Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man by Wendelin Van Draanen Read Free Book Online Page B

to the mall she says, “You want to go to the arcade?”
    I just say, “Nah. I’ve got to go by Bargain Books. I promised Grams I’d check on a book she ordered.” And really I do. I promised. Then I ask, “Want to come?” even though I know Bargain Books is about the last place Marissa would want to go. Well, the Heavenly Hotel is about
the
last place, but that’s another story.
    She says, “I think I’ll just go over to the mall. Why don’t you come by when you’re done?”
    I almost said, Why don’t
you
come with me to the Bush House when
I’m
done? but instead I say, “I’ll probably just see you at Dot’s around seven, okay?”
    She waves and calls, “If we can pull this off tonight, it’s going to go down in history!” Then she goes to play video games and I go up Broadway, past Maynard’s Market and the Heavenly Hotel, to Mr. Bell’s bookstore.
    Bargain Books isn’t like the bookstores you see in themall. It’s
old
. What gives this away is not the coffee stains on the platform where Mr. Bell has his register and computer and stuff, and it’s not the creaky steps that go up to the loft—they’re covered with brand-new carpet. And it’s not the miles and miles of used books, because there are pretty new-looking ones, too. No, what gives away the fact that Bargain Books has been around a long, long time is the smell. It’s not a bad smell—kind of like wet wood mixed with dry grass. It’s just an old smell.
    Anyway, I walk in and give my eyes a minute to adjust because it’s always dark inside Bargain Books. Dark and cool. When I can see, I notice Mr. Bell with a big box chock-full of books saying to a woman, “Did you have more than this in mind?”
    The woman’s wearing red high heels and really tight blue jeans, which is bad enough, but on her powdered little nose is perched a pair of big, boxy sunglasses that cover up half her face.
Sunglasses
. In Bargain Books. She says, “A few more, and that should do it.”
    Mr. Bell pulls a few more books off a shelf and piles them into the box. He rings her up and says to me, “I’m sorry, Sammy. I’ll be right back,” and then off he goes, squinting at the sunlight, carrying this mountain of books out to the woman’s car.
    When Mr. Bell comes back, he’s looking pretty frazzled. Not that he ever looks tidy. He’s always got a shirttail sticking out or a sleeve half rolled up, but I think that it’s his hair that makes him look a mess, even when the rest of him is trying to be tidy. It looks like wads of dirty cotton glued to the sides of his skull. There’s not much left of it, butwhat there is is really fighting to be noticed. Anyhow, while he’s standing there blinking, I say, “Who
was
that? Is she really going to read all of those books?”
    Mr. Bell laughs, “No, Sammy, she’s not going to read them. She’s going to decorate with them.”
    “Decorate with them? What do you mean?”
    He steps up to his desk area and takes a gulp of his coffee. “Some people think it’s posh to have old books on their bookshelves—they think it gives them an aura of intelligence. To them one old book looks like another. They haven’t any idea what’s valuable and what’s junk; they just want to buy up enough books to give them a facade of sophistication.” He takes a bite of a half-eaten English muffin. “The only use I have for people like that is they help keep my electricity flowing.” He holds out his paper plate and says, “Muffin?”—as if charcoal peeking up through raspberry jam is my idea of a taste sensation.
    I just shake my head and say, “No, thanks. I’m here to pick up a book my grandmother ordered. Has it come in?”
    He takes another gulp of coffee. “Oh, I meant to check on why that’s taking so long. I expected it days ago. Tell you what I’ll do—I’ll make a few phone calls and get back to you.” He shuffles through some papers and says, “Or you can stop by tomorrow, if you’d like. I’ll be here