Mr. Chickee's Messy Mission by Christopher Paul Curtis Read Free Book Online

to the Vernor's mural. Russell was on his tiptoes, reaching up and sticking his finger out toward one of the gnomes, then quickly jerking it back, sort of like he expected the painting to take a nip out of him.
    Daddy thought his son was mumbling something like “Rot wrote, rot wrote, rot wrote, rot wrote …” over and over.
    “Oh, no!” Russell's father shouted. “The wee dog's scream has scrambled the boy's brains! I doe t'ink his mutha's gonna take this one too good!”
    Daddy opened the back door of the car, and just like he used to do for the six months that Russell had been small enough to fit in a car kiddie seat, he put his son in, buckled the seat belt and patted Russ on the head.
    “Doe ya worry, boy, everyt'ing's gonn be irie, just ya wait and see.”
    Daddy pulled the car onto Saginaw Street and turned his reggae back up. Russell started bouncing with the groove in the backseat.
    Daddy looked in the rearview mirror and said, “Oh-ho! What I tell ya? There ain't not'ing that a little bit of Bob Marley and the Wailers and the smell of cheeseburg deluxes heavy on the olives can't cure real good and quick! How ya feeling, boy?”
    Russell knew he had to ease his father's mind or there'd be a ton of questions. And maybe even counselors.
    He said, “I'm fine, Daddy, all I was doing out there was overcoming my fears before they overcomed me.”
    “Now, that's muh boy! Spoken like a true Jamaican, mon! Everyt'ing irie?”
    “Everything's irie, Daddy.”
    “And the little elf t'ing ya was poking in the nose ain't giving ya no messages or not'ing, is he?”
    “No, Daddy.”
    “Good, good. How 'bout the rest of 'em? None of the otha elf t'ings is telling ya ta set no fires nor bite no one, are they?”
    “No, Daddy.”
    “And ya got that little dog quieted down in ya pocket? We won't be having no more busted-out windows, will we?”
    Russell patted his empty shirt pocket and said, “Rodney Rodent's going to be so quiet it will seem like he's not even here.”
    “Wonderful, boy. And we agree ya mutha doe have no need ta know 'bout what happened wit' the little dog and the car window? She gets winda this, she might want ta get that giant Zoopy back from those crazy Carters.”
    “We agree, Daddy.”
    “Sweet and dandy, son, sweet and dandy!”
    Russell knew better than to say anything to his mother
or
his father about what had happened. Some things are so odd that telling an adult about them doesn't do anything but get you a bunch of worried looks, whispered conversations and visits with school counselors. That was a lesson he'd learned when he tried to explain to his teacher about Zoopy and the pesky purple squirrels. Russell figured there were some things that you really shouldn't tell anyone who was responsible.
    “But who can I tell about this?” Russell thought. “Who won't blab and get me in trouble?”
    Nothing came to him.
    He stroked his chin a couple of times, the way you do when you're trying to make people think you're doing some real serious thinking.
    Almost magically a name and a face came to him!
    “Man!” Russell thought. “That chin-rubbing stuff really works! I'll tell the most irresponsible person I know, I'll tell Bucko!”
    And Russell was right, anyone who'd ride a huge dog over a 250-foot dam
must
be extremely irresponsible. Why, they must be the
king
of the Irresponsibles!

Dad Saves the Day! (By Sheer Luck!)
    R ICHELLE C YRUS -H ERNDON was very excited. Saturday, the day after Rodney Rodent disappeared, was the first meeting of the Flint Future Detectives that she'd be in charge of. And she couldn't wait to show these knuckleheads the proper way to run a meeting.
    She pounded the sawed-in-half leg of a table on Steven's desk and thought, “Hmmm, one of the first things I'm going to do is to get a real gavel.”
    She said, “I hereby call this meeting of the Flint Future Detectives to order. Mr. Secretary, would you please take attendance?”
    Russell cleared his throat and