Losing Joe's Place by Gordon Korman Read Free Book Online Page B

agreed. “I never expected Mr. Plotnick to do all this.”
    The bill came to $319. Plotnick handed it to me, skewered on the end of his meat fork.
    â€œWow,” I said. “How much do we owe you?”
    â€œYou’re maybe having trouble with your eyesight, Mr. Cardone? It says $319.”
    â€œYeah, but that’s for the whole job,” I protested. “What’s our portion?”
    Plotnick was patient. “A staircase is like a chain, Mr. Cardone. If one of the links is broken, the whole chain is
kaput.”
    â€œThen,” put in Ferguson, “fixing one link would save the whole chain.”
    â€œBetter to get a new chain,” said Plotnick evenly. “And that costs $319.”
    I could feel my face flaming. “I won’t pay!”
    Plotnick shrugged. “That’s your privilege. And just to show you I’m a reasonable man, I’ll hold off my eviction proceedings so your brother can be present in court.”
    In Owen Sound, people like Plotnick go to jail. But in Toronto, here he was, holding all the cards. I remembered my brother’s message:
Whatever you do, DON’T lose me this lease.
Whatever you do. Even if you have to hand over three hundred bucks to this hoodlum in a greasy apron.
    â€œBut it was only one stair,” I managed weakly.
    Plotnick nodded sympathetically. “Prices these days. Out of sight. Your brother, also Mr. Cardone, used to say that a lot. Nice boy. Big muscles. I’d miss him if he moved away.”
    I’ll say this about Plotnick. He certainly knew how to get to the heart of the matter. I looked at Ferguson and Don, who nodded. I wrote him another check, number 002, and felt even more independent — like I was alone on a desert island surrounded by crocodiles.
    With two of us unemployed, and Ferguson’s next paycheck six and a half long days away, we were left with exactly $17.60 to live on — $5.86 per person for next week.

 
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FIVE
    Living for a week on seventeen bucks was a special talent. Fortunately we still had some groceries left — nothing fancy — soup, sandwiches, Kraft Dinner, and cereal for breakfast. A care package of bran muffins from Mrs. Peach arrived by mail, and we were really thrilled until we found out that Ferguson’s mom bakes hockey pucks. It was agreed, even by the Peach, that only after going through the garbage would we resort to the muffins.
    Every penny counted. We had enough cash to send Ferguson on the bus to and from stupid Plastics Unlimited, but if Don or I got jobs out of the neighborhood, we would have to walk. As for entertainment — forget it.
    We were still stinging from the big rip-off, especially Don. Things always went perfectly for Mr. Wonderful, so he had no experience in dealing with anything less than sunshine and roses. He seemed more bewildered than upset. Plotnick had overloaded his brain.
    â€œI still don’t see how he can get away with it!” Don seethed. “Surely there must be some board of review or something that we can complain to!”
    â€œI’m sure there is,” I said. “We’d probably win, too. But by the time all the technicalities got straightened out, it would be months — maybe years! And Joe would be back from Europe, kicked out of his apartment, and we’d be wrapped in plastic, sitting in the supermarket with the rest of the hamburger!”
    â€œWell, maybe,” said Don. “But it stinks. I mean — things aren’t supposed to go this way.”
    It didn’t make us feel any better when an envelope arrived from my brother in England. Inside was a snapshot of Joe, carrying a gorgeous blonde through the surf. On the back was scribbled:
Me and Daphne at Brighton. P.S. I forgot to warn you. If you break something in Plotnick’s building, don’t tell him, or he’ll fix up the whole place and try to