The Odds Get Even by Natale Ghent

shoulder to make sure he hadn’t in fact been followed. Then he glanced at the clock on the wall: 11:46! Less than fifteen minutes to return the suit before Itchy’s father got home.
    “I’m in a big hurry, Mr. Martini,” he said.
    Mr. Martini stared at him expectantly.
    Boney stared back.
    “I can’t give you the item without a ticket stub,” Mr. Martini said.
    Boney fished the ticket from his pants pocket, his hands still shaking as he handed it over the counter. Mr. Martini stared at the ticket through the magnifying glass.
    “Late for your big Vegas tour?” he said as he shuffled over to the clothes rack and pressed a large black button on the wall. There was a loud clunk from somewhere in the back of the store. The dry-cleaned clothes lurched forward and began crawling slowly along the rack.
    Boney drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter as the second hand of the clock seemed to whiz around.
    The clothes continued to crawl. Mr. Martini cocked his head thoughtfully.
    “A lot of people love Elvis, but I’m more of a Johnny Cash man myself. Less glitter and fanfare.”
    At last the Elvis costume appeared. Mr. Martini pressed the black button again, stopping the racks with another loud bang from the back of the shop. He slowly pulled the costume from the rod and hung it up on a hook behind the counter, carefully checking the ticketstub to be sure it matched the ticket on the costume. When he was sure everything was in order, Mr. Martini lifted the costume from the hook and handed it carefully to Boney, who immediately stuffed it into the pillowcase, coat hanger and all.
    “That’ll be eight dollars,” Mr. Martini said.
    “But you said seven before!” Boney protested.
    “Those blood stains were difficult to remove. I had to use extra-strength chemicals. They’re more expensive.”
    Boney scowled as he crashed the entire contents of his pockets onto the counter, dimes and nickels rolling every which way. It was a good thing he hadn’t purchased hot chocolate, he thought, as he quickly counted out the correct change and handed it to Mr. Martini.
    Mr. Martini took the change and slowly counted it again, while Boney drummed his fingers more loudly than before. When at last Mr. Martini reached eight dollars, Boney snatched the rest of his coins from the counter and bolted out the door with the costume.
    Jumping on his bike, Boney zipped away, pedalling nearly as quickly as he had when escaping the ghost at the mill. By 11:58, he was ditching his bike in the bushes beside Squeak’s house and throwing rocks up at Itchy’s window, whispering hoarsely for him to come down and get the suit. When the doorwhooshed open, a horribly deranged Itchy stood on the stoop. His skin was blotchier than usual and his hair looked like a bush fire. He had a knapsack on his back, stuffed with clothes, as though he was preparing to run away.
    “It’s about time,” he moaned.
    “I’m sorry,” Boney said. “I ran into some trouble.” He produced the costume from the pillowcase.
    Itchy grabbed it and bolted up the stairs, just as his dad’s blue Mercury Cougar pulled into the driveway.
    Boney leapt over the rails of the porch so as not to be seen, and ran smack into Snuff coming around the corner from the other side. He pulled the Triple-X Turbo Blaster from the pillowcase and pointed it at the dog, cocking the lever.
    “Stay back…”
    Snuff growled, inching slowly backwards. Boney held him at bay with the gun, long enough to mount his bike and streak down the sidewalk. He skidded up to the garage in a shower of stones, jumped from the bike, and pushed through the door. Racing to the back of the garage, he parked his Schwinn, engaging the kickstand with a sharp kick of his sneaker.
    He peeked out the door, Blaster at the ready in case Snuff decided to make an appearance. When he was sure the coast was clear, Boney stepped from the garage andsilently closed the door. As he approached the house, he could see from the