored straight ahead. Sometimes Lynn wondered how she would have handled herself if, not having been born several decades too soon, she had been drafted into the army and asked to fight for her country. Surprisingly, the idea intrigued rather than repelled or frightened her.

  “Too late now,” she said, looking at the clock.

  Billy was already late for dinner, even considering the fact that he had to walk home. As for Rand, there was no telling when he would walk in.

  A moment later she heard the front door open and, a beat after that, the clatter of an object hitting the floor of the living room. Those crossed swords again, Lynn thought with a sigh, putting the meat loaf on the counter and moving to the hallway.