13 Hangmen Read Online Free PDF Page A

themselves as they exited a church. Old men argued in Italian over dominoes at tables set up on the sidewalk. In the middle of it all, a blind man played “That’s Amore” on an accordion.
    Tony decided he’d better ask somebody where the Freedom Trail went. He turned to the shop directly behind him. In the display window was a dusty jumble of furniture, vases, antique clothes, and framed maps. He glanced up at the purple-striped awning overhead: Y E O LDE C URIOSITY S HOPPE , M ILDRED P ICKLES , P ROPESS .
    A tiny bell jangled as he passed through the front door. Hegave his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the gloom. The store was crammed full of old machines and mysterious mechanical devices; Buddhas and Madonnas and Shiva-the-Destroyers; rickshaws and telescopes and red-lacquered chests with dozens of puzzlelike drawers; a gilded glass case full of crystals and geodes; carved elephant tusks and a stuffed mongoose entwined with a snake. On the right, there was an entire wall of dusty leather-bound books. On the left—
    Tony did a double take. Standing behind a counter of rough-hewn slate was a girl a couple of years older than him. She wore a long purple dress, a white apron, and a gathered cotton cap, though she also had punked-out black hair and a nose ring. Tony made his way over. Carved into the top of the counter was an odd spiral. Hanging overhead was a very old American flag.
    As for the Colonial Maid Goth Chick, she didn’t bother to look up from the book she was reading—
Astrophysics for Dummies
—until Tony cleared his throat. That was when he noticed her eyes. Not blue, and not brown. Violet. He’d never seen anyone with purple irises before. She curtly informed him the video shop was a few doors down, just past the hardware store.
    â€œI’m guessing you’re not Mildred Pickles?” Tony said. “The proprie
tress
.”
    â€œCourse not,” she said, then went back to her book.
    Tony had every intention of asking her for directions, ofcourse. But that wasn’t what came out of his mouth next. “You don’t see many of Francis Hopkinson’s quincuncial layouts these days,” he said, “outside of museums.” He was referring to the Stars and Stripes above her head.
    That caught Colonial Maid Goth Chick’s attention. “Most people think it’s a Betsy Ross,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly scratchy and low, like Peppermint Patty’s in a classic
Peanuts
cartoon.
    â€œBetsy Ross arranged the stars in a circle,” Tony said, cribbing from Michael’s lecture on flags during their last family trip to the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C. “But she was just copying someone else as a seamstress. We don’t know who
created
her circular design. All we really know for sure is that Congress adopted Hopkinson’s straight-across layout as the
official
American flag in 1777.”
    â€œDude, did you
want
something?” Colonial Maid Goth Chick said. But she was obviously impressed.
    â€œToo bad the first star in the fourth row is missing,” Tony said. “If it’s real, your flag would be worth a lot more money.”
    â€œIt’s real. But it’s not for sale,” she said. “Mildred’s great-great-great-plus-grandmother Abigail plucked the star off when she was a girl. The ninth star represented the new state of Massachusetts—though, technically speaking, Massachusetts isn’ta state, it’s a commonwealth. But no one knows why, or what she did with it.”
    â€œSo there
is
a real Mildred Pickles,” Tony said.
    â€œWho said there wasn’t?” she said.
    â€œYou got any Freedom Trail maps?” Tony said.
    â€œNope.”
    â€œCan I ask you something else?” he said.
    She rolled her eyes.
    â€œDoes Mildred Pickles make you dress like that to work here?”
    â€œI don’t work here,” she said. She didn’t