The Everly Brothers were blaring out of loudspeakers, trying to wake up Little Susie, until someone came on and said, “All children under twelve should meet under the oak tree with the red ribbon around it.” Troo jumped up off the grass and said, “One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, now go, cat, go.”
I trailed behind her as we shoved through a crowd of older kids, one of them being Greasy Al Molinari, who was probably just there to steal some kid’s bike when they went to the bathroom.
Greasy Al pointed at Troo’s crown and torch and said, “What ya s’posed to be, O’Malley? A TV-antenna-eatin’ ice cream cone?” His beady greasy eyes stared out from beneath his clumpy black eyebrows. His mouth hung half open like it always did. “I been lookin’ for you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Troo smiled and said, “What would a spaghetti for brains like you want with me?”
The big muscles in Greasy Al’s arms twitched. He and his brothers liked to lift weights in their garage on this bench they had sitting below this picture of Ava Gardner in a leopard-skin bathing suit. “What did you just call me, you little mick?”
Troo smiled her even better smile, the one where she shows every single one of her teeth. “You heard me. Or are your ears as gimpy as your polio leg?”
Greasy Al pushed off the tree and walked up to us. “Nice bike.”
“Don’t even think about stealing this bike,” Troo snarled. “And if you ever come after my sister again, I’ll-”
The voice crackled over the loudspeaker. “Last call for the under-twelves bicycle-decorating contest. At the oak tree with the red ribbon.”
“Let me by, you dago,” Troo said, trying to push past him. Greasy Al had her front bike wheel in between his legs.
And then real fast, Greasy Al took out his switchblade knife from his back pocket and cut all the white Kleenex flowers off Troo’s handlebars with one hand and with the other ripped off her crown. He hunch-limped away laughing, smashing the shiny aluminum foil between his fingers.
“Last call for the under-twelves,” the voice said again.
If this had happened to anybody else but Troo, like me for instance, I’d be bawling my head off. But not my Real Trooper. She stared after Greasy Al, and if looks really could kill, Greasy Al woulda been deader than a doorknob.
Then out of nowhere Rasmussen showed up with a ribbon on his T-shirt that said JUDGE. No matter where we went or what we did, it seemed like Rasmussen was just around the corner.
“Morning, girls,” he said. He looked different out of his policeman’s uniform. More like some of the other men from the neighborhood. “You better get over there, Troo, the judging is about to begin.” He took out some Scotch tape from his pocket and then quickly picked up the white flowers off the ground and taped them all back on to Troo’s handlebars.
Troo pushed her bike past him and made her way over to the oak tree. She forgot to thank Rasmussen because I knew she was busy thinking about how she would find Greasy Al later and do something really hideous to him. My sister had her cruisin’ for a bruisin’ wild look on her face.
Rasmussen smiled down at me and said, “You feeling okay? Recovered from last night?” I didn’t look up, but I nodded. “Glad to hear it,” he said, and him and his clipboard moved over to a group of mothers with decorated baby buggies. Too bad Rasmussen liked to murder and molest girls because if he didn’t he probably would’ve been considered a good egg. That’s why Junie and Sara went off with him, because I also learned from those movies that when a crime was committed it was always somebody that nobody suspected. Like Jeeves, the good egg butler.
The smell of hot dogs and hamburgers and Italian sausage and bratwurst on the grills hung in the air even though it was early in the morning. After the sack races, Troo and me planned to eat so much food they’d have to take us home in a coaster wagon. Like camels, we’d be able to go a few more days without eating, and then on Thursday night Willie had invited us to have supper with him and his ma and Officer Riordan, who I thought I would tell about Rasmussen after all. If the timing was right.
Over thirty kids had entered but everybody there could tell right off that this was a two-horse race, just like it’d been last year. Troo was smiling at one of the judges, who was Mary Lane’s father. I guessed since the zoo was right next door, maybe since he wasn’t feeding Sampson, they made him come over and judge the bike-decorating contest.
Mr. Lane was looking over Artie Latour’s bike. Holy Ma gillacuddy! Artie had really gone all out. Way out! He had streamers trailing off his handlebars and baseball cards in the spokes and sitting in his basket was a giant cardboard picture of Abraham Lincoln, who looked-I’d never noticed this before-quite a lot like Nana Fazio, but much, much taller.
Mr. Lane came up to us and said, “How’s your mother feeling?” He bent down to look at the flowers that Rasmussen had taped back on Troo’s handlebars.
Putting on her absolutely best manners and her dolly voice, Troo said, “She’s doing fine, Mr. Lane. Thank you so much for asking.”
“Top-notch decorating, Troo. Top-notch.” Mr. Lane wrote something on his clipboard and moved down the line.
The loudspeaker crackled again and the man said, “Five minutes, judges. Five minutes left.”
Greasy Al Molinari was sitting on a picnic table using his switchblade to carve something into the brown wood. Troo couldn’t take her eyes off of him even after Rasmussen went over and started talking to him. I watched as Greasy Al slapped his switchblade knife into Rasmussen’s hand and limped off toward the Honey Creek, kicking Troo’s crushed-up crown along the ground.
“Before the sack race, let’s go down to the creek and cool off, okay?” Troo said, wiping the sweat off her forehead with her arm.
“Yeah, the creek sounds real good.” I knew she might lose this year because Artie’s bike was a lollapalooza and I would’ve done anything to make her feel better, even go down to the creek with her and throw stones at Greasy Al.
The loudspeaker buzzed back on. “All right, everybody, all the judging is final. If you hear your name, please go over to the judges’ table next to the picnic area to pick up your prize.”
Wendy Latour won the prize for the best-decorated wagon. When she saw me she sang, “Thally O’Malley. Hi… hi… hi,” and then threw me some of her Dinah Shore USA kisses.
Mr. Mahlberg, who was doing the announcing, told everyone that some kid I didn’t know named Billy Quigley won for best tricycle. And then he said, “The twelve and unders were tough this year. Real tough.” Oh no. Oh no. Poor Troo. “Will Artie Latour and Troo O’Malley please come to the judges’ table?”
Of course I went with, and when we got there, Mr. Lane smiled and said, “Congratulations, Troo. You and Artie tied.” I thought the judges made it into a tie like that because our mother was dying, because Artie really deserved that first place. But a tie was good. That way nobody was going to spend the rest of the day shooting daggers out of their eyes at one another. But Troo wasn’t any too happy with that tie. I could tell by her too-wide, fake smile. “Go claim your prize,” Mr. Lane said, pointing behind us.
A big Kenfield’s Five and Dime banner hung behind the prize table. Mrs. Callahan was congratulating the winners.
“Hello, girls,” she said when we came up. “Congratulations, Troo.”
Betty Callahan got up from the folding chair and put her arms around us. She had on a sleeveless white blouse, navy Bermuda shorts and gold earrings. She also had a lot of oomph in her hair that she had recently changed. “You two doin’ all right?” she asked.