The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls by John Lekich

Just plain bad luck.
    When I was a kid, Wally Whispers used to tell me all sorts of bedtime stories that he made up. My favorite was about a big-time jewel thief named Wally, who stole a jewel called the Star of British Columbia and lived happily ever after. Whenever Wally told the story, I could tell he was dreaming of a big score. That one final job where he could retire and not have to worry about disappearing mattresses.
    Sometimes I fantasize about finding the Star of British Columbia under a new patron’s bed. But all I ever seem to find lately is the kind of exercise equipment that promises you a flatter stomach in ninety days. This is bad for both my financial situation and my professional self-esteem.
    I keep thinking that maybe it would be a good idea to have some quick extra cash in reserve. Just in case I have to vacate Evelyn’s tree house in a hurry. So I decided to stoop to what is probably the lowest form of burglary there is—commonly referred to as “yard work.”
    To most people, yard work means cutting the lawn or trimming a hedge. But to a thief it means stealing property from people’s backyards. Status-wise, yard work is at the very bottom of the burglary food chain. It requires no talent whatsoever because you don’t even have to enter the house.
    I was so desperate that I stole a couple of outdoor patio chairs from my benefactor, Chester Hickley. I took them to Lenny, that shady friend I told you about. Lenny always says that he doesn’t like to get involved in the personal lives of his regular suppliers. And yet, even though he would never admit it, I think he was actually concerned about my welfare. When it came right down to it, Lenny was not that crazy about a minor bringing him stolen goods. He was always trying to convince me that I should be in the library or playing out in the fresh air.
    When I came in with the lawn chairs, Lenny seemed genuinely glad to see me. “Hey, Henry,” he said. “Long time, no see.”
    The two of us always got along pretty good. On the other hand, Lenny was a businessman. So he agreed to keep our little arrangement a secret from Uncle Andy. As long as I brought him merchandise that he could use.
    â€œThat means no rakes, hoses or watering cans,” he said. “And none of those plastic garden gnomes either.”
    Needless to say, Lenny was not very thrilled with my offer of Chester’s lawn chairs. “Yard work, Henry?” he said, sounding as if he’d just been told that his one and only son had to register for summer school. “Is this what you call applying yourself?” Then he looked at me in a very skeptical way and asked, “How am I supposed to sell these?”
    I decided to play it cool. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Have people stopped sitting down outside all of a sudden?”
    â€œLet me explain something to you about patio furniture,” said Lenny, who stopped unwrapping his lunchtime sandwich to elaborate. “Patio furniture is like hockey or baseball cards. People like to have the complete set.”
    â€œWhat are you saying?” I asked, suddenly distracted by Lenny’s sandwich.
    â€œI’m saying that your chairs are worthless without a matching table and patio umbrella.”
    â€œBut those umbrellas are huge,” I protested. “You have to unscrew them from the base. And how do you expect me to lug a whole table down the street by myself?”
    â€œSo cut a couple of your little friends in on the action,” he said.
    â€œI can’t afford friends on what you pay me,” I said. “Besides you know I like to work alone.”
    Lenny rolled his eyes. “Excuse me,” he said. “I forgot that you’re the lone wolf of lawn-chair theft.”
    Lenny continued unwrapping a very pungent sandwich that was cut in half. “Of course, this whole discussion could be avoided if you’d just bring me a