Free The Odds Get Even by Natale Ghent Page A

opening. Squeak’s worried face peered back at him from across the divide that separated their two houses. He pointed down with concern.
    Boney looked down. The ground seemed a lot farther away at night than it did in the daylight. But he couldn’t turn back now. He gave Squeak the thumbs-up, at the same time measuring with his foot the distance to the trellis that supported his aunt’s precious climbing roses. Lowering himself down, his sneakered foot probed for a foothold, the thorns of the roses scratching and clawing at his leg. When at last he found his footing, Boney grabbed the wooden trellis and lowered himself out the window.
    Moving slowly, Blaster in one hand, pillowcase in the other, Boney desperately tried to avoid the sharp claws of the roses. They pulled at his pants and his shirt, tearing at the fabric. More than once, he had to stifle a cry as a thorn pierced his hand. “I hate roses,” he cursed through clenched teeth as he picked his way down to the living-room window. Looking through, he could see his uncle on the couch, his chest rising and falling, his moustache billowing in and out with each breath. Boney ducked out of sight as his uncle snorted and jumped, rolling like an old walrus onto his side.
    When he was sure it was safe, Boney continued his descent. Everything was working beautifully. He was just about to congratulate himself on his stealth when the pillowcase containing the stained costume caught on a big thorn. Boney tugged. The pillowcase wouldn’tbudge. He tugged again. Still nothing. Then he yanked, and the pillowcase ripped along its seam, sending Boney crashing in a heap to the ground, the Triple-X water blaster bouncing from his hand, the wind knocked with a loud grunt from his lungs. He lay there in agony, terrified to move lest his uncle appear.
    Squeak’s window rattled open. “Are you okay?” he whispered down.
    “I’m fine,” Boney answered, rubbing his ankle. He waved Squeak off, retrieved the water gun and pillowcase, and pulled himself to his feet, making his way across the lawn to the garage.
    Inside the garage, Boney knelt down, removing the playing card and clothespin he kept pegged to the spokes of his bike. Normally, he liked the noise the card made, but tonight, silence was essential. Setting the card and pin aside, he grabbed the pillowcase and wheeled his bike noiselessly from the garage. Just to be safe, he walked the bike to the street before slinging his leg over the crossbar and pushing off.
    As he pedalled past Itchy’s house, he heard the familiar sound of Snuff’s nails scrabbling down the concrete walkway in pursuit. Snuff raced up to the bike, but before he could attack, Boney aimed the Blaster gun and hosed the dog in the face, sending Snuff skittering with a yelp back to the porch.
    Boney pedalled faster, tucking the gun in the pillowcase, the pillowcase bumping wildly against his knee. When he reached the cleaners, he skidded to a stop and rested his bike against the wall of the building.
    The door jangled loudly as Boney entered the store, the smell of chemicals and scorched cloth jumping into his nose. Mr. Martini stood like an undertaker behind the counter, a thin, grey-haired wisp of a man with thick, black-framed glasses even bigger than Squeak’s goggles. Boney thumped the pillowcase onto the counter
    “I need this outfit cleaned right away.”
    Mr. Martini slowly extracted the blaster gun and the Elvis suit. He placed the pistol to one side with a questioning look, then began carefully poring over the blood stains with his thick lenses. He fished a magnifying glass out from behind the counter and continued to study the stains, the clock on the wall ticking loudly over his shoulder. After what seemed like an excruciatingly long time, he finally raised his eyebrows and stared at Boney. “Should I call the police?”
    Boney gave a nervous laugh. “It’s okay. It’s only fake blood. But I need the costume cleaned right away,” he said,