Little Little

the fattest member of TADpole, was waddling to the back of the bus for her luggage, with her mother at her heels. Gus Gregory from New Jersey, who always dressed as though he was from Texas, looked like a walking mushroom under his enormous ten-gallon hat as he came off the last step of the bus. Ozzie Schwartz, the TADpole bully, came up behind Gus and pushed his hat down over his eyes, swatting shy three-foot-tall Norman Powers with his Pan Am bag; on and on.

I figured out that The Roach was staying at The Stardust Inn, since I had first seen him there in the park.

I got the number from Information.

When he answered the phone, I said, “I hated Spanish. I nearly flunked Spanish.”

“I never took it.”

“So I don’t know what your note says.”

“Hello, Little Little.”

“But thanks for the buttercups and the balloon.”

“I was just resting up and reading,” he said.

“What?” I said.

“I said I was just resting up and reading.”

“I mean what are you reading?” I said. “Take down this number and call me back? I’m at a pay phone.”

Down the street, across from the bus station, people had stopped to watch the arriving PODs and TADpoles.

13: Sydney Cinnamon

AFTER I’D FINISHED READING the book about the dwarf detective, I’d begun to read the last book on Andrea Applebaum’s list, The Obscene Bird of Night, by José Donoso.

It was this book I described to Little Little, the story of a hunchbacked dwarf, harelipped and suffering from gargoylism, born to the wealthy Jerónimo de Azcoitia. Don Jerónimo called his son Boy and isolated him in the world of La Rinconda, a plantation he populated entirely with other monsters, so Boy would never know he was different from other people.

Then I told her about my life at Mistakes, about Sara Lees—we talked so long my ear hurt from having the phone’s receiver pressed against it, and a carillon in La Belle sounded “Old McDonald.”

Little Little said, “It can’t be six o’clock!”

I was about to describe my summers at Leprechaun Village, but my appointment with Mr. Palmer and Mr. Hiroyuki was at seven, and Little Little said she was due somewhere a half an hour ago.

She gave me a number where I could reach her later.

“How much later?” I asked.

“Much later,” she said. “Midnight.”

“What about your family?”

“It’s my own private number,” she said. “My sister and I have a phone in our room.”

As soon as I’d hung up, Digger called to invite me for another dinner at his trailer, and to complain that he’d been trying to get me for hours. I thanked him anyway and he said while I’d been yakking away the whole town was being invaded by people my size.

“If you want your shell polished or you want a ride anywhere tomorrow, call us,” he said. I could hear the babies anting in the background. “We won’t be leaving until after we see Little Lion.”

In the bathroom, the tub faucet was built so high that I could shower under it, instead of turning on the overhead shower.

I wore a gray flannel suit I’d purchased in the boys’ department at Wilton Big Store, a white button-down shirt I’d bought in the same place, and a navy-blue-and-white-striped bow tie. Then I put on my size 5 shoes and took the elevator down to the lobby, in time for my dinner appointment in the Stardust Room.

“Sydney,” said Mr. Palmer, “order the sirloin steak!”

A child’s seat had already been placed at the banquette reserved for us, and I was seated in it, across the table from Mr. Hiroyuki. Although he was Japanese, he was American-educated and spoke faultless English. His son, he told me, was still struggling with the language.

“Cost is no consideration tonight, Sydney,” said Mr. Palmer. “Have the steak.”

My arms and back still ached from my stint as The Roach that afternoon, and I was not up to sawing my way through a steak. I ordered fish.

“Sydney,” Mr. Hiroyuki said after our orders arrived, “I leave it to Mr. Palmer to tell you later all about our new product, Roach Ranches.”

“Notice he said our, Sydney,” said Mr. Palmer. “Mr. Hiroyuki and I came to a very satisfactory agreement early this evening.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

“But I want to talk to you about another matter,” said Mr. Hiroyuki.

“How would you like to settle down in La Belle, Sydney?” said Mr. Palmer.

“How would you like to be a dragon as well as a roach?” Mr. Hiroyuki said.

While we ate dinner, Mr. Hiroyuki described a new venture he was undertaking: a pachinko parlor.

“You know, Sydney,” Mr. Palmer said, “a place with pinball machines in it. They’re all over Japan.”

“We need a trademark,” Mr. Hiroyuki said.

“The same way Palmer Pest has The Roach.”

“A dragon,” Mr. Hiroyuki said.

“A little dragon,” said Mr. Palmer. “How’s your fish, Sydney?”

“It’s fine,” I said.

“I think a pink dragon would be interesting,” said Mr. Hiroyuki.

“The Pink Pachinko Dragon,” Mr. Palmer said. “Would you like to be a dragon, Sydney?”

Mr. Palmer didn’t wait for my answer. He said to Mr. Hiroyuki, “This kid got pulled out of school before he graduated. He ought to go back to school. He could go to school here in La Belle.”

“A little pink dragon with smoke coming out of his nostrils,” said Mr. Hiroyuki, “and this long wiggling tail.”

“You want to go back to school, don’t you, Sydney?” said Mr. Palmer. “This kid,” he said to Mr. Hiroyuki, “reads more books in a month than I’ve read in a lifetime. Tell him how much you read, Sydney.”

“I wish my son would read,” said Mr. Hiroyuki. “Mock is too interested in television.”

“This kid reads and watches television at the same time,” said Mr. Palmer. “I tell him he doesn’t get the full benefit of either, but who am I to tell anyone that who reads more books in a month than I’ve read in a lifetime?”

“La Belle isn’t going to like our pachinko parlor at first,” said Mr. Hiroyuki. “We need to soften the blow.”

“A little pink dancing