This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

and incidents are either products of the author’s

imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2018 by Stephan Pastis

Timmy Failure font copyright © 2012 by Stephan Pastis

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted,

or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and

recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

First electronic edition 2018

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number pending

This book was typeset in Nimrod.

The illustrations were done in pen and ink.

Candlewick Press

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Somerville, Massachusetts 02144

visit us at www.candlewick.com

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To my cousin Nick Tripodes, who never

could have guessed when he drew this

odd Santa in a Christmas card that I

would steal it and use it in a book.

Some kids start their day eating a complete,

balanced breakfast.

I start mine trying to throw a principal

out a window.

A window that is ten stories high.

I should have known it would end up like

this when they wouldn’t let me into the bar.

Even after showing my ID.

So I subdue the bouncer with a mix of

charm and martial arts and kick open the

double doors of the bar.

Where I am accosted by two thugs I

recognize: Rick “Drill-A-Kid” Drillashick and

Crispin “Bowling Turkey” Flavius.

“Listen, boys,” I tell them. “It doesn’t

have to go down this way. I’m just here for a

drink.”

But they refuse to listen.

So I hurl them down the surface of the

bar like they are human bowling balls.

And take my seat at the now-empty bar.

Cool as the unopened beer bottle poised

menacingly above my head.

“Dr. Alfredo Goni,” I mutter, tapping my

fingers on the shiny bar. “I should have

known they’d throw an orthodontist at me.”

“Right-o,” he answers menacingly. “And

I brought backup.”

I whip around and see his accomplice.

“I don’t want any trouble,” I tell Mickey

Molar.

It is a tense moment. And nobody moves.

Except the grizzled bartender, who

waddles toward me from behind the bar.

“Whaddya want?” she asks.

“Whiskey, neat,” I tell her. “And don’t

try anything funny, Toots.”

But she ducks. And my eye catches the

quick flash of a beak in the mirror. And I spin

around.

“Edward Higglebottom the Third!” I cry,

hopping off my barstool. “I must say, I wasn’t

expecting a giant chicken.”

And in a flash, the bar explodes in a frenzy

of violence.

Punches. Kicks. Chicken feathers.

And one by one, I hurl a series of would-be

assassins from the high window.

Ron “Speedo Steve.”

“Minnie the Magnificent” Benedici.

Donny “Dangermouse” Dobbs.

And I make a run for the billiards room,

crashing through the makeshift barricade.

And I enter the dark, dingy room.

Where, brandishing a cue stick, is my

school principal, Alexander Scrimshaw.

“We meet again,” I tell him.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he answers,

surveying the damage to the bar.

“Mistakes were made,” I tell him. “But

none of them mine.”

“Yeah, well, to get to me, you’re gonna

have to go through the Scrum Bolo

Chihuahua,” he says, pointing to a giant

Chihuahua perched atop the barroom light.

So I offer the Chihuahua a doggy treat.

And he licks my hand and runs off.

“I expected more,” says Scrimshaw.

I watch as Scrimshaw backs farther

away, waving the pool cue like a club.

“All we wanted was world domination,” he

says, “but you stood in the way. You, Timmy

Failure. So I had to crush you. With algebra

you’ll never use. Pop quizzes you didn’t

expect. Boring novels you couldn’t endure.”

“I know,” I answer. “And all under the

guise of being a school principal.”

“Yes.”

“So what were you, really?” I ask.

“A secret agent for a vast criminal

organization. All school principals are.”

“Of course.”

“So do what you will,” he says. “But you

won’t take me alive.”

“This could get ugly,” I tell him.

“Principals like ugly,” he answers.

And when I turn briefly to check for

more of his goons, he kicks me behind the

knees, sending me reeling.

As I struggle back onto my feet, he runs

for the double doors. I spring like a cougar

onto his back.

And from high atop his shoulders, I grab

him by both ears, steering him into the bar,

the tables, the walls.

Dazed from the impact, he falls to the

ground.

And I drag him to the broken window and

lift him high overhead.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, gasping for

breath. “I will make you a deal.”

“I am about to vanquish my enemy

forever. There is nothing more I could

want.”

“But there is.”

“Then talk fast,” I tell him. “Because

you’re very heavy. Portly, even.”

“Next Tuesday,” he says, “there will be

a pop quiz in geography. Spare my life and

you don’t have to take it.”

“Will I still get a good grade?”

“B,” he answers.

“A minus,” I say.

“B plus,” he counters.

“Deal,” I say, putting him down.

And when I do, he shoves me with both

hands.

And I fall through the window.

Where my shoelace snags on the window

frame.

And my life hangs by a thread.

“You fiend,” I utter as I dangle like the

pendulum of a clock.

“It’s the end of Timmy Failure,” he says,

bending down to cut the shoelace with a

piece of broken glass.

“It’s the end when I say it’s the end,” I

tell him.

And he cuts the shoelace.

“Okay, now it’s the end,” I say.

And I fall.

But not before leaving him with some

final words of wisdom:

“Did he look like this?” I ask my polar bear,

Total, as I show him the sketch I’ve drawn.

“Sorry about the paper,” I add. “It was

the only thing I could find in the house.”

Total stares at the drawing.

“But does it look like him?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

Smaller, he indicates with his paws.

As a detective trained in forensic

drawing, I have had to sketch my fair share

of individuals. But rarely have I had a client

this fussy.

“Like this?” I ask, showing him another

drawing.

Rounder, he indicates with his paws.

“Like this?” I ask again. “Is this what your

big brother looked like?”

And suddenly, my polar bear is quiet.

He pulls the drawing out of my hands

and carries it a few yards away.

Where he sits on the grass and stares at

it. Like it is his actual brother in his hands.

I have known for years that my polar

bear grew up without a mother somewhere

in the Arctic.

But it was not until the two of us

watched a nature documentary about two

polar bear cubs that something in his furry

brain was jarred loose.

A memory.

One that was buried deep under an

unusually large Arctic snowdrift that

separated him from his brother.

Forcing my polar bear to go it alone.

As he’s remained to this day.

“If you want me to help you reach him,

I will,” I tell him. “But first we have to find

him.”

Total continues staring at the sketch.

“It would be a substantial disruption of

my normal detective business,” I explain.

“But I feel obligated.”

But he remains silent. For he is a

bear. And bears are not good at expressing

emotion.

So I sit down on the grass beside him

and wait.

Hoping for a sign on this bright,

cloudless morning.

And then the sun disappears.

“Timmy, it was a solar eclipse,” says my

best friend, Rollo Tookus.

“Wrong, Rollo Tookus,” I answer. “It was

much more than that.”

“Class,” announces our teacher, Mr.

Jenkins, “before we get started, I’d like a

show of hands. How many of you were able

to see the eclipse this morning?”

My classmates raise their hands.

“And did you all use the special dark

glasses?” asks Mr. Jenkins.

“I used them,” answers Molly Moskins,

still wearing the glasses.

“You can probably take the glasses off

now, Molly. You’re indoors.”

“Is that where I am?” she replies. “I can’t

see a thing.”

“All right,” continues Mr. Jenkins, “which

of you would like to come up and briefly

explain to the class what a solar eclipse is?”

“I will,” volunteers Corrina Corrina, a

former detective and current has-been who

there is absolutely no reason to talk about.

“Great,” says Mr. Jenkins. “Go for it.”

She walks to the front of the class.

“A solar eclipse is when the moon passes

in front of the sun,” she says.

“Very good,” comments Mr. Jenkins.

Rollo raises his hand.

“Yes, Rollo?”

“I knew all of that,” he volunteers.

“I bet you did,” answers Mr. Jenkins.

“Will it be on the final?” asks Rollo.

“Rollo, relax,” says Mr. Jenkins.

“Because I didn’t take any notes,” adds

Rollo.

“Okay,” says Mr. Jenkins, “let’s all—”

“Mr. Jenkins,” I say, raising my hand,

something I have done only four times this

semester, three of which were to ask:

“Yes, Timmy,” says Mr. Jenkins. “What

do you want?”

“I’d like to say more about the solar

eclipse we saw this morning.”

As I have never volunteered for one

academic exercise in the history of my

education, my teacher is momentarily

stunned.

“Okay, Timmy. Sure. But make it brief.”

I walk to the front of the class and climb

atop Mr. Jenkins’s chair.

“What you saw this morning was a sign

from the gods,” I announce.

No one speaks.

“And, thus, I hereby retire from the

detective business.”

The news of my retirement stuns my

classmates, sending them into a dazed

stupor that is visible at recess.

But there is nothing I can do to help them.

For my decision is final.

“Want to play kickball with the rest of

us?” Rollo asks me.

“It’ll be okay, Rollo,” I remind him.

“We’ll still be friends and I shall still be

attending school.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks as

a stray kickball rolls past us.

“My retirement,” I remind him.

Max Hodges runs past us to chase the

ball.

“You will all be okay,” I tell Rollo. “For

my spirit shall be with ye unto the end of

time.”

Max overhears us.

“You really are a weirdo,” he says.

I wait until he is gone. “Keep your voice

down, Rollo. Spies abound.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t really get the whole

retirement thing,” Rollo says. “I mean, what

does an eclipse have to do with your quitting

the detective business?”

It’s moments like this when I realize

that a 4.6 grade point average is really quite

meaningless.

“Okay, Rollo, if I have to lay it out, I

will,” I say, sighing.

“Okay, but hurry up. I want to go play.”

“Don’t rush me, Rollo,” I reply, pointing

toward my bear behind the fence. “Because

this is about the big guy.”

“God?”

“Total,” I answer. “But, yes, the gods

also.”

“I don’t understand.”

So I try again.

“Rollo, my polar bear informed me that

he needed my help. But I hesitated, because

I knew the strains it would put on my

detective business, both in terms of time and

money. And caught in this moral quandary, I

looked to the heavens.”

“And?”

“And the sun disappeared from the sky.”

“Yeah. The moon covered it.”

“No,” I answer. “I think it exploded.”

“Timmy, if the sun exploded, why is it

back in the sky now?”

“Well, I’m not a physicist,” I explain, “but

it must have un-exploded.”

Rollo just stares.

“The point is that the heavens spoke to

me, Rollo. And they said, ‘Timmy, ye must

retire.’”

“Okay,” says Rollo. “I’m gonna go play

now.”

So off he runs.

And I use the rest of recess to write my

memoirs.

“You interrupted me in the middle of my

writing,” I inform my teacher, Mr. Jenkins.

“And you seized that without a warrant.”

“Timmy, you got back from recess a half

hour ago and you haven’t looked up from

your desk once,” he says, glancing at the

documents he has grabbed. “And what is

this you’re writing, anyway?”

“Please do not look at that. It’s highly

confidential.”

“Fine,” he says, handing the pages back

to me. “But, Timmy, you need to pay

attention and not be working on your own

stuff.”

“I can do both.”

“Okay,” says Mr. Jenkins. “What have

we been talking about for the last thirty

minutes?”

“The solar eclipse,” I answer.

“That was before recess.”

“Well, then I have no idea. Perhaps

you’re jumping from topic to topic too

rapidly.”

“I can help him,” interrupts Rollo,

handing me a document.

“What is this?” I ask.

“What he’s been talking about,” says

Rollo. “The big project for the semester.”

So I peruse the document.

“WHAT?” I cry. “I have no time for a

stupid film.”

“You said you’re retired now,” answers

Mr. Jenkins. “So you have plenty of time.”

“I’m retired to do other things,” I tell

him. “Like help my polar bear. And write my

memoirs.”

“And work on a film,” replies Mr.

Jenkins, pointing to his desk. “Now, go pick

a job out of the hat like Nunzio and everyone

else.”

“I get to do lighting!” shouts Nunzio

Benedici, pulling a piece of paper out of the

hat. “I guess I just turn the lights on and

off!”

“Well, it’s a little more involved than

that,” says Mr. Jenkins. “But it is relatively

easy.”

“I’m craft services!” shouts Rollo, pulling

his hand from the hat. “Wait. What’s that?”

“You bring the food,” answers Mr.

Jenkins.

“My mother is the greatest cook ever!”

exclaims Rollo. “Will I be graded on her

macaroni and cheese?”

“Perhaps,” answers Mr. Jenkins. “If she

brings enough for me.”

“Absurd!” I cry, pointing at Rollo and

Nunzio. “Rollo just has to eat pasta, and

Nunzio’s gonna turn off the lights when he’s

done. How fair is that?”

“Stop complaining, Timmy, and reach

into the hat.”

So I reach into the hat to pick a job.

“With your eyes closed,” says Mr.

Jenkins.

So I reach into the hat again, this time

with my eyes closed.

And grab a slip of paper.

And suddenly, my retirement is ruined.

“How am I supposed to write an entire

movie?!” I yell to my mother that night.

“Hush,” she says, “I’m trying to watch

TV.”

So I stand in front of the TV to get her

attention.

“What in the world are you wearing?”

asks my mother.

“It’s my smoking jacket and pipe,” I

answer. “Given that I am now retired from

detective work, I am supposed to be a man of

leisure.”

“Where’d you get that pipe?”

“Husband Dave gave it to me.”

“No, I didn’t,” says Husband Dave, seated

beside her on the couch. “He must have

taken it from my sock drawer.”

“Give me that,” she says, taking the pipe

from my mouth.

“You are no help at all,” I tell Husband

Dave.

“Timmy, we have a whole extra bedroom

in this townhouse,” says my mother. “It’s

quiet. It has its own computer. Just go in

there and write. Because the two of us would

like to watch this film.”

“Looks boring,” I say, glancing at the

screen. “What is it?”

“It’s about a big, fancy ship that hits an

iceberg,” says my mother. “And there’s a

man and a woman and they fall in love and

they kiss.”

The next day at school, I turn in my proposed

film synopsis.

“Timmy,” says Mr. Jenkins, “you just

stole the plot from the movie Titanic.”

“Artists don’t steal,” I reply. “They

borrow.”

“Yes, but you stole.”

“Fine. What if I change it slightly and have

the boat hit an elephant?”

“How did elephants get into the ocean?”

“Parachuted from airplanes,” I answer.

“Timmy, you have to come up with your

own idea,” says Mr. Jenkins. “That’s all

there is to it.”

“But I’m a detective, not a writer! We

don’t write stories—we ARE the story!”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning back in his chair

and putting his feet on the desk.

“Yeah, what?” I answer.

“You said you wanted to write your

memoirs, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, instead of doing that, why not turn

them into a film?”

“I have never seen you work so hard on

anything in your life,” says my mother,

peeking into my writing hovel, formerly

known as the extra bedroom.

“Mother, I’m in the midst of a

particularly compelling piece of dialogue.

And the muse is a fickle master. Please.

Give this writer space.”

She reaches down and lifts a page of my

screenplay from the floor.

“Wow,” she comments.

“Which draft are you reading?” I ask.

“This one,” she says.

“That’s the first scene,” I tell her.

“That’s quite an entrance.”

“Yes,” I answer. “My problem now is that

the screenplay is limited to one hundred

pages. And my birth sequence alone is

seventy-five pages.”

“Maybe you can cut out some parts.”

“No. It’s all inspired work. So nothing

can be deleted.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re excited about it.

But just five more minutes, okay? You have

school tomorrow and I don’t want you to be

exhausted.”

“Got it.”

“Five minutes,” she says. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“I stayed up all night writing this,” I

proclaim to my classmates, all gathered

together at the city library for our film

project meeting. “And it is a masterpiece.”

“Not sleeping is bad for your health,”

says Molly Moskins. “You could have died.”

“I know,” I answer. “But sometimes

that’s the price of art.”

“I don’t want to die,” says Rollo Tookus.

“I just want to get an A.”

“I should tell all of you one thing right

now,” I continue. “And that is that I plan on

running a very tight ship on this film. So if

any of you are less than fully committed to

my vision, you should probably leave now.”

Angel de Manzanas Naranjas rises and

heads for the door.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“I’m not even partially committed,” he

says.

The library door slams behind him.

“None of you saw that,” announces Toody

Tululu, hopping to her feet.

“Why not?” asks Nunzio Benedici, seated

next to her.

“Because I’m in charge of publicity on

this film, and we can’t have the world finding

out that the production is already falling

apart.”

“Nothing is falling apart,” I remind them.

“I have everything under control.”

“Can we talk about costs?” asks Corrina

Corrina. “Because I’m the producer and I

have to see to it that we don’t spend more

than the nine hundred dollars Mr. Jenkins

is giving us.”

“None of you are going to worry about

costs,” I say without looking in Corrina

Corrina’s direction. “The bar scene alone will

cost ten times that.”

“What bar scene?” asks Rollo.

“I walk into a bar filled with mobsters,

and one by one I throw each of them out a

tenth-story window.”

“The actors could die,” interjects Molly.

“I vote that nobody dies in this film.”

“No one is gonna die,” I remind her.

“Because we have trained stuntmen.”

“Who?” she asks.

“Max Hodges,” I tell her.

“I’m not a trained stuntman,” interrupts

Max.

“You will be,” I assure him.

“No, I won’t,” answers Max, standing up.

“Because I’m going home.”

Max opens the library door and leaves.

“Fine,” I answer. “We’ll just make Gunnar

or Jimmy Weber or Nunzio the stuntmen.”

“No way. I’m in charge of lighting,” says

Nunzio, springing from his seat and turning

off the lights.

We are momentarily in darkness.

When the lights are turned back on,

Gunnar and Jimmy Weber are gone.

“Oh, God,” says Toody Tululu. “This

whole thing is a disaster.”

“There will be no talk of disasters,” I

announce. “You will all be proud to say you

were a part of this film.”

“I don’t even know what it’s about,” says

Scutaro Holmes.

“It’s about a boy and his polar bear,” I

explain. “And you, Scutaro, are lucky enough

to be playing the polar bear.”

“Do I get to eat anyone?” asks Scutaro.

“Only the evil ogre.”

“Who’s the evil ogre?”

“Principal Scrimshaw,” I explain.

“Timmy,” interjects Rollo, “we can’t

make a film where a polar bear eats our

school principal. We’ll get a bad grade.”

“Yes, well, if need be, I have a PG-rated

version where the polar bear just chases

Scrimshaw off a cliff and he falls to the

valley floor.”

“Then he better bounce off the valley

floor!” yells Molly. “And live happily ever

after.”

“Okay,” says a voice from behind us,

“you guys are gonna have to keep your voices

down.”

We all turn to see the city librarian, Flo,

standing behind us.

“I’m fine lending you kids one of our

conference rooms to work on your film, but

not if you’re gonna be loud.”

“Sorry, Flo,” I tell him. “We’re having

artistic differences.”

“But please don’t tell anyone,” adds Toody

Tululu.

“All right, well, we’re closing up anyway,”

says Flo. “You have two minutes.”

“But, Flo,” I plead, “I still have to explain

my artistic vision. That’ll take hours.”

“Do it in two minutes,” Flo says as he

walks out the conference-room door.

With Flo gone, I sit quietly, thinking of

how I can cram my brilliant vision of the

film into a mere two minutes.

And then a boy wearing a scarf speaks

up.

“I don’t need to hear your vision,” he

says. “I have my own.”

“I don’t even know who you are,” I say to the

boy with the scarf after we both leave the now-

closed library.

“Tom John John,” he answers.

“What kind of a name is that?”

“What do you mean? My name is Tom,

but that’s my dad’s name also, so my family

calls me by my first and middle names put

together, which is ‘Tom John.’”

“But you said ‘John’ twice.”

“Yes, ‘John’ is our last name also.”

“That’s quite odd,” I tell him.

“Not as odd as forcing all of us to make a

film about your life,” says Tom John John.

“Did Mr. Jenkins approve that?”

“Yes, he approved it,” I inform him. “It

was his idea. And if you’d like to contribute

to the film, perhaps I could find you a job

bringing me coffee or feeding the mules.”

“Yes, well, I have a much different concept

of our respective roles.”

“Well, good for you, Tom John John, but

I’m the writer, and when it comes to a film,

there is nobody more important than the

writer.”

“Yes, there is,” he answers.

“No, there’s not,” I reply.

As we argue, I see Rollo Tookus waiting

for the bus to pick him up from the library.

So I turn to him to break the tie.

“Hey, Rollo, tell this kid with the scarf

who the most important person on a film is.”

“The director,” Rollo shouts over the

rumble of his arriving bus.

“A director?” I yell back at him. “Who’s

ever heard of a director?”

“Mr. Jenkins explained it all to us,”

answers Rollo as he boards his bus. “But I

think you were writing your memoirs.”

“All right, fine,” I shout. “Say there is

such a thing as a director, what’s he do?”

“He’s in charge of the whole film,”

answers Rollo from his seat on the bus.

“The whole film?” I mumble as the bus

starts moving. “Then who’s this clown?” I

yell, pointing at Tom John John.

Rollo pokes his head out the window

of the departing bus and shouts:

“He’s the directorrrrrrr!”

“Tom John John is a transfer student,”

says my mother as we drive in her car. “I

think one of the parents said his family hops

around a lot. Mostly in Europe.”

“So we can deport him,” I tell her.

“Kick him out of the country? No,

Timmy. We can’t kick him out of the country.”

“But he wears a scarf. It’s very pompous.”

“You wear a scarf, Timmy.”

“Yes. And it makes me look quite

distinguished. He, on the other hand, looks

buffoonish.”

She stops the car in front of a storage

facility.

“Is this where your storage unit is?” I

ask.

“Yep.”

“Why do we even have a storage unit?”

“Because when we moved out of our

house, I had nowhere to keep the stuff from

our garage,” she says as she unlocks the

padlock on the large metallic door. “Now,

help me push this door up.”

We push up the large metallic door and I

see a large array of boxes.

“This place is huge,” I tell her. “Have you

thought about living in here?”

“No, Timmy. We have a nice home.”

“Yeah, but what if Husband Dave gets on

your nerves? You could hide here.”

“I’m not gonna hide in a storage unit,

Timmy.”

55

“Well, maybe I should have a key. In

case Husband Dave gets on my nerves.”

“Are you gonna start looking through

these boxes or not?” she asks. “You’re the

one who wanted to look for something.”

It’s true. I did.

And there, on top of a box, I find it.

It’s a well-known fact that many advanced

mammals can communicate over long

distances.

For lions, it is a roar that can echo

across canyons.

For whales, it is a tone that can carry for

miles underwater.

And for polar bears, it is the fax

machine.

Not much is known about how polar

bears got their hands on so many fax

machines. Some speculate that when people

started discarding them in the 2000s, they

were scooped up by polar bears posing as

Goodwill truck drivers.

Though we’ll never know for sure.

In any event, the way a fax machine

works is this:

You stick a piece of paper into a machine

that reads all the information on the

paper.

Then you dial the fax number of

whomever you want to send the document to.

Then, like magic, the other person’s fax

machine spits out an identical copy of your

document.

At first, polar bears were confused by

the technology. They thought that when you

stuck a piece of paper into a fax machine, it

magically flew through the air to the other

person’s fax machine, the same as if you had

just folded it up into a paper airplane and

sailed it over to your friend.

As such, they tried to use it to send

bologna.

But once they figured out the technol-

ogy, polar bears created a vast network of

communication capable of spreading news,

sharing gossip, and finding relatives.

“This is how we’re going to find your big

brother,” I explain to Total, holding the fax

machine I got from my mother’s storage unit.

He just stares at it.

“And we’ll keep it here in my writ-

ing hovel, which will also serve as our

headquarters for this top-secret mission.”

“WHATT for short,” I inform him.

Total is so happy, he hugs me.

“All right, let’s not get emotional,” I tell

him. “I’m only helping you because we’re

professional colleagues.”

He puts me back down.

“Now, this is what I’m going to be sending

to everyone. Does it look okay?”

Total feels compelled to tack on a note of

his own.

“Good,” I tell him. “Back in my detective

days, I did a lot of missing-person cases. And

I can tell you that it’s important to provide as

much detail as you can.”

I hand him another piece of paper, with

the numbers 867 written across the top.

“This is the area code for most of the

Arctic,” I tell him. “Just start faxing as many

random numbers with that area code as you

can. Even if you don’t find your brother,

you’ll surely find someone who’s heard of

your brother.”

But before I can say more, my Mr.

Froggie phone rings.

“What are you doing calling on the Mr.

Froggie phone?” I ask my best friend, Rollo

Tookus.

“I tried calling you on your regular house

phone,” says Rollo Tookus. “But it made this

really awful computer noise.”

“Yes, well, that’s because we’re using it to

send faxes to the Arctic.”

“That sounds like something I don’t want

to know about.”

“Correct. It’s top secret.”

“Okay, well, that’s not why I called.”

“Of course it’s not. You called on the Mr.

Froggie phone. And that’s for clients only.

But I’ve already told you I’m retired.”

“I know, Timmy. You explained all that.

But that’s not why I called, either.”

“Well, then spit it out, Rollo Tookus. I’m

in the midst of a very critical mission and I

have absolutely no time to spare.”

“Fine, Timmy. I just called to tell you

you’re missing Elf-topia.”

“I’ll be right there,” I answer.

Elf-topia is the largest gathering of elves

on the North American continent. It occurs

in the front window of Elmsley’s, our city’s

lone department store.

There they gather, together with Santa

Claus himself, who sits regally on his throne.

The highlight of the event occurs when

one of the elves (Ernie Elf) escorts a live

reindeer (Biscuit) to the foot of Santa’s throne.

There, Santa touches the nose of the reindeer,

and when he does, it glows red.

And the spectacle is repeated throughout

the Christmas shopping season, to the delight

of the easily amused townsfolk.

But that’s not why I came.

I came because last week Biscuit did not

like having his nose touched and kicked Ernie

Elf through the window.

It was, other than my own exploits, one

of the most exciting things to ever happen in

our town.

But, much like my career, it was not

meant to last.

“Where is everybody?” I ask Rollo from

in front of Elmsley’s lifeless window.

“They canceled it. I think one of the elves

is suing somebody.”

“You brought me down here for nothing?”

“I’m really sorry, Timmy. I didn’t find

out until after I called you. But it’s not for

nothing. They’re having piggyback races

through the department store instead.”

“Well, that sounds profoundly stupid.”

“It’s not. The winner gets a hundred-

dollar gift certificate from Elmsley’s.”

“A hundred dollars?” I reply, aware that

such a sum could bankroll a good chunk of

my film, currently titled Greatness on Two

Shoes: The Timmy Failure Story.

“Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll do it.”

“Great,” says Rollo Tookus, climbing up

on his father’s back. “Just get on someone’s

back.”

“Whose?” I ask.

“Didn’t you come here with your mom?”

“She had to work today, Rollo Tookus.

Her law firm wanted her to finish

something.”

“What about Dave?”

“He’s working also.”

“On a Saturday?”

“He works for a hotel. They always work

weekends.”

“Well, then how’d you get here?”

“I walked here, Rollo Tookus. On two

feet. One after another.”

“Oh,” says Rollo. “I just figured you came

with somebody.”

I look around the room and see the other

kids, all of whom are on a parent’s back.

“Well, how about you get on my dad’s back

instead?” he says.

“No, thanks,” I say. “He’s your dad.”

So I look around to see if there is a spare

parent.

But there is not.

“I don’t have to race, Timmy. Really.

Just ride on my dad’s shoulders.”

But there is no need.

For by the time he finishes saying it, I

am already gone.

Gone because there is work to do.

Not detective work, despite the public’s

demand for me.

But film work.

Specifically, finding the locations where

we will film Greatness on Two Shoes: The

Timmy Failure Story.

So I search the lonely city streets.

For the high-rise that will be the head-

quarters of Failure, Inc.

For the boat that will take me to my

island fortress:

For the blimp I will use to save the

helpless townspeople.

But as I walk, I see only boring things.

Until I come to a bar. And remembering

that there is a pivotal bar scene where I kick

in the doors and hurl the mobsters out the

window with brute force, I am intrigued.

“Well, it’s not ten stories high,” I think

aloud, “but I suppose with a top-notch special-

effects department, we can make it seem like

it’s ten stories high.”

And fortunately for me, it has the kind of

doors that can be easily kicked in.

So I do that.

And once inside, I see someone I

recognize.

“Dad?”

“Son! What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here? I thought you

were in—wherever that place is.”

“The Florida Keys. But, yeah, had a bit

of bad luck. My restaurant was flooded. Big

hurricane.”

“So you came here?”

“Yeah. I still have friends here from

when your mother and me were together.

And one of them told me about a bartending

job here. I just need it until I can get back

on my feet. I was going to call you just as

soon as I—”

“Say  no  more,”  I  tell  him.  “I

understand.”

For my father is not a bartender. Or a

restaurant owner.

He is an international secret agent who

catches criminals.

Like his son.

“I see great possibilities,” I tell him as I

walk the length of the seedy bar.

“Okay,” he answers.

“Perhaps a crime-fighting partnership. I

could even come out of retirement for it. Did

you hear about my retirement?”

“I don’t think I did.”

“What? Don’t they have newspapers in

Florida?”

“Yeah. But I must have missed that.”

A customer with a potbelly ambles into

the bar.

“Give me a second, Tim.”

My dad walks behind the bar and fills a

frosted glass with beer.

I hop onto a barstool.

“It goes without saying,” I tell my father,

“but our partnership would have to be

secret.”

“Right,” he says, handing the customer a

bowl of peanuts.

“There are just too many people who want

to off us,” I remind him.

“Off us?”

“Eliminate us. You know, because we

pose a threat to their crime-loving ways.”

“Oh, right.”

A man and a woman walk into the bar.

“Hey, son, I want to talk more about this,

but you probably shouldn’t be in here. It’s

sort of just for adults. But listen, if you’re

not doing anything next weekend, and your

mom says it’s okay, we can go to the park or

something.”

“Sure,” I answer. “But not the park. Too

risky.”

“Fine,” he says. “Well, you pick some-

place. But I have to take care of these

people.”

“Right,” I say, hopping off the barstool.

My dad pours a gold-colored drink into

two tiny glasses.

“See you soon, buddy,” he says as I walk

toward the doors. “And if you need anything,

just tell me.”

So I stop. And turn around.

“I need your bar for a film.”

“Timmy, you have to compromise on this a

bit,” says Mr. Jenkins.

I am meeting with him after school. And

Tom John John is sitting in the chair next to

me.

Looking his usual self.

“But Tom John John has no vision for

the film,” I complain to Mr. Jenkins. “I am

the writer. I have the vision.”

“Yes, well, he’s the director,” says Mr.

Jenkins. “And he has a vision, too.”

Tom John John nods.

“Tell him your vision, Tom John,” says

Mr. Jenkins. “And maybe the two of you can

reach a middle ground.”

“May I use your whiteboard?” he asks.

“Sure,” says Mr. Jenkins.

“Well, to be as laconic as possible, I see

the film like this,” he says as he begins

walking toward the board.

“I object!” I answer, rising to my feet.

“Object to what?” asks Mr. Jenkins.

“To the word ‘laconic.’ I think it means

‘insulting.’”

“No, Timmy,” says Mr. Jenkins. “It

means ‘brief.’”

“We’ll see,” I answer. “Because I’m pretty

sure it will be insulting.”

“Please sit back down,” says Mr. Jenkins.

I sit back down.

Tom John John writes on the board.

“So basically,” he says, “I see the film like

this.”

I fall out of my chair.

“Timmy,” says Mr. Jenkins, “please sit in

your chair and stay there.”

I sit back in my chair.

“And there are two paramours vying for

his love,” continues Tom John John. “One of

whom is Corrina Corrina.”

I fall out of my chair again.

“Well, now, that’s horrific,” I cry from

the floor. “And I don’t even know what a

paramour is.”

“It’s someone you’re having a romantic

relationship with,” says Tom John John.

“Oh, good God,” I mutter, wanting to fall

again but already on the floor.

“All right, enough, Timmy,” says Mr.

Jenkins. “You and Tom John are just going

to have to work it out. Explain your

respective visions and agree on something.”

“Fine,” I answer. “Can I write on the

whiteboard, too?”

“Sure,” replies Mr. Jenkins.

“Okay,” I say. “Here is my vision for the

film.”

“That’s not really a vision,” interrupts

Tom John John.

“It’s a very visionary vision,” I reply.

“No,” he argues. “A vision for a film has

a compelling plot, good characters, surprising

twists, and a solid ending.”

“Fine,” I answer, writing on the board

again. “Here is my vision.”

“He expects me to work closely with Corrina

Corrina!” I shout to Rollo Tookus on

our walk home from school. “And have her

be my girlfriend!”

“It’ll be fine,” says Rollo. “The important

thing is that we all try to get a good grade.”

“Who cares about stupid grades!?”

“I do,” says Rollo Tookus. “Because

I want to get into Stanfurd. And get a good

job. And not have to sell oranges by the side

of the highway.”

“Rollo, do I need to recite what that girl

has done to me?”

“No. Please. You don’t.”

But I do.

So here you go:

Corrina Corrina was once the head of

her own detective agency, the Corrina

Corrina Intelligence Agency (CCIA).

It was corrupt, horrid, wretched, godfor-

saken, and bad.

It was also unfair, as her father was

wealthy, and she exploited his vast resources

to create a high-tech detective lab in her

extravagant downtown headquarters.

And yet, despite all these advantages, my

agency still crushed her like a Corrina Corrina

butterfly on the windshield of life.

So she quit the detective business.

Which was wise.

Because she was always a criminal at

heart, her crimes too numerous to list.

Though I will try:

Stealing Segways.¹

Getting me kicked out of school.²

Looting school treasuries.³

Kidnapping my best friend.

4

Spying on me in my vacation abode.

5

1. See Timmy Failure, Book 1

2. See Timmy Failure, Book 2

3. See Timmy Failure, Book 4

4. See Timmy Failure, Book 5

5. See Timmy Failure, Book 6

And whenever I present this litany of

offenses, Rollo feels compelled to add the

following:

“Don’t leave out that time you kissed

her.”

6

“Listen to me,” I say to Rollo Tookus as

we stop on a street corner for the light. “I’m

making this film my way. And as my best

friend, you’re gonna help.”

“Not if it affects my grade,” he answers.

“Even if it affects your grade!” I tell him.

But before I can argue, I see a polar bear

fleeing.

6. DON’T see Timmy Failure, Book 3. Because it’s a

big lie. And it didn’t happen.

“Why are you getting on a bus?” I ask my polar

bear, Total.

He holds out a sheet of paper.

“Someone found your brother!” I exclaim.

“It’s gotta be your brother! He shares all of

your character flaws.”

Total nods. The bus doors spring open.

“But you can’t take the bus to Russia,” I

tell him. “There’s a big ocean in between.”

“You gonna board?” asks the bus driver.

I look at the driver briefly and then turn

back to my polar bear.

“You don’t even know where in Russia he

is,” I say to Total. “It’s a big place. And it has

people with big hats.”

“Hey!” yells the bus driver. “You

boarding or not?”

“No,” I tell him. “He was just confused.”

“Who was confused?” he asks.

“Never mind,” I tell him. “You’re

interrupting a very personal conversation.”

The driver just stares at me, then pushes

the button that closes the automatic doors.

I watch as the bus roars off.

When I turn back to Total, he is sitting on

the bus-stop bench, his tiny suitcase resting at

his feet.

And he is sad.

“And were you just gonna leave without

saying good-bye to me?” I ask him. “That’s

not very businesslike.”

I sit on the bench beside him.

“Besides, there are protocols for this kind

of thing. Retirement parties. Gold watches.”

I look at his wrist. It is much too big for

a watch. Not to mention that he can’t tell time.

“Well, maybe not a watch. But a party

all the same.”

I look up at him.

“The point is that our business

relationship goes back many years. And

something like that deserves to be

celebrated.”

He puts his fuzzy arm around me.

“I give you my word as the greatest

detective in town—well, former detective,”

I correct myself. “I will find your brother.”

When we get home that Friday night,

Total and I hunker down in WHATT and

pursue the promising lead we have on his

brother.

And slowly the layers of his brother’s life

are revealed.

Each of them dripping with tartar sauce.

“He keeps trying to rob the same Seafood

Sammy’s in Churchill, Manitoba,” I explain.

“All to get fish sticks.”

Total shakes his head, then drools,

caught halfway between disappointment and

envy.

“And when the people in the restau-

rant see him coming, they lock the doors,”

I tell my polar bear. “Then he just stands

there knocking and looking pathetic until the

police arrive.”

Total and I peruse the bear’s rap sheet.

“He’s been arrested thirty-one times,” I

say as we look through the photos taken by

the restaurant’s security camera.

Photos of the time he tried to act fierce.

Of the time he disguised himself as a

unicorn.

Of the time he ran into a pole.

Total covers his eyes in shame.

“It is ironic that your brother has chosen

a life of crime and you have chosen a life of

law enforcement. You are like the yin and

yang of polar bears. Forever balancing the

universe.”

But my profundity is lost on him.

And I can see that the story of his

brother has made him sad.

So I watch as he exits WHATT.

And follow him through the townhouse.

Where I see the story has not made him

sad.

But hungry.

But the search for Total’s brother is only one

of many tasks filling my leisure years.

So on Saturday morning, I awake before

everyone else to address another.

“I didn’t even know this time of day

existed,” I say to my father, who is surprised

to see me.

“Tim, it’s six in the morning. We’re not

even open yet. What in the world are you

doing here?”

“You said we could do something this

weekend. So we’re doing something.”

My father unlocks the door.

“I meant father-and-son things, Tim.”

“I see,” I answer. “So what exactly are

those?”

“Come inside,” he says, shaking his head.

“It’s too chilly out here.”

I follow him inside.

“Did you mention to your mother that

you wanted to do something with me?” he

asks.

“I believe so.”

“And she was okay with that?”

“Almost certainly.”

He glances back.

“Listen,” he says. “When you go back

home today, you tell her. I don’t want her

coming down on me for this.”

“Yes, sir.”

He walks around the bar, turning on one

item after another: lights, neon signs, a slot

machine, a jukebox. Slowly, the sleepy bar

awakens.

“And do me a favor,” he adds. “Don’t

mention you came to a bar. Tell her we met at

a park or something.”

“Yes, sir.”

He begins removing clean glasses from a

small dishwasher and placing them in a rack

overhead.

“And, hey, not for nothing,” he says,

“but one of the regulars mentioned to Ms.

Dundledorf that I let a kid in here. So we

need to be a little more careful.”

“Who’s this Dundledorf?”

“She owns the place. Not a friendly

person.”

“Well, no need to worry. It’s six in the

morning. I doubt you’ll have any customers.”

But when my father opens the back door,

there are customers. And like ghosts, they

float wordlessly to their seats.

One of which I’m sitting in.

“Hey, what’s this kid doing on my stool?”

a man in a fedora asks.

“Tim, go sit in one of the booths,” says my

dad.

I watch as the man in the fedora

rearranges everything on the bar in front of

him. Taking a saltshaker and moving it to a

table. Grabbing a table placard and moving

it to the bar. Picking up a discarded

newspaper and handing it to my dad to throw

out.

“Fred’s a little obsessive,” says my dad as

he walks past me to throw the newspaper in

a recycle bin in the back. “Everything in its

right place.”

“And I thought school was filled with riff-

raff,” I comment. “This place is a zoo.”

“Tim, I’ll tell you what,” my dad says.

“Why don’t I meet you somewhere tonight?

After my shift.”

“I can’t. Mom says we have to do some

family thing. It’s quite frivolous. But I’ll be

here tomorrow morning at the same time.”

“Well—”

“And take this,” I tell him, handing him

the large stack of paper in my hand, “so we

can talk about it tomorrow.”

“What is it?”

“The film I wrote for school,” I answer.

“You’d be well advised to pay particular

attention to the bar scene. It will take place

here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I told you about it last week.”

“Are you crazy? I can’t have a bunch of

kids in here. It’s bad enough I let you in.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll do it when the place is

closed. And my school will repay you for the

broken windows.”

“What broken windows?” asks my dad.

“The ones caused by the defenestration.”

“The what?”

“Defenestration. The act of throwing some-

one out a window. It’s the best word in the

dictionary.”

“All right, enough,” he says. “No one’s

getting thrown out of windows.”

“Yes, they are. Customers,” I tell him.

“Not yours, though. Stuntmen. Unless

you want us to throw a customer out the

window.”

An older customer calls out for my dad.

“Hey, you talking or bartending?”

“Coming,” my dad tells him.

“Okay,” my dad says to me, “you gotta

go.”

“Right. Be back tomorrow. Same time.”

“No.”

“Yes. It’s the best time. More covert.”

“No, Tim.”

“Coffee!” interrupts the old man. “Black!”

“Here I come, here I come,” my dad calls

out to him.

“Tim,” my dad says, leaning down to

talk to me, “talk to your mother. Make sure

seeing me is okay. And I’ll call her later and

work something out. But you’re not filming

anything in this bar.”

The old man hops off his barstool and

lands on his spindly legs.

“Okay,” he says, marching toward us.

“You want me to get the coffee myself? I’ll

get it myself.”

And I catch his eye.

And he freezes like a toad before a Timmy

train.

“Oh, good God,” he says.

“Old Man Crocus,” I mutter.

“Is there no place in this world that’s safe

from you?” he cries.

“You two know each other?” asks my dad.

“He was my teacher,” I explain.

“He drove me out of the profession,”

replies Crocus.

“He was the best teacher I ever had,” I

explain.

“He caused me a nervous breakdown,”

replies Crocus.

“The profession wore him out,” I explain.

“He crashed a car through my wall,”

replies Crocus.

“He took a well-earned retirement,” I

explain.

“I fled to Key West to escape him,” replies

Crocus.

I stop and stare at Crocus. “Wait. You

were in Key West?”

My dad leaves to get Crocus his coffee.

“Yes, I was in Key West!” he barks. “And I

was happy!”

“Until,” he adds, raising a fist, “it all

ended!”

His fist falls like a coconut upon the bar.

The man in the fedora looks our way.

“Goodness,” I say to Crocus. “What

happened?”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” he says,

removing his wire-rimmed glasses and

rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I was taking

a stroll along the beach when I heard a shrill

voice echoing out from on high.”

“Oh, I know the feeling,” I answer. “The

gods spoke to me just recently.”

“No, no, no,” he says, his voice rising in

tone. “This was no god. It was you, Timmy

Failure, standing atop a lighthouse.”

“Ah, yes,” I reply. “I was surveying my

domain.”

“No,” he says. “You were tracking me

across the globe, like a demon on horseback.”

“Oh my,” I respond. “I like that image.

Perhaps I can use it in my movie.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t like it at all,” answers

Crocus. “So I fled Key West. Moved back

here to live with my brother. Figured I could

at least hide from you in a bar. But no.

Look. You.”

“Yes,” I answer. “It feels like the gods have

thrown us together for a reason. Perhaps you

can play yourself in the film.”

My dad hands Crocus his coffee. Crocus

stares into the blackness.

“What’s the matter?” asks my dad. “Not

how you like it?”

And leaving his coffee on the bar, Crocus

drifts off toward the double doors.

And stops.

“No,” he grumbles through gritted teeth.

“Nothing is how I like it.”

And as he says it, the doors swing open.

And we see an elf.

“Hey,” says the elf. “Try getting kicked

in the head by a reindeer.”

But the elf is not the only unhappy person

this holiday season.

“Your father’s in town and you went and

saw him without even telling me?” asks my

mother as she drives the car.

“I thought I told you,” I answer from the

backseat.

“I didn’t hear you tell her,” says Husband

Dave, sitting in the passenger seat beside

her.

“Please, Husband Dave,” I reply. “No

teaming up. It’s bad enough with just one of

you.”

“And how exactly did you even know he

was in town?” continues my mother.

“Because he certainly didn’t tell me.”

“What do you mean how’d I know? I just

found him.”

“Where?” asks my mother, turning to

look back at me.

“Driver’s handbook says to keep your

eyes on the road at all times,” I remind her.

“Timmy, where did you find him?” she

snaps.

“In a park!” I shout.

“Which park?!” she shouts back.

“The Park Park!” I yell, as though it’s a

proper name. “You know, the one with the

grass.”

My mother says nothing.

The mood grows tense.

And it is a mood at odds with the antlers

on our heads.

“And if you don’t mind,” I say, breaking

the silence, “how about someone telling me

why we’re all dressed like reindeer?”

Husband Dave turns toward the back-

seat.

“We’re caning the Moskins family.”

Molly Moskins smiles too much and smells

like a tangerine. Plus she has mismatched

pupils.

She and I have had what I can only refer

to as an off-again, on-again relationship.

For I have partnered with her.

And arrested her.

As such, one can never be quite sure

what side of the law she is on. For she is a kid-

size chameleon, steeped in treachery.

But for all her faults and felonies, I

find the notion of caning her excessive.

“We’re gonna hit Molly with a cane?” I

ask Husband Dave.

“Timmy, I told you all of this when we

were at home,” says my mother as she stops

the car in front of Molly’s house. “It’s called

candy caning.”

“How is it any better if we hit her with a

candy cane?” I ask. “Is it that she’ll smell

minty afterward?”

“Nobody’s hitting anybody,” says my

mother, turning off the engine. “When you

candy cane a house, you sneak up to it at

night with a bunch of candy canes and hang

them everywhere.”

“Oh, good God,” I utter. “This sounds

like a tragedy in the making.”

“Shhh, Timmy,” says Husband Dave. “It’s

supposed to be a secret. You don’t want her

to hear us.”

The two of them get out of the car.

Guarding my bean, I follow.

“Mother, you do not sneak up on a sacred

abode at night,” I whisper as we jog up the

Moskinses’ front lawn. “As a former detective,

I can tell you that this whole neighborhood is

heavily armed.”

“Here, take these,” she says, handing me

a fistful of candy canes.

“And let me tell you something,” I add.

“When Mr. Moskins shoots us, he will be

fully within his rights. Because we are now

common trespassers.”

As I issue cautionary proclamations, I

spot Husband Dave foolishly approaching the

front door and hanging a candy cane on the

Moskinses’ doorknob.

“Oh, great,” I add. “Your husband

has a death wish. And to think, he’ll die in

reindeer antlers.”

But neither of them is heeding my

warnings.

So I throw my candy canes and antlers to

the ground and hide behind the large unlit

Christmas tree in the center of the front

yard.

Low to the ground.

Hands over head.

Prepared for urban violence.

But hoping to not be seen.

And then the Christmas tree lights up

like a Christmas tree.

“Nobody shoot!” I yell. “Mistakes were

made!”

“Hey, put these back on,” says Molly

Moskins, towering over me. “They’re

adorable!”

I survey the scene. Assess the threat

level.

“Tell me plainly,” I say to Molly Moskins

as I rise to my feet, “have my mother and

Dave been taken hostage?”

“I don’t think so,” she says.

“Well, if they have, I’d like to negotiate

for the release of my mother. You can

probably keep Dave.”

“I think your mom and dad are just

inside having eggnog with my parents,” she

says, smiling broadly.

“Dave is not my dad, Molly Moskins. I

have a dad. A very prominent dad with a

background I don’t wish to share. And he has

generously volunteered his bar for a pivotal

scene in our film.”

“Oooh. Your dad owns a bar?”

“I’ve said too much already,” I answer.

“Suffice it to say that the scene will be

made particularly engaging by the real-life

grittiness of the setting.”

“I see,” says Molly, biting her lip. “I

wonder if that’s the place we kiss.”

Sickened, I hold on to the Christmas tree

for support.

“Molly, I assure you there are no kissing

scenes in my script. None. Zero. Nada.”

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about your script,”

she answers. “I was talking about Tom John

John’s.”

After school on Monday, I march into the

city-library conference room like a detective

possessed.

And find nobody.

“They left,” says Flo, peering into the

room. “About ten minutes ago.”

“Well, why’d they leave?” I ask. “We’re

supposed to be having a film meeting here.”

“I think it was the kid with the scarf. He

thought the room was too confining. Said it

didn’t have the right, uh, joie de vivre.”

“What the heck is that?” I ask.

“You know, I’m not really sure myself,”

says Flo. “But I’d watch out for that kid. I

don’t think he likes you.”

“We’re mortal enemies,” I explain. “I

loathed him from the moment I saw him in

that pretentious little scarf. I mean, who

wears something like that?”

Flo stares at me.

“Enough chitchat,” I continue. “I need

intel, Flo. Where they went. How they got

there. What the danger level is.”

Flo looks from side to side to make sure

no one is listening.

“It’s very dangerous,” he whispers.

“I can handle it,” I tell him.

“Myrtle’s Garden of Flowers,” he says.

With Flo’s help, I locate my enemy’s secret

lair.

And it is indeed filled with flowers.

Each more dangerous than the last.

And inside, I spring upon the spineless

coconspirators.

“So, a rehearsal without the writer!” I

declare. “For shame.”

I am approached by the conspiracy’s

ringleader.

“Relax, friend,” says Tom John John.

“We are not friends,” I answer. “We are at

best awkward acquaintances.”

“Well, then, awkward acquaintance, we

just thought the rehearsal made a bit more

sense here,” he says. “Given that the film

has a rather significant greenhouse scene

where the characters’ faces are framed by

begonias and ducks.”

“I see,” I answer. “So a joie de vivre is a

duck.”

“Joie de vivre is not a duck,” says Rollo

Tookus, who is standing behind a table filled

with food. “It means ‘enjoyment of life’ in

French.”

I stare at Rollo.

“French? This isn’t a French film. And

what exactly are you doing here anyway?”

“It’s an official movie meeting. I have

to be here. For my grade. Want to try my

mom’s guacamole?”

I shake my head at Rollo. “You couldn’t

call and tell me about the new location?”

“I did call,” says Rollo, “but I got that

stupid computer sound again, and you told

me the Mr. Froggie line is only for clients.”

“Can we hurry up?” cries a muffled voice

from behind us. “I’m melting in this stupid

thing.”

I turn around and see something that is

best described as a cross between a polar bear

and a sewing machine accident.

“It’s me, Scutaro,” says the sewing

machine accident.

“What is that supposed to be?” I ask.

“A polar bear,” says Corrina Corrina, our

film’s producer. “It was all we could afford.”

“In the previews, we’ll use clips of actual

polar bears,” says Toody Tululu. “Provided

that’s ethical.”

“None of this is ethical!” I cry. “This whole

thing is unethical!”

“Bravo! Bravo!” says Tom John John, clap-

ping his hands slowly as he walks toward me.

“Very dramatic.”

I am tempted to pick him up and toss

him into a flock of joie de vivres.

He smiles and stands beside me.

“Perhaps the enfant terrible can explain

to all these eager souls what his vision for

the film actually is.”

I turn to Rollo. “Enfant terrible. Is that a

chicken or a duck?”

“I think that refers to you,” says Rollo, his

mouth crammed with guacamole.

“Fine,” I tell the entire cast and crew

assembled around me. “You want to hear my

vision? I’ll tell you.”

I pause for dramatic effect. And then

commence with a flourish.

“Our film will open in a hospital, where

our hero is born, a gift unto the world. It’s

compelling. Dramatic. And it will require

six hundred flying elephants.”

“No chance,” says Corrina Corrina.

“We don’t even have enough money for a

hamster.”

“WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT YOUR

PIEHOLE?” I yell in a professional way.

“You know diddly-doodly about cinema!”

“I guess I don’t know diddly-doodly about

cinema, either,” says our lighting director,

Nunzio Benedici. “Because I don’t get any of

it. Who is this hero you keep talking about?”

I look over at Nunzio and see that he is

passing time by shoving gravel up his nose.

“I’m the hero, Nunzio!” I answer. “Me!

Timmy Failure!”

Nunzio shoves more gravel up his nose.

“Now, listen,” I continue. “In act two of

the film, we follow our defiant hero through

his youth and watch as he slowly but

methodically creates the world’s largest

detective agency. A beacon of hope in an

otherwise grim world.”

“That must be why I fall in love with

him,” says Molly Moskins.

“No,” I interrupt. “There’ll be none of

that here. This film is gritty and raw.”

Molly sighs.

“And that is because I am consumed by

vengeance,” I add. “For my polar bear and I

are beset on all sides by enemies.”

“Can I be one of your enemies?” asks

Angel de Manzanas Naranjas, seated in the

corner beside a banana plant. “Because I’ve

never really liked you.”

“No,” I answer. “Because those roles

have already been cast. But the point is that I

attack them all, and in the process, I blow up

a train station and survive a tsunami and

throw forty men out of a tall building.”

The cast and crew are speechless.

“All in 3-D,” I add. “So make sure you put

that in the budget.”

“Nope,” says Corrina Corrina.

“And by the way,” adds Rollo, “if any of

you enjoyed my mother’s guacamole today,

I’d appreciate you filling out one of these

feedback forms. It can affect my grade.”

Tom John John rubs his chin. “Thank

you, Timmy, for that interesting concept.

But it’s not the film I’m making.”

“It is now,” I answer.

“Well, no, I’m the director. And I can

assure you that the film I am making is not

that. Mine will be black-and-white. Moody.”

He holds out two pieces of paper.

“Read a couple pages yourself,” he says.

“Sad? Lonely? Pathetic?” I cry. “And I’m

begging for food?”

“Yes,” answers Tom John John. “But read

on. Things improve markedly.”

“What is happening here?” I shout.

“Well, there’s some wordplay involved. A

ragamuffin is a child in ragged clothes, while

a muffin is—”

“Who cares about muffins?” I reply.

“This is character assassination! A world-

class detective doesn’t kiss anyone’s shoes!”

“Okay, I am seriously gonna faint in this

thing,” interrupts Scutaro. “Can we discuss

muffins and shoes later?”

“Well, I, for one, love what I’ve seen of

Tom John’s script,” interjects Molly. “I think

it makes Timmy more likable. Particularly

later, when he falls in love with both Corrina

Corrina and me, but each of us decides we

don’t want to be with him.”

“Merci, Molly,” replies Tom John John

before turning to me. “And, Timmy, we may

be able to compromise on that bar after all.

Because at the end, we flash forward, and

there you are, elderly and heartbroken and

drinking milkshakes alone.”

But before I can argue further, I hear a

loud noise.

And see that it was caused by a polar

bear.

Not the fake one fainting.

But the real one knocking.

I rush outside to join him.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him.

Total holds out a fax.

The fax includes a photo of his brother’s

prison mug shot.

And judging by the photo, the prison

truly is minimum security.

“He’s trying to escape right in the mid-

dle of his mug shot,” I comment. “He’s even

waving good-bye.”

Total nods.

“Your brother’s not wise,” I tell him.

“By now they’ve caught him and thrown him

back in the clink.”

I look at the last page of the fax and see

that it includes the address of the prison.

“If this is accurate, it looks like we know

right where your brother is,” I tell my polar

bear.

Who, when I look up, is already holding

his suitcase.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I caution him.

“Before you do anything, you need to write

to your brother first. He may not remember

you at all. So explain who you are. Your

whole history. Be as detailed as you can.”

Total takes a moment to write on the

back of the fax.

“Needs more detail,” I say to him. “Tell

him as much as you can.”

Total tries again.

“I don’t even know what that means,” I tell

him. “Are you calling him fat or you?”

Total nods.

“Okay, we can work on your letter later.

First we should plan your route to Greenland.

I think it’s an island, so the transportation

planning could get quite complex.”

Total writes on the back of another page.

“Swim?” I shout. “It’s thousands of miles.

You get tired just walking to the

refrigerator.”

Total nods again.

“Sounds like I’m gonna have to do all of

the planning myself,” I tell him. “We better

head to the office.”

I climb onto my polar bear’s back.

“But on the way there,” I say, leaning

closer to his ear, “I need to make one quick

stop.”

“I’m looking for my father,” I tell the man

wearing the fedora. “He works here.”

“What’s his name?” the man asks.

“Dad,” I answer proudly.

“That’s Tom’s son,” says the tattooed

bartender.

She turns toward me.

“Your dad’s in the office. You might want

to wait a minute, though. I think he’s talking

to somebody.”

I look behind me at the closed office

door.

“I hope for the sake of whomever he’s

talking to that they listen to him,” I tell the

bartender. “My father is a trained assassin.”

The bartender nods. “Can I get you

something to drink while you wait?” she asks.

“Maybe a Coke?”

“Whiskey, neat,” I say, because it is what

detectives say.

“Okay,” the bartender answers. “One

Coke.”

“Hey, while you’re back there, can I get a

piece of paper and a pen?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says. “If I can find one.”

She hands me a pen and a napkin.

“That’ll have to do, I’m afraid. And here’s

your Coke.”

“Hey,” I add, “do you serve polar bears?”

“Nope,” she says, shaking her head. “We

don’t even serve chicken wings.”

I begin writing on the napkin, but it is a

difficult surface to write on.

“Make sure you give that pen back to

her when you’re done,” says the man in the

fedora, staring straight ahead. “It don’t belong

on the bar.”

I write my note and hand her back her

pen. “Thanks,” I tell her. “Give my best to

Frederick Crocus if you see him.”

I hop off the barstool and stick the napkin

on the bulletin board.

As I walk back to my barstool, I see

my dad walk out of the office with an older

woman who looks angry.

The woman marches out the back door of

the bar.

“What are you doing here?” he asks as he

approaches me.

“I came to get my script back. My film is

under assault.”

“Tim, that woman I was with was Ms.

Dundledorf, the owner.”

“What was she bugging you about?” I ask.

“You,” he answers. “You, Tim. More

people here were complaining about a kid

being in the bar. We’re lucky she didn’t see

you just now.”

I motion for him to follow me to the pool

table, where I grab a pool cue from the rack.

“What are you doing?” he asks as I hand

him a second pool cue.

“This place is obviously teeming with

traitors and turncoats,” I tell him between

gritted teeth. “We may have to fight our way

out.”

“Tim, this isn’t some joke,” says my dad.

“It’s anything but a joke,” I answer. “It’s

a crime-fighting partnership. I had intended

to delay its implementation until after my

film, but sometimes life just kicks you in the

plans.”

I climb onto the pool table and lift the

stick high overhead to prepare for a brawl,

and BOOM.

The lights go out.

Though not my lights.

The light over the pool table.

“You shattered the light!” yells my dad.

“ENOUGH! DOWN! RIGHT NOW!”

I get off the pool table, now speckled with

glass.

“You never LISTEN!” he shouts. Everyone

at the bar stares, including the man in the

fedora.

“NEVER!” repeats my dad.

“Partners don’t yell at partners,” I

mumble.

“WHAT?” replies my dad. “WHAT did you

just say?”

“We’re crime-fighting partners,” I tell him

softly. “We’re not supposed to yell at each

other.”

“OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE!” he barks. “I’M

NOT A CRIME-FIGHTING ANYTHING!”

And as he shouts, he notices all the bar

patrons looking at us. So he gets down on

his knees and grabs my shoulder and lowers

his voice.

“Tim,” he says, “I’m just a guy who works

in a bar, okay? I’m just trying to make it. That’s

it. That’s who I am. Me. That’s me.”

I stare at him for a moment.

“How would I have ever known who you

were?” I ask. “I barely know you.”

He doesn’t reply.

“So I guessed,” I add. “Or maybe hoped.

Though detectives rarely hope.”

I lay the cue stick down on the table.

“Anyhow,” I continue, “I knew when you

yelled that I was wrong.”

“Tim, I’m your father. And—”

“Timmy,” I answer. “People call me

Timmy.”

“Timmy, I’m your father. And I care about

you. And I don’t want you to think—”

I put both my hands over his mouth.

Which feels odd. Because I have never

touched his face before.

But it results in a comfortable silence.

Which I then break.

“Please just give me my script.”

When I exit the bar, my polar bear is not

outside.

As it turns out, he tried to enter when he

heard the yelling but could not get in due to

his expired Arctic driving license.

So, knowing there was work to be done,

Total wandered home. Where he ensconced

himself in WHATT headquarters and

prepared to meet his brother by sending him

a faxed greeting.

And when I find him, I give him my

news.

“My dad can’t find my script,” I tell him.

“We looked everywhere, but it’s not there.

It’s not anywhere. My film is doomed.”

My bear takes a moment to digest the

news.

And then hands me his.

A fax from his brother.

Which was short and to the point.

“We are in the eye of a terrible storm,”

I tell my former business associate. “This

sometimes happens.”

So I sit on his lap and he holds me.

And we ride out the storm together.

The next day at school is not pretty.

“So before we get started on our math

problems this morning,” says Mr. Jenkins,

“I thought maybe we could spend ten min-

utes talking about the film project. How is it

going?”

Tom John John stands. “Poorly, Mr.

Jenkins.”

“How so?” my teacher asks.

“Timmy is being difficult.”

“Why? What’s going on now?”

“You told us to cooperate,” answers Tom

John John. “And Timmy’s not cooperating.

He disrupts rehearsals. Harasses the actors.

He won’t even budge on the script. He’s really

not a team player, if I can be frank.”

Mr. Jenkins walks over to my desk.

“Is that true, Timmy?”

“No,” I answer.

“It’s not?” asks Mr. Jenkins.

“Not anymore. Whatever Tom John John

wants to do is fine with me.”

My classmates turn their heads and

stare.

“That doesn’t sound like the Timmy I

know,” comments Mr. Jenkins.

“Yeah, well, it’s the new Timmy,” I reply.

“Just give me whatever job you want to give

me on the film. The smaller the better.”

“Well, no hard feelings on my part,”

offers Tom John John. “I have my own

script, anyway.”

“And I’ve been helping with it,” adds

Scutaro. “It’s quite compelling.”

“Timmy,” says Mr. Jenkins, “are you

sure you want it to be this way?”

“Yes,” I answer. “I’m sure.”

“Okay, then,” replies Mr. Jenkins.

“You know,” adds Tom John John, “if he

wants, we do have one small job available.”

“What’s that?” asks Mr. Jenkins.

“I need someone to bring me my coffee.”

With both the script-writing and bear-

finding projects on hold, Total and I give

the extra bedroom a new purpose, that of

therapy room.

A place where we can commiserate.

Which we aptly call:

Or WHO for short.

But the phone won’t stop ringing. For

there is no rest for the hardly okay.

So I pick up the phone.

“Happy holidays from Failure, Inc.,” I

answer. “But we are no longer in business.

So please call another detective. Whoever it

is won’t be as good, but tough tooties for

you.”

“Timmy, it’s me, Rollo.”

“Oh,” I answer, snapping out of my

professional voice. “What do you want,

Rollo?”

“Sorry about calling on the Mr. Froggie

line. I didn’t want to call and hear that

annoying computer sound.”

“Fax.”

“Yeah, fax.”

“The fax machine has been put away,

Rollo.”

“Oh. Well, I just called to see what’s

going on.”

“With the fax machine?”

“No, not the fax machine. With you.

The film. I wanted to ask you at school, but

figured you didn’t want to talk about it

there.”

I appreciate his discretion.

“The script is gone,” I confess.

“Gone? What happened?”

“Foul play, I suppose. In a bar. My dad’s

bar.”

“Your dad has a bar?” asks Rollo.

“Yes.”

“He lives here?”

“Yes.”

“And you met him?

180

“Yes.”

“And—”

“For crying out loud, Rollo, what is this,

the Spanish Inquisition?”

“I don’t mean to ask you so many

questions,” says Rollo. “It’s just that—”

“The point is that somebody stole the

script, okay?”

“Stole it?” echoes Rollo. “Why do think

that?”

“Because I left it in a bar. And bars are

full of riffraff. Not to mention traitors and

turncoats.”

“But who would have taken it?” asks

Rollo.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?

You’re the detective.”

“I used to be a detective,” I tell him.

“Remember?”

“Well, who was there?” he asks. “At the

bar. Who did you see?”

“Does any of this really matter?”

“Yes, it matters. Who’d you see?”

“Fine. I saw Old Man Crocus there.”

“Mr. Crocus? Our old teacher? Do you

think he would steal it?”

“No. He has far too much respect for me

to steal from me.”

“He hated you, Timmy.”

“We had professional differences, Rollo.”

“Well, who else was there?”

“An elf.”

“An elf?”

“The one the reindeer kicked in the

head.”

“You know, I think Elmsley’s fired that

guy,” says Rollo.

“So?”

“So maybe he had a financial motive,”

says Rollo.

“Great. So you’re the detective now. Get

yourself a trench coat and you’re all set.”

“Was there anyone else suspicious?” asks

Rollo.

“Just the owner.”

“Who’s the owner?”

“Her name is Dundledorf.”

“Dundledorf,” replies Rollo. “Why does

that name sound familiar?”

“I have no idea, Rollo. Really. But can

we stop now? This is stupid. For all I know,

it was some other customer or Tom John

John or Santa himself.”

“It probably wasn’t Santa,” says Rollo. “I

don’t think he’s a felon.”

“Yeah, well, then maybe it was my dad,

okay?”

Rollo pauses.

“Your dad?” he says.

I remain silent.

“You think your own dad would do

something like that?” he asks.

But before I can answer, there is a knock

on the office door.

“Hi, Timmy. You working on your movie?”

“Not right now, Husband Dave.”

“Well, whatever you’re working on, do

you mind if I check my e-mail on the

computer?”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you in at the

moment, Husband Dave.”

“You can probably just call me Dave.”

“Okay, Dave.”

“Listen, Timmy, I know your mom gave

you the room to use. But other people get to

use it also.”

“Yes. But not at the moment.”

“Why? What’s going on in there?”

“No.”

“No?” asks Dave.

“WHATT is not going on in here,” I

tell him. “We’re closed for business.”

“Who’s closed for business?”

“No. WHO is open,” I tell him.

“What?”

“Closed.”

“Who?”

“Open.”

I can tell the poor man is confused.

“I have to go now, Dave.”

But the knocks on WHO’s door never stop.

“Timmy,” says my mother, poking her

head into the room, “don’t tell me you’re not

even dressed.”

“Of course I’m dressed,” I answer. “Do I

look nude to you?”

“You know what I mean,” she says.

“Dressed for our holiday party. Our relatives

will be here any minute.”

“I am not in the mood for festivities,” I

inform her. “Tell the holiday season to go on

without me.”

But she is a mother.

And so I soon look like this:

“Why are you wearing your clip-on tie?”

asks my mother, never short of complaints.

“Because I don’t know how to tie a tie.”

“I told you Dave can help you.”

“Dave doesn’t know, either,” I tell her.

“He does so.”

“Yes, well, I tried to help him,” interjects

Dave as he passes us carrying a Jell-O ring.

“But he wouldn’t let me.”

“It felt like an attempted strangulation,” I

reply. “I began to lose consciousness. So I

defended myself.”

“He did some weird karate pose,” adds

Dave.

But before I can answer, the doorbell

rings. And I am swarmed by people in funny

hats.

“Timmy! It’s so nice to see you! We

missed you!”

“Yes,” I reply. “Greetings to you and

yours. Now can I please be put back down

on the floor? You’re upsetting my delicate

constitution.”

“Did you miss us, too?” asks Larry.

“Will you put me back down if I say yes?”

“Sure.”

“Then yes,” I answer. “Maybe.”

She puts me back down.

“Uh-oh,” says her sister, my cousin

Merry. “It looks like someone’s standing

under the mistletoe and can now be kissed.”

My life thusly threatened, I flee.

And frightened and cornered, I spend the

rest of the time doing a karate pose near the

Christmas tree.

And then I see a chicken.

“Oh, good God!” I shout. “What fresh chaos

is this? What is happening in this house? Are

the holidays just an excuse for every manner

of depravity?”

And then I see someone I know.

“Hiya, Timmy!”

It is Dave’s nephew, Emilio Empanada, a

one-time intern at my detective agency.

“Hi, Emilio.”

“Sorry about the chicken,” he says. “It’s

Edward Higglebottom the Third. Do you

remember him?”

I do.

Emilio adopted him on our trip to Key

West with my mom and Husband Dave last

summer. And he was smaller then.

“Well, it is refreshing to see you, Emilio

Empanada,” I tell him. “For this party is

filled with ravenous loons and jiggly Jell-O

rings. Though I’d ask that you put your

chicken on a leash. As you know, I’ve been

attacked by one before.”

“Well, I don’t have a leash, but I can hold

him,” says Emilio Empanada, lifting the

chicken to his chest. “So how is the detective

business?”

“I am retired,” I admit. “You catch me at

a particularly low moment.”

“What happened?” he asks.

“If you don’t mind, maybe I can tell you

later. I have to go check on somebody.”

“That’s fine with me. I’ll go say hi to

Dave.”

So Emilio wanders off and I wind my

way through the strange people in funny hats

until I get to the back door of the townhouse.

And once outside, I climb the lattice that

hugs the back wall.

And atop the roof, I find the other

creature enduring a particularly low

moment.

“Anything?” I ask.

Total shakes his head.

My former business partner has been

depressed ever since getting that fax from

his brother. So to cheer him up, I told him he

could wait on the roof for Santa and his

reindeer, and that if the reindeer came close

enough, he could eat one.

But Christmas is still a couple weeks off.

And there are no reindeer.

And even if there were, he’d probably

just make friends with them.

So I put my arm around his big furry

shoulder and tell him that everything is

going to be okay.

And it is a moment of yuletide respite.

Shattered quickly by a cacophony of

voices.

“Holy sleigh bells!” I cry. “Does this

holiday offer no refuge for the weary?”

So I crawl down the front pitch of the

roof and crane my head over the edge of

the roof gutter, where I see something

profoundly disturbing.

Two caroling snowmen.

The two of them proceed to mangle the

song once known as “Hark! The Herald Angels

Sing.”

Making me think that there aren’t any

angels at all, because if there were, they

would fly down from heaven and drop a tree

on these two.

And when the song mercifully ends, I hear

my mom say, “Thank you,” and shut the front

door on the snowmen.

Who then look up.

“Timmy, we came here for you.”

There are many scenarios I have envisioned

for how I would one day meet my end. But

none of them involved a snowman.

“Are you an assassin?” I shout down from

the roof.

“No,” they each answer.

Reassured, I climb down from the roof

and run to the front of the townhouse.

Where I quickly find that one of them is

headless.

“Molly Moskins! How do you even know

where I live? We just moved here.”

“School directory,” she says. “The school

directory knows all.”

“Well, what are you doing here?”

“She’s here for the same reason I’m here,”

says the other snowman, removing its head.

Revealing not an assassin.

But worse.

“First you sabotage my film, and now you

disturb my most cherished time with

relatives?” I cry to Corrina Corrina.

“You hate the holidays,” says Molly.

“You complain about them all the time.”

“I will not be contradicted by a

snowman,” I tell her. “Especially a headless

one.”

“And you don’t like your relatives,

either,” adds Molly.

“Okay, that’s enough,” I answer, spin-

ning around and marching back toward the

townhouse. “I have a refreshing eggnog

waiting to be enjoyed with friends and family.”

“We want to help you make your film,”

says Corrina Corrina.

I stop.

“Is this a joke?” I ask, looking back.

“No,” she says.

“You? Help me?” I ask. “Please. Don’t

waste my time.”

I continue toward the townhouse.

“I think I know where we can find your

script,” adds Corrina Corrina.

I stop on the front porch. “What do you

know about my script?”

Corrina Corrina smiles. “The bar, Old Man

Crocus, the angry elf. I know more than you

think.”

“You talked to Rollo,” I say, placing my

hands on my hips. “So what? He knows only

what I told him. And it wasn’t much.”

“Yeah?” says Corrina Corrina. “Well, I

know about Dundledorf.”

I pause.

“What do you know?” I ask.

“She was your therapist. Your mom sent

you to her. It was embarrassing and you

hated it. Hated her. She didn’t much like

you, either. And you left a script in her bar.

Right there for the taking because you didn’t

remember who she was. And your script

disappeared.”

I stare at Corrina Corrina.

“How do you know all that?” I ask.

“She’s really, really splendiferously

smart,” says Molly. “It’s impressive.”

There is an awkward silence, followed by

the sliding of a bear’s rear end down the roof

and into a rhododendron bush.

“He’s having a tough month,” I offer.

I turn back toward Corrina Corrina.

“Tell me one thing,” I say, staring into

her coal-black eyes. “Why in the name of

Rudolph’s red nose would you help me? You

want to destroy me.”

“Destroy you?” answers Corrina Corrina.

“I mean, you annoy me, and, no, we can’t

afford flying elephants, but destroy you? Who

has time for that? I just want to get a good

grade.”

“Fine,” I say, pondering the twists and

turns of her purported logic. “So why not

just make Tom John John’s film?”

“Because Tom John is more annoy-

ing than you. And more important, his

climactic scene involves a five-minute kiss

between you and me.”

“How repugnant!” I cry.

“Yes,” she says. “No offense.”

“You should know that Rollo says we

once kissed,” I add.

“Rollo is wrong.”

“Rollo is always wrong,” I say.

“And excuse me,” interjects Molly

Moskins, “but Tom John’s script now has a

five-minute kiss between you and me also.

And that’s very offensive. Because I’m the

real love interest in the film, and my kiss with

you should be significantly longer than her

kiss with you. No offense, Corrina Corrina.”

“None taken,” she answers.

“But no matter how many times I asked,”

Molly continues, “Tom John refused to

change his precious script. The pompous little

runt.”

“I see,” I answer as I stare at the two

headless snowwomen. “But there is one

thing that still troubles me.”

“What is it?” asks Corrina Corrina.

“If we are really going to join forces and

find this script, it would mean I’d have to

come out of retirement.”

“So?”

“So the gods told me to retire. They

gave me a sign.”

“Can’t the gods give you a new sign?”

asks Molly. “One that tells you to not retire?”

“I suppose,” I answer. “But what?”

I search my mind. And immediately

think of one.

“Tomorrow. After school. Don’t be late,”

I tell the headless snowwomen.

“What does that mean?” asks Corrina

Corrina. “Are we meeting you somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“Well, an address would be helpful.

Because right now it could be anywhere in

the world.”

“Right,” I answer, impressed by her

attention to detail. “I’ll give it to you at

school.”

When we meet at the appointed place the

following day, my fellow detectives are

stunned.

“What is this place?” asks Molly Moskins.

“My secret office,” I answer. “Well, one

of many.”

“Looks like a storage unit,” says Corrina

Corrina.

“Yes.” I nod. “Intentionally.”

I lift the large metallic door and invite

them inside. “Sit on any box. They’re all just

props.”

“Okay, Timmy,” says Corrina Corrina.

“The first thing I want to know is why you

didn’t save a copy of your script on the

computer.”

“I never save anything on a computer.”

“Why not?”

“Russian hackers,” I answer.

“Wait,” she says. “So you had just one

physical copy of the script and now it’s gone.”

“Stolen,” I correct her. “By any one

of three suspects. Four if you count Santa

Claus.”

“We probably shouldn’t count Santa

Claus,” says Molly.

“Wrong,” I tell her. “Think about it.

How does he get all those gifts?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bingo.”

“Whoa,” says Molly. “That’s why you’re a

detective and I’m not.”

“So who do you see as the other

suspects?” asks Corrina Corrina.

“Crocus, Dundledorf, and my father.

Oh, and the elf. He may be in a criminal

conspiracy with Santa Claus.”

“So five, total,” says Molly.

Corrina Corrina rubs her chin. “You

really think your dad is a suspect? Because

that seems kind of odd.”

“It is. But my father is a fathomless

mystery to me. So I can’t count him out.”

“A fathomless father,” repeats Molly. “I

don’t even know what that means, but it

sounds wonderful.”

“You need to focus,” I tell her.

“I’m trying,” Molly says. “But it’s hard

with all that beeping.”

I listen and hear a faint beep.

“It might be a smoke alarm,” I answer.

“Are either of you smoking pipes?”

“No,” answers Molly.

“Then I don’t know,” I tell her. “And

who cares, anyway? You’re supposed to be

focusing on the suspects, Molly.”

“Right,” she answers. “Santa bad.”

Corrina Corrina stands and begins

pacing.

“We need to canvass the bar,” she

says. “Look for clues. Question witnesses.

Because somebody there knows something.”

“Yes,” I answer. “And the two of you

need to do it immediately. Before any

witnesses get knocked off or the place gets

burned to the ground.”

“Aren’t you coming with us?” asks Corrina

Corrina.

“Can’t. My father and I aren’t on

speaking terms. He knows I suspect him.

And he’s not happy about it.”

“So we have to do this on our own?” asks

Molly.

“Yes. And you’ll want to blend in. So

when you get there, sit at the bar and order a

whiskey neat.”

“Neat. What’s that mean?”

“I think it’s when the bartender is extra

tidy.”

“Okay,” answers Molly. “But where is

this bar?”

“Other side of town from here.”

“That’s far,” says Molly. “Too far to

walk.”

“You won’t be walking,” I answer.

“I’ve never ridden one of these before!” cries

Molly as I run behind her and Corrina Corrina.

“It’s fast!”

“Yes!” I answer between labored breaths.

“The Segway is notoriously fast!”

Which I know because it used to be my

Failuremobile.

Before my mother sold it.

Or so she said.

But the truth was that she hid it under

some blankets.

In a storage unit.

Which I happened to notice when I was

looking for a fax machine.

“And we have permission to use it?” asks

Molly.

“Perhaps,” I answer, trying to keep up

with the lightning-quick vehicle.

“What does that mean?” she asks.

“Listen, Molly, when you’re a detective,

information like that is on a need-to-know

basis.”

“Well, I need to know what to say if we

see your mother.”

“If you see my mother, make yourself

large, wave your arms around, and bang on

pots and pans if you have them.”

“That’s what you do if you see a bear,”

interjects Corrina Corrina.

“There are a lot of similarities,” I answer.

I watch as the two of them turn the

corner toward my father’s bar. And I walk

the rest of the way home by myself.

Where I find Marco the Mailman.

“Hello there, Timmy,” says Marco. “You

want to take the mail in for your mother?”

“Yes, Marco. I always like to see if there

are any checks from clients. I have many

that still owe me vast reams of cash.”

“I see,” he says, handing me the mail.

“No one likes a deadbeat,” I add.

“No,” says Marco.

I scan through the mail and see bills for

my mother and catalogs for Dave.

And a letter addressed to me.

“Well, this is suspicious,” I announce.

“There’s no name on the return address.”

“So?” asks the mailman.

“So as a detective, I can tell you this is

most likely a bomb.”

“It would be a very thin bomb,” says the

mailman. “Because that envelope’s no thicker

than a slice of bologna.”

“Yes,” I answer. “It could be explosive

bologna.”

I make Marco stand back as I open the

envelope.

And it doesn’t explode.

“Do you have a pen I can use?” I ask the

mailman.

“Yeah,” he says, handing me the marker

clipped to his front pocket.

So I use his pen and hand him back the

letter.

I head back to headquarters, which we have

recently rechristened.

Or WHEN for short.

And inside I find Total.

Total sits in here every day hoping for a

miracle fax to spill out of the fax machine.

One from his brother saying that he

didn’t really mean it or that he’s changed his

mind or that he loves his little brother.

But it doesn’t come.

And the days are long.

“Listen, Total, I’ve been thinking. Rather

than give up, let’s write back to your brother

to see if we can change his mind.”

He shakes his head.

“It’s better than moping,” I tell him.

“What good does that do?”

But he just groans.

“Okay,” I tell him. “You can at least help

me find the stolen script. Maybe send some

faxes for me?”

I turn on the fax machine and the error

light flashes.

“What’s wrong with this thing?” I ask.

So I open the top of it.

“There’s a jammed piece of paper in

here,” I tell him. “No wonder it’s not

working.”

So I pull out the piece of paper and go to

throw it in the trash can, but the text catches

my eye.

And I know immediately what it is.

“Hey, Total, stand up for a second.”

But he is too pouty to move.

So I hop up on the ottoman and stare down

at his protuberant belly.

“You don’t have an outie! You have an

innie!” I yell.

Total lifts his head.

“This is the second page of the fax you

got. It just got stuck in the machine. And the

guy is describing a brother who has an outie

belly button. But you have an innie!”

He grabs the paper with both paws.

“Total, he’s not your brother.”

The news that Total’s brother is still out

there to be found taxes the already strained

resources of WHEN.

“We are simultaneously in search of a

stolen script and working on a missing-

person case,” I tell Rollo Tookus on our walk

home from school the next day.

“But we have two film rehearsals this

week,” argues Rollo. “One this afternoon and

one on Thursday.”

“Yes, that’s why Molly is going to report

back to me on the Thursday one and you’re

going to report back on today’s.”

“But what about you?” he says. “They’re

gonna notice you’re not there.”

“Tell them I’m sick.”

“But I hate lying.”

“You’re not lying. You’re just buying me

time to find my stolen script. I mean, really,

what’s the point of rehearsing Tom John

John’s script anyway? It’s all gonna be for

nothing when we find mine.”

“It’s still lying,” he says.

“You’ll do great,” I reassure him.

But he doesn’t do great.

As his report later shows:

Molly’s account was at least more

thorough, though not without flaws.

But then she tacked on this addendum:

And

she

could

not

keep

from

editorializing.

With the bar investigation safely in the

hands of Corrina Corrina and Molly, I

decide to head to the city library to do more

research on Total’s missing brother.

But with both investigations heating up,

assassins lurk. So instead of exiting out the

front door of our townhouse, I jump from the

roof into the rhododendron bush in the front

yard.

And encounter a questionable character.

“You okay?” asks my dad.

“I’m fine,” I answer from within the bush.

“Can I help you?”

“I don’t need any help.”

I crawl out of the bush and brush off

some rhododendron leaves.

“Listen, Tim—Timmy—I just came over

to talk because—”

“I can’t,” I say as I get up and walk past

him. “I have important things to do. Much

more important than this.”

“Just

two

minutes.

One

minute.

Anything.”

“You should probably go to your bar,”

I call back to him. “You don’t want to get

fired.”

“Too late,” he says.

I stop. And turn around.

“You got fired?”

“Yeah. And it wasn’t because of you or

the dumb light.”

“What was it?”

“These two little girls came by looking

for the script. One with a bow in her hair

and one who smelled like a tangerine.

Figured they were friends of yours.”

“Associates.”

“Associates. So I let them in to look

around, and the tangerine-scented one walks

right up to the bar and orders something

called a . . .”

“She was never good at following

directions,” I mumble.

“Anyway, Dundledorf sees the whole

thing and cans me. Boom. Just like that.”

I nod.

“But it’ll be all right,” he says. “My

friend got me a part-time gig at that Kooky

Kringle’s tree lot down the street. Selling

Christmas trees.”

“And how are you doing?” he asks.

I pause before answering.

“I should probably tell you that our

investigation has uncovered a past history

that I supposedly had with this Dundledorf.

It’s confidential, but I can tell you she had it

in for us.”

My dad smiles. “So she knew we were

crime-fighting partners?”

I stare at him.

“No,” I respond. “Nobody thinks that

anymore.”

I turn to walk off.

“Listen, Timmy, wait. Let me just say one

thing and I’ll leave you be.”

“I have to go.”

“Just one more minute. Really. Just

one.”

He sits on the front lawn beside me.

“This whole dad thing, you have to

understand, I have no idea what I’m doing.

None. I wasn’t there when you were young.

I should have been. But I wasn’t. And I can’t

just go back and start over. You’re not a baby.

You’re—”

“Nine.”

“Nine. Nine years old. How do I make

up nine years?”

I watch as he picks a few blades of grass

and tosses them into the wind.

“All I can do is try,” he continues. “But,

Timmy, please, give me a chance to screw up.

I’m new to this. And when it comes to being

a father, I have a lot to learn.”

I watch as the grass flutters away.

And turn back toward my dad.

“Your minute is up.”

“Well, you look good,” says a voice from behind

me in the library conference room.

“Flo, please,” I answer without looking

up. “I need time to concentrate. Finding a

polar bear in the Arctic is like trying to find

a needle in a pancake stack.”

“Okay, that’s not quite the expression,

but kudos for trying.”

I turn around.

“Mr. Jenkins, what are you doing here?”

I ask.

“What are you doing here?” he replies. “I

figured you were dead. Bubonic plague and

all.”

“Yes, well, it comes and goes,” I answer,

blowing my nose for effect.

Mr. Jenkins sits down in the seat next to

me.

“Listen, Timmy, Rollo’s filled me in on

everything.”

“Who is this Rollo?”

“So I know about the missing script.”

“I deny everything.”

“And that you’re trying to find it.”

“Slander.”

“And that you’re still hoping to make

your film.”

“Lies! Fibs! Charcuterie!”

“Okay,” he says. “I’m pretty sure that

last one is a plate of meats.”

“I’m hungry now,” I conclude. “Can we

finish?”

“Yep,” he says. “But, Timmy, listen. I’m

not gonna say anything to your mom. But

you can’t be missing rehearsals. Okay?

Because then we will have an issue.”

I say nothing.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he says. “I

don’t know if you’re gonna find your script

or whether you’re gonna get to make the film

you want, but, uh”—he pauses—“well, this

part’s sort of confidential.”

He pats the underside of the table with

his hands.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Checking for listening devices,” he

answers. “How do I know this place isn’t

wired for sound?”

“I’ve checked,” I tell him. “I can assure

you it’s not.”

He nods and lowers his voice.

“Anyhow, I don’t know if you’re gonna be

able to find it or not, but I hope you do. . . .”

He looks from side to side and then lowers

his voice.

“Because that Tom John John is a pain in

my patootie.”

And Tom John John is a pain in my

patootie as well.

Not to mention a pain in the patooties of

Corrina Corrina, Nunzio, Max, Scutaro, Toody,

Molly, and Rollo.

For in the rehearsals that followed, he

decided to make all of us flying cat angels.

In fact, the only person who got out of

it was Angel, and that is only because he

threatened to throw Tom John John in a

kitty litter box.

And even worse, none of us knew a thing

about ballet.

But with filming only a short time away

and no other script to work from, each of

us had little choice but to try to learn Tom

John John’s oddly named ballet poses.

And things at home are not much better.

For the beeping that Molly heard in the

storage unit had more significance than I

foresaw.

“Timmy, the storage rental place called

and said my unit’s burglar alarm went off,”

my mom tells me as she tucks me into bed

one night. “Do you remember if we locked

the door when we left?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I answer

definitively.

“Well, I couldn’t remember, either, so I

went down to the unit to check. And sure

enough, it was unlocked.”

“Oh,” I say. “These things happen.”

“Yeah, but then I went through all the

stuff to see if anything was missing. And

guess what I found out. Guess, Timmy.”

It is at this point in the conversation

that I want to hop into a cardboard box and

ship myself to China, safe from my mother’s

wrath.

All because of the Segway.

You see, my logic was that my mother so

rarely went to the storage locker that she

would never notice it was gone. So I didn’t

bother to tell Corrina Corrina and Molly that

they had to return it. I just figured they could

ride around on it for as long as they were

working on the stolen script case.

So as my mother’s eyes narrow to tiny

slits and her gaze bores a hole in my perspir-

ing forehead, I know that I must confess all.

My only hope: points for honesty.

“Mother, I —”

“I found the pearl necklace your great-

aunt Colander gave me!” she blurts out. “I

thought I had lost that thing forever!”

She holds it out for me to see.

And it is as though the governor has called

to give me a death-row reprieve.

“I’m very happy for you, Mother,” I

say, trying not to drip sweat on her pearls.

“Those are quite beautiful.”

“But that’s not all,” she adds. “Because

then I realized I had gone all the way down

there and not brought the storage-unit key.

Lucky for me the padlock was open, or I

wouldn’t have been able to get in there at all.

So then I had to race back home and grab the

key so I could relock it. You know, the key I

always keep hanging on the refrigerator.”

And suddenly, I could not remember if I

had put the key back on the refrigerator.

And in a flash, it is as though the

governor has called all over again.

“And guess what I saw when I went to

the kitchen,” my mother says, her stare cold,

causing my blood to pump like I am being

strangled by an anaconda.

“Mother,” I say, “I’m afraid I can’t take

any more of this guessing.”

“Oh,” she answers. “I found a Christmas

card to you from—who else?—Aunt Colander!

I thought you’d be thrilled. There’s probably

money in it. Gee, you’re no fun at all.”

She hands me the letter and leaves.

“Oh,” she adds, pausing in the doorway,

“the key was there, too.”

There was no cash in my great-aunt

Colander’s Christmas card.

But there was this little rhyme inside it:

So I do.

“Well, hello, stranger,” she says. “I’m

surprised you remember this old lady.”

“Of course I remember you,” I tell my

aunt. “You were Agent X, an integral part of

my detective agency.”

“A badge I still wear proudly,” she says.

“You should. For an amateur, you

showed potential.”

“I will take that compliment in the spirit

in which it was offered.”

“Are you at home now?” I ask.

“I wish,” she says. “Stupid doctors stuck

me in a hospital. Been here two weeks.”

“If it’s against your will, I can send in a

team,” I tell her.

“I may take you up on that,” she answers.

“But for now I should probably stay put.”

“Sniffles?”

“Bigger, I’m afraid.”

“I understand,” I tell her. “I, myself, have

been struggling with bubonic plague.”

“Is that so?” she asks.

“Affirmative,” I answer.

There is a pause, followed by the sound

of her talking to someone.

“Sorry about that,” she says. “Nurses

won’t leave me alone.”

“I am constantly hounded by the outside

world,” I respond. “So I am sympathetic.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid I’m one of those

people hounding you at the moment, so I

don’t want to keep you. But before I go, one

quick thing.”

“You need a job?”

“Oh, well, no. But the subject matter is

probably just as bothersome.”

“What?”

“I hear you’ve been talking to your

father,” she answers.

“How do you know that?”

“Your mom told me.”

“That woman gossips like a caffeinated

crow.”

My aunt laughs. Then coughs.

“Don’t make me giggle,” she says. “Hurts

too much.”

I wait for her to stop coughing.

“Anyhow,” continues my aunt, “I don’t

think your mom knows what to say to you

about it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, you never had a dad in your

life. And now suddenly you do. He sort of

surprised you by appearing out of nowhere,

didn’t he?”

“Yes,” I offer. “Like a cougar in a peach

tree.”

“Well, I’ve never heard that expression

before, but sure, I suppose it works.”

She coughs again.

“The point, Timmy, is that your mom

thinks this is all sort of up to you. Whether

you want to spend time with him. Or

whether you don’t.”

“Yes, well, I don’t,” I say. “So problem

solved.”

“Right,” she answers. “You were always

good at solving problems.”

“I’m a professional,” I tell her. “At

everything I do.”

“Of course,” she says. “Speaking of

which, did you know that your dad once

wanted to be a writer for a living? Not sure

if it’s still the case. But it was.”

“How do you know that?”

“I used to know him. Briefly. Back

when he was with your mother. Big

dreamer. Not a bad guy. Just young.”

“No,” I reply. “He’s mostly bad.”

She laughs again. Then groans.

“All right, I’m gonna let you go back to

your work,” she says. “I don’t want criminals

thinking they can run amok.”

“Won’t happen,” I assure her.

“Hey, final thing, Timmy.”

“What’s that?”

“Forgive people sometimes. Even if you

don’t think they deserve it. Because one

day you won’t deserve it. And someone will

surprise you and do the same.”

“Like a cougar in a peach tree,” I answer.

“Sure,” she says. “Or maybe more like a

beautiful butterfly landing on your head.”

“I loathe butterflies.”

“Okay,” she says. “Cougar in a peach tree.”

“I’m glad we agree.”

She coughs. Much harder this time.

“Okay, sweetheart,” she says. “I’m

signing off. I love you, I love you, I love

you. And if there’s a big blue place where

they let me roam around after this, well, then,

I’ll love you from there as well.”

“Ditto,” I answer.

“Good-bye, love.”

When I hang up the phone, I am greeted by a

loon in the windowpane.

“Molly, you’re two stories up!” I cry.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“You said assassins expect conventional

entries and exits. And I don’t want to die.”

“Well, you might now,” I inform her.

“Why are you disturbing me in my abode?”

“Big news,” she says. “Corrina Corrina

wants to meet.”

“Where?” I ask.

“Her detective headquarters.”

“That big bank downtown?”

“No,” she answers.

“She’s in a new office now,” Molly

continues. “One you’ve never seen. At least,

not from the inside.”

“Well, climb down,” I tell her. “And

don’t break your head. I’ll meet you in the

backyard.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Hey, and Molly?” I call out to her as

she begins climbing down. “What’s the big

news?”

Molly looks up at me and smiles, her

mismatched pupils dancing in the December

sun.

“She found your script.”

Molly and I race to Corrina Corrina’s office

like sharks to a chum-fest.

And as we run, I pepper her with

questions.

“So how did she find it? Where was it? What

happened?”

“Timmy, we’re almost there,” says Molly,

running ahead of me. “And you always say

we have to be careful about security. There

are spies everywhere.”

I stop suddenly. She does the same.

“Good point,” I answer. “So speak in

code.”

“But I don’t know any code.”

“Just say it backward.”

“Okay. Corrina Corrina and I went back to

your dad’s bar a second time.”

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Saying it backward,” she says.

“No, Molly Moskins! Say your words

backward!”

“Oh, this is way too confusing,” she

replies. “I’m just gonna say it!”

“Then say it already!” I cry.

“Corrina Corrina and I went back to your

dad’s bar a second time. And the mean lady

wasn’t there.”

“Dundledorf?”

“Right. So Corrina Corrina was able to

talk to people. And once she started asking

questions, she found out it was Crocus—”

“Just as I suspected,” I announce. “I knew

it all along.”

“No. She found out it was Crocus who

was staring at us from the other side of the

bar. It was a little hard to see him at first.”

“Please don’t pause mid-sentence like

that.”

“Well, don’t interrupt,” she says.

“Anyway, she walked toward Crocus and he

was very nice to her. But then, she saw that

elf. And knew instantly that it was him—”

“Just as I suspected,” I announce. “I knew

it all along.”

“No, Timmy. It was him, the same guy

who got kicked by the reindeer.”

“This is very hard to take, Molly! Please

stop pausing in the middle of your words.”

“I’m not. You just keep talking over me!

Anyhow, in the middle of our talking to the

elf, your dad walks back in, I guess to get his

last check. And, well, he confessed—”

“Just as I suspected,” I announce. “I knew

it all along.”

“No, Timmy! Confessed that he hadn’t

been very nice to you and said he felt bad.”

“OH, THIS IS UNBEARABLE!” I shout.

“Molly, do not pause between your words like

that!”

“I’m not pausing! You just keep jumping

in! The point is that this old man in a fedora

walked over to us and revealed everything!”

“Oh, great, so let me guess—he revealed

to Corrina Corrina that he didn’t like beer?

Revealed that he didn’t want the television

so loud? Revealed that he wasn’t fond of little

kids yammering in the bar? Tell me, Molly,

what stupid scenario is it this time?”

Molly just stares at me.

“He revealed to Corrina Corrina that you

left the script on the bar that day. And it didn’t

belong there. So he put it behind a stack of

phone books under the bar.”

She twirls her finger through her curls.

“Anyhow, that’s where Corrina Corrina

found it.”

Astonished, I am unable to speak.

“Gee,” she says, “why can’t you always be

this quiet?”

Focused but famished, we make a brief stop at

a taco truck.

“Molly, under my guidance, you have

done fine work,” I tell her. “I shall reward you

with a tasty taco.”

“Four tasty tacos,” she says.

“It’s unfortunate to see you take

advantage of my generosity.”

“But I’m hungry.”

“I will buy you one tasty taco,” I tell her,

purchasing it from the man in the truck and

handing it to her.

She takes a large bite out of it, and with

lettuce and cheese falling from her mouth,

says this:

“Oh, I forgot to tell you the bad news.”

“Bad news?” I ask. “What bad news?”

“The script. Mostly blank.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your script. The pages didn’t have

words on them.”

“Molly Moskins, that script was a two-

hundred-fifty-page cinematic masterpiece.”

“Yeah, well, only two of the pages had

words on them,” she says, salsa dripping

from the corner of her mouth. “Something

about your birth and a bunch of flying

elephants. And then, nada. Hey, could I get a

burrito with this?”

“Molly Moskins, you obviously left some

of the script pages at the bar!”

She burps.

“Nope.”

“What do you mean, ‘nope’? How do you

know?”

“Because you numbered the pages. And

there they all were, pages one to two hundred

fifty.”

“But how can you possibly explain all

those blank pages?” I ask. “That makes no

sense.”

“That confused Corrina Corrina also. But

that’s the part I figured out.”

“Figured it out how?”

“Well, remember how you told every-

one you worked on the script all night? That

made you very sleepy. So at some point in

the early morning, you drifted off. And,

boom, your nose hit the delete key and wiped

out the last two hundred forty-eight pages.”

“Wiped them out?” I cry.

“Indeed,” she answers.

“You mean my schnozz caused all this?”

“Yep. In fact, the scientific name for it

is Fallasleep-schnozzo-deletus. It’s a known

malady.”

“Well, I must admit I have no medical

background. And I have had bubonic plague

lately.”

“Yes,” answers Molly. “One leads to the

other.”

She wipes her mouth across her forearm.

“Anyhoo, you didn’t notice what you had

done, and so you woke up in the morning

and just pressed print. Didn’t bother to go

through the printed pages. Didn’t bother to

save a copy on the computer.”

“The Russians,” I say. “They steal

everything.”

“Yeah, well, whatever your reason, the

work was—”

She pauses to swallow the last bite of her

food.

“Gone,” she says. “Just like that taco.”

“Molly Moskins, I should hold you upside

down and shake that last taco out of you.”

“Please don’t,” she says. “I’d hate to

catch your Fallasleep-schnozzo-deletus. And

besides, there’s Corrina Corrina’s building.”

From the earliest days of my agency, my

goal was to locate my headquarters on the

top floor of the highest building in town.

From high atop my perch, I would look

out through that blue-green glass and scan the

cityscape for wrongdoers and miscreants.

And I would know what it was like to be

the most successful detective in the world at

the height of his power.

And now I did.

“Your dad owns this building?” I ask

Corrina Corrina.

“I think he just rents the top three floors.

I’m not really sure. But when he has to meet

someone in the office on the ground floor, he

lets me come up here and play.”

“You don’t mean ‘play,’” I tell her. “You

mean do your detective work.”

“Right,” she says.

I take a seat at an empty desk.

“I told Timmy what happened,” says

Molly. “About finding the script and it being

blank and all.”

The leather seat reclines.

“Yeah, Timmy,” says Corrina Corrina.

“I’m afraid we’re really in trouble without a

script. And at such a late date, we don’t have

many options.”

I open a desk drawer and find pencils.

“So I was thinking,” says Corrina

Corrina. “Maybe we just go into Mr. Jenkins’s

office before school tomorrow and tell him

everything that happened. Just be honest.”

“Yeah,” adds Molly. “Maybe we can get

an extension or something. Or maybe he can

get Tom John John to compromise.”

“Which he probably won’t,” adds Corrina

Corrina.

“Timmy, you’re barely talking,” says

Molly.

I stare at Molly from behind the desk.

“Tell the polar bear to meet me in the

underground garage,” I announce. “We have a

script to write.”

“Kooky Kringle is frightening,” I tell my polar

bear. “He looks emotionally unstable.”

“Coming through,” says a man with a

tree overhead. “Could you just move a bit to

the side?”

And when I turn, he sees that it is me.

“Timmy!” says my dad. “What are you

doing at the Christmas-tree lot?”

“I’m studying the facial features of Kooky

Kringle. I suspect he’s a felon. Or perhaps

the victim of a nuclear disaster.”

“Yeah, well, maybe,” says my dad. “So

that’s why you came here?”

“Partly,” I answer. “But also because I

heard you write. Or used to.”

He laughs. “Who told you that?”

“Confidential,” I answer.

“Okay, well, yes. Years ago. Nothing

serious. I really wasn’t very good. Why?”

“Pardon me,” says a customer to my dad.

“Can we get a tree stand on that?”

“For sure,” answers my dad. “Give me one

second.”

My dad looks back toward me.

“Why do you want to know if I write?”

“Because we need to do a film script.

And it needs to be astoundingly great.

Perhaps genius.”

He laughs again. “Okay. I mean, I don’t

know if I ever tried doing a film script, but it

sounds fun. When do you want to do it?”

“We need to start tonight. Or we are

most likely doomed.”

“Well, I can’t do it tonight, Timmy. I

mean, we’re a little busy.”

We stare at each other, flanked on either

side by Christmas trees.

An older man pokes his head between

two of the trees.

“Tom, are you gonna put that stand on

that guy’s Christmas tree? He’s just standing

there by his car.”

“Yeah, I am,” my dad says. “Timmy, you’re

just gonna have to excuse me. I’m sorry. We’ll

do it. But another night, okay?”

I watch as my father jogs off toward the

customer.

As kids and their parents walk past me.

And I stand there.

Wishing I could slip between the trees

and disappear.

And then I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“I told him he could probably put on his

own Christmas-tree stand,” says my dad.

“And he wasn’t happy about it.”

He scratches the side of his face.

“Do you know if anyone in this town is

hiring?”

I smile at him.

“Thanks,” I say.

I hold out my hand to shake his.

“A handshake?” he asks. “A little formal.

How about a hug?”

“Too soon,” I tell him.

We shake hands.

And as we walk off the tree lot, I look

around to find my bear.

And find him still staring at the poster

bearing the image of Kooky Kringle.

Only he’s not staring at Kooky Kringle.

When Total and I get home, we head straight

for our headquarters, newly christened with

a holiday-themed name:

Inside the locked room, Total unrolls

the poster he has torn off the wall of Kooky

Kringle’s.

And points.

And I immediately understand.

“It’s your brother.”

He nods.

And after just a few hours of research

and a dozen faxes, we find him.

And he contacts us.

And as it turns out, Total is not the only

polar bear who has been waiting a long time

for this.

“That’s the problem with our chosen

profession,” I tell my polar bear. “We were

living incognito. Impossible to track.”

Total nods.

In his fax, his brother also explained that

after a brief career in modeling (hence, the

poster) and a stint as a writer for an outdoors

magazine, he went on to receive a degree in

climate science from the Massachusetts

Institute of Technology and was currently

living in a Queen Anne Victorian home in

Somerville, Massachusetts.

“Not bad for a polar bear,” I comment.

“Not as glamorous as your life, but still, it’s

something.”

But Total’s favorite part of the fax was

the last couple lines, which simply said:

“This

Somerville

place

could

be

exceedingly dangerous,” I warn him. “Maybe

you shouldn’t go.”

But I can see how he is staring at the

letter.

“Well, maybe you should just go for a

short visit,” I tell him. “And come right

back.”

But then he looks at me. And I know.

And I put my arm around him. And he

puts his arm around me.

Two partners in crime-fighting.

Both lost for so long.

Both ready to be whole.

“That scene is much too sad,” I tell my

father in the park as we work on our film

script together. “It has no joie de vivre.

That’s French for ‘ducks.’”

“Ducks?” he says. “What are you talking

about?”

“What are you talking about?” I answer.

And so it goes.

Arguing as only two professional writers

can do.

For hours.

Until suddenly interrupted by a park

dweller.

“Hiya, Timmy!” says Rollo.

“Rollo Tookus,” I answer, “can’t you

see that I’m currently being visited by the

screenwriting

muse?

There’s

greatness

flowing through my very fingers as we speak.”

“Oh,” he answers. “I just saw you sit-

ting here and thought you might want to play

Frisbee with us. I’m here with my dad.”

“And I’m here with mine,” I tell him.

Rollo stares.

“You’re Timmy’s dad?”

“I am,” he answers, shaking Rollo’s hand.

“And you’re not interrupting anything. We’re

just butting heads.”

“Wow,” says Rollo. “I never thought I’d

meet you. I’m Timmy’s best friend.”

“Yeah,” answers my dad. “Timmy talks a

lot about you.”

“I tell him you’re very smart,” I add. “But

also that you have an unnatural obsession

with grades.”

“It’s true,” Rollo tells my dad. “I want to

go to Stanfurd.”

Rollo points to his sweatshirt.

“If I go to Stanfurd, I can get a good job

and not have to sell oranges by the side of the

highway.”

“Well, that’s a good goal,” says my dad.

“Wish I’d gone to a good school like that.

When I was young, I was too busy having a

good time, if you know what I mean.”

We both just stare at him.

“Okay, time for me to go get a beer from

the car,” he says.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Failure,” says

Rollo.

“Nice to meet you, too,” says my dad.

Rollo turns back to me. “So you sure you

don’t want to play?”

“Can’t,” I tell him. “We have to get this

script finished.”

“The script!” exclaims Rollo. “I can’t

believe I didn’t tell you!”

“Tell me what?”

“At the last rehearsal, Tom John John

got frustrated with all of us not being able to

do ballet poses.”

“So?”

“So he started yelling and got out of his

chair and tried showing us all how to do

them.”

“And, boom, he broke his big toe!”

“So what does that mean?” I ask.

“I think it means he can’t come to

school for a few days.”

“It’s a sign from the gods!” I shout. “He

can’t interfere with my film!”

“That’s what I thought,” says Rollo.

“But then he announced he was going to just

direct the movie from home via Skype.”

“So he can interfere with my film!”

“No!” Rollo answers. “Because then his

father got transferred to Bulgaria!”

“It’s a sign from the gods!” I shout.

“Yeah, and he leaves immediately.”

“I shall escort him to the airport if need

be,” I declare. “Though someone should warn

the Bulgarians that he’s coming.”

“Yeah,” Rollo answers. “So write some

good stuff. I’m gonna go play with my dad.”

When my dad comes back, he has a beer

can in his hand. His sits on the picnic table

beside me and holds out the open can.

“Ever tasted beer?” he asks.

“No,” I answer. “I only drink whiskey.

Neat.”

And as we sit there, I watch Rollo

bouncing on his father’s shoulders, his

weight almost drilling his father into the soft

grass.

“We should challenge them to a father-

and-son race,” I tell my dad.

“Like a piggyback race?”

“Yes. And perhaps wager.”

My father gets up off the table and kneels

on the grass. “Here, hop on.”

“Well, put your beer down first.”

“I can do both.”

“You’re violating a number of health and

safety standards.”

“Stop worrying so much. Hop on.”

So I get on his back. And we practice.

And because he is holding only one of

my legs, I start to slip off.

And he tries to catch me without spilling

his beer.

And this happens:

“You have broken my spleen, my skull,

and my aorta,” I mutter.

“Sorry,” he says. “I thought I could do

it.”

“The good news is that I’m already

implanted in the ground,” I answer. “Which

should save you a bundle on funeral

arrangements.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” he says.

“You’re a very imperfect father,” I tell

him.

“Yes,” he answers. “Mistakes were made.”

On the day of the film screening, I am

hounded by my many fans.

“Timmy, how long are you going to

take in there?” yells my mother through the

closed door. “It starts in a half hour!”

“Please, Mother. I may have to walk

down a red carpet. I need to look

professional.”

“Well, look professional faster,” she says.

“We’re gonna be late. And Dave would like

to check his e-mail before we go.”

So I have two minutes of peace.

Followed by a second interruption from Dave.

“You almost done, Timmy?”

“No, Dave.”

“All right, fine. I’ll just wait at the door.”

“Please don’t rush me, Dave.”

I hear him whistling outside the door.

“Looks like you got a new sign,” he says.

“What did this used to say?”

“WHEN,” I answer through the door.

“Before you put this up.”

“I just told you.”

“Told me what?”

“I did not say WHATT.”

“Timmy, I’m just saying that now you

have a new sign.”

“WHY.”

“Because there used to be a different

one!”

“WHEN.”

Then there is only silence.

Followed by the sound of Dave banging

his head into the wall.

“Timmy, come out of there right now,”

barks my mother.

So I do.

And I look stupendous.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“I believe this is the Hollywood look.”

“Well, it’s too late to change now,” she

says. “But you’re not taking that,” she says,

grabbing the pipe.

So with that small adjustment, we head

for Dave’s car.

Where she sits in the backseat with me.

“What are you doing?” I ask. “You

always sit in the front seat.”

“True, but I’ve never been famous

before,” she says. “And when the flashbulbs

go off, I want to be right there by your side.”

“I suppose that’s acceptable,” I answer.

“As you were there for the tough times.”

“I was,” she says. “I remember them

well.”

She puts her arm around me.

“And I was proud of you every step of the

way,” she says.

“Every step?” I ask.

“Okay,” she answers. “Sometimes you

made me want to pull my hair out and cry.”

I nod. “I can have that effect on people.”

She pulls me closer to her.

“You know,” I tell her, “I plan on

pursuing my Hollywood career with great

vigor. And there is a good chance I will need

a personal assistant. Would you be

interested?”

“How is the pay?” she asks.

“Not good,” I answer. “But the benefits

are tremendous. One of which is that you

get to spend time with a professional such as

me.”

She laughs and rests her forehead against

the side of my head.

And blows in my ear.

Something she sometimes does to make

me laugh.

“That is no way to treat a professional,” I

tell her.

So she stops.

“Do it again,” I say.

The film itself was a cinematic triumph.

Despite the limitations.

For as it turns out, Corrina Corrina’s

statements regarding the $900 budget were

accurate.

So Mr. Jenkins suggested we film the

entire thing in a classroom using wooden

cutouts for the sets.

And because so many of the actors I

wanted were unavailable, Mr. Jenkins

suggested we use wooden cutouts for the

characters as well, each of which was held

aloft by a student.

And each of which was designed by me.

With the exception of Molly Moskins,

who insisted on playing herself and wearing

her eclipse glasses.

But she was much too large for the set, so

she looked like King Kong terrorizing a small

town.

And she couldn’t see. So that created its

own problems.

And with the absence of Tom John John,

we were short a director. So Flo filled in, and

cleaned up quite nicely for the premiere.

And for the most part, the film contained

my entire story.

I say “for the most part” because the

film’s birth sequence had to be shortened to

just one pathetic shot of a flying elephant.

And there was no scene with my polar

bear chasing our principal off a cliff.

That was nixed by Flo.

Which wasn’t so bad, except for the fact

that he replaced it with a scene where the

two characters have a minor disagreement

over a milkshake.

But other than that, it faithfully

recounted my story, including my meteoric

rise to CEO of the world’s largest detective

agency, Failure, Inc.

An empire that contained a Timmy

blimp, a Timmy ship, and a Timmy fortress.

And, over Flo’s objection, I made sure

that each scene was separated by a blank

screen.

Onto which I flashed one word:

And through it all, Total and I

vanquished our enemies, culminating in the

film’s much-talked-about bar scene, which

was the only other scene where I had to

make a few small compromises.

Such as:

And:

Though, in the end, I still did fall out of a

tenth-story window. Which should have been

the end of Timmy.

Except for the fact that there was one

more small compromise.

And when the last scene ended, there was

this brief message:

To which I later added:

And a dedication:

And at the end of the credits, there was a

summary of each character’s life.

Like that of Molly Moskins:

And Corrina Corrina:

And Rollo Tookus:

And my own, which I tried to keep

modest:

And that left only one character’s ending.

When we get home after the film, I find

my polar bear on the front step of the

townhouse.

“You can’t leave three days before

Christmas!” I tell him. “My Christmas break

is just starting. And we haven’t even held

your retirement party!”

But he doesn’t answer.

And I can see by the way his paws are

wrapped around his tiny suitcase that my

protest is for nothing.

Because it’s time for my bear to go to his

brother.

And if he wants to get there in time to

spend the first of many Christmases with

him, he’s gonna have to leave now.

Because no train would take a dangerous

polar bear.

And no plane seat could fit him.

So to get there, he is going to have to

rely on the same network of Goodwill trucks

that the polar bears use to pick up our

discarded fax machines.

“At least wait here,” I tell him. “I have

something for you.”

So I run into the townhouse and return

with a handful of gifts.

“Consider this your official retirement

party,” I tell him, handing him a small box.

Which he opens.

To find a watch.

“I found your size,” I tell him, wrap-

ping it around his wrist. “And maybe with

enough practice, you can learn to tell time.”

He smells the watch, checking to make

sure it’s not edible.

“And I got you a Total Failure, Inc.,

tie,” I tell him. “That way you’ll always look

professional.”

“Plus, it’s a clip-on,” I tell him. “So you

can just attach it to your fur.”

“Oh, and I owe you a pension,” I tell

him. “One seal a month for the rest of your

life. But give me a few weeks on that. There

aren’t as many seal distributors in Somerville

as I thought.”

He drools.

“Oh,” I tell him. “And I can’t let you go

without giving you a farewell speech. It’s

what all the professionals do.”

I take out my prepared speech.

“You might want to sit back down on the

porch,” I tell him. “It’s not long, but I think the

guest of honor always sits.”

He sits back down on the porch.

“‘Dearest Total,’” I begin. “‘You were a

brave and noble bear.’”

I hold out my hand.

“This is where we shake hands,” I tell

him.

He shakes my hand.

“‘You served my agency with honor and

distinction,’” I continue. “‘You were a fearless

warrior. And you were a tireless—’”

I am interrupted by the sound of squeaky

brakes.

It is the Goodwill truck, here to pick up

Total.

“He’s here already?” I ask my bear. “What

time was he supposed to come?”

Total looks at his watch. But he can’t tell

time.

The driver honks the horn.

“We’re in the middle of our retirement

ceremony!” I yell. “Can’t you even wait?”

But I already know from Total that he

cannot. The network of polar bear drivers

keeps an extremely tight schedule.

So I look at my bear. And he looks back

at me.

And for the first time in all the time I

have known him, I see a tear roll down his

furry cheek.

So I leap into his arms.

“Forget the speech!” I tell him. “Forget

the stupid speech! You were my best friend.

You were my best friend ever! And you

saved me. You saved me from everything

and everyone!”

The driver honks the horn again.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I plead with Total.

“Before you go, I got you one more thing.”

I hold out a scrapbook.

“It’s filled with pictures,” I tell him.

“Pictures of me and you.”

“Your brother has a lot of catching up

to do. And I want him to know you. I want

him to know everything about you.”

Total takes the scrapbook from me and

puts it in his suitcase.

And the truck driver honks again.

“You gotta go,” I tell him. “I know you

gotta go.”

He stands, suitcase in hand.

And then puts it back down.

And with both paws, he lifts me up.

“I love you,” I tell him. And he presses

the side of his furry cheek to mine.

And he puts me down.

And he is gone.

There’s not much to tell you about

Christmas.

Except that it was a sunny day.

And the first Christmas I had ever spent

with my dad.

Who even gave me a gift.

Though it was odd.

“A book on how to make mixed drinks?”

I ask. “You know I’m only nine, right?”

“It’s for when you’re older,” he says.

But it was the first Christmas gift he had

ever given me. So I put it above my bed.

And it was the first holiday season I had

ever spent with Husband Dave.

Now just Dave.

So I got him something.

“Have one week of exclusive access!” I

told him. “My office is all yours.”

I could see Dave wanted to ask me

questions, like how I had come up with the

idea.

But he didn’t.

And as for my mother, I got her a very

special gift.

“You take it out when I’m making your

head hurt,” I told her. “And it erases one

Timmy-induced headache.”

And, filled with apple pie, the three of us

spent the rest of a lazy Christmas afternoon

watching movies.

Until I heard an odd sound coming from

the office.

And knew it was the fax machine.

So I ran in there just in time to see a

piece of paper sliding out of the machine.

And knew immediately that it was from

my polar bear.

Who, with the help of his educated

brother, was now a much better writer.

More memoirs. More greatness.

Hardcover ISBN 978-0-7636-9004-5

Also available as an e-book

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Also available as an e-book

Hardcover ISBN 978-0-7636-7375-8

Paperback ISBN 978-0-7636-9106-6

Also available as an e-book

Hardcover ISBN 978-0-7636-8092-3

Also available as an e-book

www.candlewick.com

For more shenanigans, visit www.timmyfailure.com