CHAPTER 16
arlier that evening, Miss Sour Pickle, wearing her favorite ballroom gown, had entertained the dreaded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts. She had invited him to a candlelit dinner in her apartment. Setting an enormous rib roast of beef on a platter before him, and a bucket of baked potatoes alongside, she called out, “Bon appétit,” and waited to be served.
Mr. I.M. Greedyguts sliced off a sliver of beef, not much thicker than a Kleenex tissue, flung it at her, and then lifted the roast off the platter and began to dig in, growling with pleasure. Between bites, even as hot fat dribbled down his chins, he allowed, “You may now call me Isadore or Monty or both, for those are my given names.”
Miss Sour Pickle, thrilled by the privilege she had just been granted, replied, “And my name is Natasha.”
Working his way through the rib roast in no time, gnawing every last morsel on the bones, Mr. I.M. Greedyguts wiped his greasy mouth on Miss Sour Pickle’s best white linen tablecloth, blew his nose into his linen napkin, and barked, “That was delish. Absolutely fab. Now be a good girl and bring on the main course, will you, Nat?”
“But I’m afraid that was the main course, Monty.”
“No kidding,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, frowning.
“Would you care for some cheese? Or some chocolate mints, perhaps?”
“Both. Right now.”
Mr. I.M. Greedyguts left just after midnight, enabling him to get to his favorite late-night delicatessen before it closed, so that he could relieve his hunger pangs. Miss Sour Pickle, now that she was alone, could indulge in her secret passion: ice hockey.
She had taped that evening’s game, Montreal Canadiens vs. the Boston Bruins, but before slipping the tape into her vcr, she hurried into her bedroom and, as was her habit on such occasions, got into her Montreal Canadiens uniform, including a helmet, laced on her skates, fetched her hockey stick out of a closet, fished a six-pack of beer out of the fridge, and then settled into an easy chair in front of her TV set. No sooner did her beloved Canadiens skate out onto the ice than she hollered, “GO, HABS, GO! GO HABS, GO!”
The first period was scrambly, not to her taste, but early in the second period there was some exciting action at last. Patrice Brisebois, a Canadiens defenseman, speared Raymond Bourque of Boston. “ATTA BOY,” shouted Miss Sour Pickle, banging her hockey stick against the floor. “TEACH HIM A LESSON, PAT!”
The two players dropped their gloves and began to slug it out. Leaping out of her chair, waving her stick at the TV set, an enthralled Miss Sour Pickle yelled, “SMASH HIM, PAT. PULVERIZE HIM! KNOCK HIS TEETH OUT!”
Which is exactly when three policemen knocked down her door and spilled into her living room, the first one tumbling head over heels, the second tripping and sent sprawling by the third. All three of them were brandishing revolvers.
A terrified Miss Sour Pickle began to scream.
“Don’t worry, lady,” said the first policeman, retreating a step.
“You’re safe now,” said the second, the hand that held his revolver shaking.
“J-j-just tell us w-w-where the r-r-r-robbers are,” said the third.
“What robbers?” asked Miss Sour Pickle, cowering in a corner.
“I hope they’re not too big,” said the first policeman.
“Or rough,” said the second.
“Or tough,” said the third.
“I don’t understand,” said Miss Sour Pickle.
“I’m Law,” said the first policeman.
“I’m Order,” said the second.
“And I,” said the third, “am the Officer-in-Charge. Go to it, men!”
Law, muttering a prayer to himself, entered the bedroom. “Nobody in there,” he said, emerging, and collapsing onto a chair.
Order tiptoed into the kitchen. “Or in here,” he said, coming out again.
“In that case,” said the Officer-in-Charge, “I think I’ll sit down.”
“This is an outrage!” protested Miss Sour Pickle. “I demand to know what’s going on here!”
“We are responding,” said Law.
“– to an emergency call,” said Order.
“– that reported an armed robbery in progress in your apartment,” said the Officer-in-Charge.
“Well, I certainly made no such call,” said Miss Sour Pickle.
Wearily the Officer-in-Charge flipped open his notebook and read aloud: “‘This is Jacob Two-Two speaking,’ said the caller twice. ‘I wish to report an armed robbery in progress at the home of my beloved geography teacher, Miss Sour Pickle. Her address is 3427 Bile Street. You may have to break down her door, but never mind. So long as you hurry. Hurry, please!’”
“He said that, did he?” asked Miss Sour Pickle.
“Yes,” said Law.
“He did,” said Order.
“Why, that Jacob Two-Two,” said Miss Sour Pickle, “just wait until I get my hands on him.”
“Hey, that’s some outfit you’ve got on,” said the Officer-in-Charge.
“And it isn’t,” said Law.
“– even,” said Order.
“– Hallowe’en,” said the Officer-in-Charge.
“The fact is,” said Miss Sour Pickle, “I have just returned from a costume party. And you have been misled. There are no robbers here. Now I will thank you to replace my door as best you can before you leave. Good night, gentlemen.”
“Good,” said Law.
“– night,” said Order.
“– Ma’am,” said the Officer-in-Charge.