Like my parents’ store, Bouvier Lumber and Hardware was both a business and a home. The owner, Mrs. Gervais, lived in the apartment over the store with her thirty-year-old son, One-Eyed Pete. During the summer the two spent most of their waking hours in the store, helping customers pick out paint colours or find the right kind of screws. In autumn, business slowed down and Mrs. Gervais spent most of her time building birdhouses behind the store while One-Eyed Pete worked on his motorcycle. I hoped business was slow enough that one of them would remember who bought the spray paint.
Mrs. Gervais loved to decorate her store for Halloween. As Remi and I neared the store, I noticed cardboard skeletons taped to the plate glass window in awkward positions, as if they were trying to break-dance. In the window display cobwebs covered a bloodied ladder, a severed hand tried to crawl out of a half-opened toolbox and a human skull gripped a screwdriver as if it was a rose between its yellow teeth.
We went inside, stopping at a plastic Jack O’ Lantern that overflowed with Mojos. Remi grabbed a handful and tossed me one of the pebble-hard candies. In the store, a teenager, dressed all in black except for a green apron and a silver-studded dog collar around his neck swept the floor. When he noticed us he rolled his eyes, swatted dust across the aisle with his straw broom and stomped away.
“What’s his problem?” I whispered.
Remi shrugged. “My big sister’s like that, too. Hey, tape’s on sale. I need some for my hockey stick.”
Remi picked up two rolls of black tape from the shelf beside us.
I shook my head. “Later. We’ve got a job to do.”
He tossed the rolls of tape back on the shelf.
We circled the store, passing hacksaws, utility knives, bins of screws and trays of nails. Hardware supplies were pointy and dangerous. I wondered if One-Eyed Pete had lost his eye while he was stocking the shelves; maybe that’s why he wore an eye patch. Finally we found the paint supplies near the back. We saw brushes, rollers, paint trays and big cans of paint, but found no cans of spray paint.
“Maybe Graffiti Ghoul bought it all,” Remi said.
I nodded. “That means there’s going to be more graffiti.”
“Not if we can help it,” Remi said. “Let’s find out who bought the paint.”
We looked around for Mrs. Gervais or One-Eyed Pete, but it looked like the sulking sweeper was the only person in the store.
“Excuse me,” I called to him. “Can you help us?”
The guy stopped sweeping, sighed and shambled toward us. “Wadayawan,” he mumbled, thanks to the silver stud pierced through his tongue.
“Can you help us?” I asked, peeking at the name tag on his green apron. “Patrick?”
“Wha do ya wan?” he said slowly.
“Do you sell spray paint?” I asked.
“We’re ow.”
“Are you hurt?” Remi asked.
“Wha?” Patrick looked puzzled.
“You said ow,” Remi explained.
The guy shook his head. “Ow. We’re ow. No more pain.”
“If there’s no pain, why are you saying ow?” I asked.
Patrick huffed and unscrewed the stud in his tongue. “I said we’re out. No more paint. You understandee Engleesh?” He glared at me.
“Who bought it?” Remi asked.
“None of your business. You gonna buy something or not?”
“If we do, will you tell us who got the paint?” I asked.
He growled, “If you buy something then I won’t have a reason to throw you out of the store for loitering.”
“I was going to buy some tape,” Remi said.
“Oooo. Big spender,” Patrick said.
Remi hustled to get the tape, leaving me alone with the cranky stock boy.
“I think you’ll tell me who bought the paint,” I said, crossing my arms and tapping my finger against my elbow. The trick worked for Principal Henday; maybe it would work for me too. I sucked wind through the gap between my front teeth, making a soft whistle as I tapped fast and furious.
“You got a problem?” Patrick grunted.
I tapped faster, trying to make him crack under the pressure of my stare.
Patrick lunged like he was going to punch me. I stumbled backwards, knocking some paintbrushes on to the floor.
Patrick laughed. “Nice move, Flinchie. Pick them up.”
I did as he said, wondering why The Rake’s trick didn’t work on the teenager.
Remi returned with three rolls of tape. “How much for these?”
“Two forty,” Patrick said.
Remi pulled out a quarter and a dime. “Uh, Marty, do you have any money?”
I shook my head.
Patrick grabbed the rolls of tape out of Remi’s hands. “You two weirdos are wastin’ my time. Get out.”
“We’ll get the money,” Remi said.
“Out,” Patrick ordered. He shoved us through the front door and slammed it shut behind us.
Remi glared at the store. “He’s calling us weirdos? He should look in the mirror sometime.”
“Never mind him. There’s got to be another way to find out what happened to the spray paint,” I said.
“What about Mrs. Gervais?” Remi suggested.
“Not a bad idea.”
Behind the building, One-Eyed Pete’s motorcycle sat beside Mrs. Gervais’ work bench, where Mrs. Gervais was hammering a nail into the roof of one of her many unfinished birdhouses.
“Mrs. Gervais?” I said.
She looked up as she swung her hammer down on her thumb. “Ouch!” She dropped her hammer and sucked her thumb. “You shld snee uh on a psn ike at.”
Remi said, “Uh . . . sorry?”
She pulled her thumb out and examined it. “That’s okay. I wasn’t planning on hitchhiking this week. What can I do you for, boys?”
“We’re looking for spray paint,” I said. “Patrick said you’re sold out.”
She shook sawdust out of her curly brown hair. “Not sold out, exactly. I’m not carrying it any more.”
“Why?” Remi asked.
“Someone shoplifted all my cans of spray paint last week.”
I remember the first time I spotted a shoplifter in my parents’ store. A little boy tried to steal a Popsicle. He lifted his shirt and hid the Popsicle underneath, but he couldn’t stand the icy bar against his skin and put it back. Graffiti Ghoul had to have a big shirt to steal all the cans of paint.
Mrs. Gervais picked up her hammer and said, “So I’m not carrying spray paint anymore. You’ll have to go to Edmonton.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Gervais,” I said. “We’ll do that.”
As we walked away, One-Eyed Pete came down the stairs. He yawned, looking like he’d just crawled out of bed. He scratched the underside of his barbwire-tattooed arm and yelled, “Mom, we’re out of potato chips.”
“Are your legs broken?” Mrs. Gervais yelled. “Pick some up from the store.”
“You do it,” he ordered.
“What did you say?”
“I said you do it.”
Mrs. Gervais grabbed her son in a headlock and smacked a bongo beat on his scalp with her palm.
“Ow. Mom. Stop. That hurts.”
“What do you say?” Mrs. Gervais grunted, her hand poised for another smack.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry what?” Mrs. Gervais barked.
“I’m sorry, Mommy.”
“That’s better. And clean up that oil spill under your bike. And Pete, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t use my tools when you’re working on the bike. You’re a big boy now; you can use your own wrenches.”
I thought only my mom embarrassed me in public. Maybe it was every mom’s job to humiliate her son. I shuddered at the thought of what my mom would do to me when I reached One-Eyed Pete’s age.
“Do you think Graffiti Ghoul stole the paint?” Remi asked as we walked away from the storefront.
I nodded. “This is turning out to be a real crime spree.”
“Where do you think he’ll hit next?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
As we neared the town library, I noticed the bush beside the building: it was shaking.
“I think he’ll do the school next,” Remi guessed. “With all the paint he has, I bet he’s going to write a long message this time.”
There was no wind. How could the bush move like that?
“Marty, did you hear me?”
The bush shook again; it looked like something, or someone, was behind it.
“Are you listening?”
I elbowed Remi in the ribs and whispered, “Someone’s watching us.”