Something about that made me feel very uneasy.
I closed the door tight, then jetted up to my bubble-gummed jamb and zipped down to our apartment. “That was fast,” Grams said. She had her nose back in her checkbook, but she glanced up and whispered, “It’s a good thing you were gone, because Rose called demanding you come over, and I could honestly say that you were not here.”
“What did she want this time?”
“Something about you being her witness.”
“Her witness? To what?”
“I have no idea.” She sighed and slapped closed her checkbook. “And I have no idea what happened to that hundred and twenty dollars. I just cannot seem to find my mistake!”
“You think I should go over?”
“At this hour? No! She has become far too demanding!” She wobbled her head a little. “Whatever new emergency she’s having can just wait.”
I went to bed feeling very clouded. Like all the marbles in my head were separated from each other with little pieces of cotton. I didn’t feel the sharp clicking of clear thoughts—just the quiet thudding of all the things that had happened since I’d run into Buck on the fire escape.
Maybe I was just tired.
Or maybe I didn’t really want to make the connections.
Sure, I’d been snooping around, trying to piece things together, but maybe I was slipping the cotton between the marbles on purpose.
Maybe, for once in my life, I didn’t really want to figure things out.
That night I had a weird dream about the money. At the beginning of the dream the money was safe and sound, stashed in my backpack. I could see it down there, bound and beautiful. But when I reached in to pull it out, it disintegrated into a weird, gritty green sand that ran right between my fingers. The next stack of money did the same thing, and so did the third, and all I could find in my backpack was sand.
Cold, gritty green sand.
I tried to shove the sand back together, tried to pat it into money again, but it kept falling apart. It was just…gone.
The first thing I did in the morning was dive into my backpack.
No green sand.
Just cold hard cash!
But in the back of my mind I was worried—there was obviously something underhanded or sneaky or…I don’t know…illegal about this money. Why was Buck sneaking around with so much cash on him? And why had he begged me to get rid of it?
After brooding about it for a while, I decided that I could (a) go to the cops or (b) figure it out myself.
But really, why would I do either?
Why would I risk giving up the money?
So if I didn’t want to go to the cops or figure things out myself, I could (a) hide the money forever and hope that Sandman and the Jackal didn’t track me down or (b)…spend it!
All of it!
And quick!
That way if Sandman and the Jackal did figure things out, they still couldn’t prove it. There’d be no evidence!
The more I thought about it, the more I liked the spend-it option.
I liked it a lot!
I’d already burned through some of the money, but now I felt like I could really spend it! I mean, why would I do stuff like borrow Vera’s camera when I could buy one of my own?
I could get my own cell phone!
My own…anything!
The first thing I did, though, was count out a hundred and twenty dollars and slip it into the secret-stash section of Grams’ purse. She thinks she’s so sly when she goes to the bank and hides cash there. I think she puts it there in case she gets robbed. That way she’ll be able to give up her wallet but not lose all her money. Not that some robber wouldn’t take her whole purse, but I think it makes Grams feel safer somehow.
Anyway, then when she was in the bathroom, I stashed a couple of bills in the back of her underwear drawer and jabbed another sixty bucks inside a pocket of her favorite coat.
When I heard the toilet flush, I zipped back to the couch and pretended like I was still asleep. I was really bubbling with excitement, though—leaving presents around for Grams was fun!
I waited until after she’d made her morning cup of tea to do a pretend stumble to the bathroom. “Morning,” I mumbled.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” she said, and when I came back out, she was at the kitchen table, poring over her checkbook and bank statement again.
“Can’t you just ask the bank?” I asked, plopping down across from her.
“It’s my mistake,” she grumbled. “It’s my job to figure it out.” Then she looked up and said, “Did your mother call last night while I was tied up with Rose?”
I shook my head, thinking that if she had, she got a busy signal.
“Unbelievable,” she grumbled.
I snorted. “What’s unbelievable about it? Her character’s comatose, remember?”
Grams blinked at me through her glasses. “What does that have to do with anything?”
I shrugged and laughed. “I don’t know!”
Grams shook her head. “Where did she go? One does not come all the way from Hollywood to be scared off by a little mouse!”
“One does if one is Lady Lana.”
“So you really think she’s gone back home?”
I nodded. “Yup.”
Grams shook her head some more, and I swear there was steam coming out of her ears. “Why did she even bother to visit?”
I shrugged and laughed again. “Her character’s comatose?”
Grams rolled her eyes and got back to her checkbook. “How about making some oatmeal?”
“I’m on it,” I said, standing up.
I don’t know what it is about the way Grams makes oatmeal, but hers always turns out better than mine. I think it’s patience. I can never seem to put in enough of that ingredient. I just crank up the heat and go. And I don’t mean for just the twenty-minute, good-for-your-cholesterol multigrain oatmeal that we have almost every day. I can’t even really handle the instant kind. Either it’s runny or pasty or I accidentally boil it over in the microwave because I’m in a hurry.
But whatever. I was in charge, so I did the best I could, then added brown sugar, maple syrup, almonds, and dried cranberries.
Enough of that and even my oatmeal tastes great.
Anyway, I sat down to eat and was just starting to be scolded by Grams for pouring on so much syrup when the phone rang.
“There she is,” I said, nodding at the phone.
“Hrmph!” Grams said, in the way only my grams can. “She can just stay comatose.”
I laughed. But as the phone continued to ring, I finally asked, “You’re really not going to get it?”
“Why would I?” She wagged her spoon in the general direction of the ringing phone. “You go ahead if you want.”
I eyed her. “That can be dangerous, you know.”
“Hrmph!”
“Fine.” I scooted away from the table. “I’ll just pretend I’m you.” So I went over, picked up the phone, and in my most granny-like voice said, “Hello, dearie?”
Grams shot me a look, and I was just about to crack up when a voice said, “Is Samantha there?”
It was not my mother.
It was a deep voice.
A male voice.
I felt a flush of panic as I remembered the Jackal pressing star-69.
I warbled, “Nobody here by that name, dearie.”
“Uh, is this 922-8846?”
As the numbers tumbled over the line, the voice sounded more normal, and I realized who it was. “Casey?” I whispered.
“Sammy?” he whispered back.
“Why’d you call me Samantha?”
“Why’d you say you weren’t there?”
Now, Casey hadn’t had my phone number very long, so it wasn’t like I was used to him calling. And the fact that he was calling, and so early, was kinda weird. But before I could say anything, he said, “Sorry. I guess I should have said who I was, huh?”
I lau
ghed. “Would have helped.”
He laughed, too. “You do a pretty good old-granny imitation.”
I eyed Grams. “My grandmother does not agree.” Then I said, “So what’s up?”
“My dad banished me to my mom’s for a few days. I’ve gotta get out of here.”
“No kidding,” I laughed, picturing him having to live with Heather and their sharp-clawed mother. “Why’d he do that?”
“He had to go out of town, and he had some sudden revelation that I needed to be closer to my mother and sister.” He snorted. “This is definitely not doing it.” Then he added, “What are you up to today?”
“Throwing the softball around with Marissa and Holly.”
“Hey, how about I call Billy and maybe Danny? Boys against girls?”
“Really?”
“Sure!”
So I told him where and when we were meeting, and by the time I was off the phone I’d forgotten all about Mrs. Wedgewood and the Jackal and Sandman and having scared Mr. Buck Ritter from Omaha, Nebraska, to death.
I was going to play softball with my friends.
It’d be what summers were supposed to be—fun!
Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones who showed up at the park.
FIFTEEN
Softball’s a year-round sport in Santa Martina. Everyone plays. There’s even a seniors league, which is for anyone over sixty. I’ve never actually watched a seniors league game, but I hear the women’s division is intense. Bunch of old-geezer gals spittin’ and squawkin’ at each other, hobbling around trying to make the play.
Go, Granny, go!
Anyway, Marissa and I arrived at the ballpark at almost the exact same time. She was beaming as she swung off her bike. “Guess what?”
“Uh…” I looked around. “Does it have to do with Mikey?”
“He’s at Hudson’s Boot Camp!”
“Seriously?” I asked, picking up my skateboard.
“I can’t believe Hudson actually wants him there. The guy’s crazy…but I’m FREE!” She leaned her bike against the dugout and twirled around. “I’m FREEEEEE!”
“Did your parents send him to Hudson’s because he broke the Kraval?”
“That and a hundred million other things. Which I don’t even want to talk about. I want to pitch!”
She took her glove off the handlebars, and as we headed into the dugout, I said, “Well, guess what?”
“What?”
“Holly’s coming, and Casey called this morning. He’s gonna meet us here, too.”
“Really?”
I shrugged and acted all casual-like. “Yeah. And he’s gonna see about bringing some friends.”
She grabbed me by the arm. “Danny?”
I grinned. “Uh-huh. And Billy.”
“This is, like, the best day ever! Come on! Let’s warm up!”
So I parked my board and backpack in the dugout, got my catcher’s mitt, and took my position behind home plate.
Holly arrived next, and then Casey showed up with Billy and Danny, and before you knew it phones were getting passed around and more people got invited. Dot and her brothers came, and Brandon appeared and summoned a posse of girls—something that’s apparently easy to do when you’re a high school swim star. Pretty soon Marissa’s idea of throwing me a few pitches had become a full-on game of girls against guys, with innings and outs and base steals and dust.
Big glorious clouds of dust.
It was a blast, too. Especially with Billy “Class Clown” Pratt playing. He runs bases like he’s doing an obstacle course, high-stepping through imaginary tires or ducking under invisible limbo bars or zigzagging around nonexistent cones. He’s just a maniac!
And usually, an easy out.
Anyway, we’d been playing for over two hours and the girls were wiping the guys 9–2. And I’m squatting behind home plate, getting ready for Marissa’s next pitch, when out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of something red moving on the sidelines. So after the ball smacks into my mitt, I glance over, and what do I see creeping into the dugout?
The Fire Ant of Summertime Fun.
The Wicked Wasp of the West.
The stinging, fighting, sneaking, biting, one and only Heather Acosta.
Now, I’ve learned that the best way of dealing with that nasty redhead is to ignore her. And since she was wearing gold flip-flops and blinding white supertight hot pants, she was not exactly dressed to play. So if she was just going to stand around and watch, what did I care?
But as she disappeared into the dugout, I remembered—my backpack was in there.
And in my backpack was money.
Lots and lots of money!
Now, you may think I’m being paranoid, but Heather has a history of stealing my stuff, and I was not about to let it happen again. So I called, “Time out!” and headed for the dugout.
“Forget her!” Marissa called.
I shook my head.
“Come on,” Marissa said, stamping her foot. “Who cares?”
I hurried over anyway, and out of the shadowy coolness of the dugout came, “Wassa matter, loser? Afraid I’m gonna steal all your money?”
Now, okay. Heather was making fun of me because she knows I have no money. Look up “perennially broke” in the dictionary and there’ll be a picture of me. But her saying that sent a jolt through me ’cause yes, that’s exactly what I was worried about.
I tried to act all cool and nonchalant as I swept through the dugout, grabbed my backpack, and said, “No, I just don’t want you planting stuff that’ll get me in trouble,” ’cause she’s been known to do that, too.
But when I reappeared from the dugout, Brandon was abandoning the steal he’d made to second base, saying, “It’s one o’clock already? I’ve gotta go! I’m going to be late for work!” He pointed around the field as he back-pedaled away. “Don’t forget! Pool party at my house tomorrow! Starts at noon! Everyone’s invited!”
He hadn’t even completely left the diamond when the posse of girls he’d summoned suddenly had places they needed to be.
Then Billy shouted, “I need food!” and Dot’s brothers said, “Yeah, we’re done, too,” and since the DeVrieses live clear out in Sisquane, Dot had to go with them. Then Holly said, “I need to get home, too. I’ve got to be at the Humane Society at two,” and that was it—the game fell apart as fast as it had been put together.
And maybe Casey and Danny and Marissa and I could have gone out for burgers or something, but Heather had emerged from the dugout and was fire-anting around. “Mom wants you home,” she said to Casey, but she said it all saccharine sweet, with a so-sorry-to-break-it-to-you shrug. “Something about you leaving a disaster where her kitchen used to be?”
Then she batted her lashes at Danny. “You’re welcome to come over, too. I made fresh-squeezed lemonade…?”
Without so much as a glance at Marissa, Danny said, “Sounds great!”
Heather didn’t invite us, of course, and Casey was obviously embarrassed about the whole situation. So Marissa eased back and started collecting her stuff, and I followed because I knew she was fighting back tears. And when I glanced over my shoulder, Casey gave me the I’ll-call-you signal as he headed out, so I nodded and waved and tried to act like everything was cool.
I sat in the shade of the dugout with Marissa until she was all cried out. I didn’t bother to tell her that Danny Urbanski was a weasel and totally not worth it—she already knew that’s what I thought. Instead, in an effort to get her to see the bright side of her life, I said, “So what do you suppose Hudson’s got Mikey doing?”
She finished drying her eyes and snorted. “I’ll bet he’s already run away!”
“Run?” I laughed. “I doubt it.” Then I grinned at her. “So you wanna go spy?”
She took a deep breath, held it a minute, then grabbed her stuff and said, “Sure,” which sorta surprised me. But as she marched up the dugout steps, she grumbled, “And when we’re through there, there’s som
eone else we’re gonna spy on.”
That got my eyes popping. “You’re not thinking…?” I chased after her. “You’re not serious, right?”
She grabbed her bike and turned it around. “Oh yes I am!”
“This is a bad idea,” I muttered. “This is a very bad idea!”
Spying on Mikey was strange because I was also spying on Hudson, which did not feel right at all. They were outside, painting Hudson’s back fence. Mikey had a pail. Hudson had a pail. They were both just brushing away, and I could tell Hudson was talking, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.
It wasn’t a lecture, though. It was a story. I could tell from the way Mikey was stroking paint that he was listening. Really listening. And every once in a while, Hudson would reach over and help Mikey stroke out some paint that was put on too thick, then get back to painting his own board and back to the story.
Hudson tells the best stories, and I was kinda itching to grab a brush and help so I could hear, but obviously Marissa wasn’t. “Doesn’t seem like boot camp to me,” she grumbled.
“He’s painting a fence,” I whispered.
“They’re in the shade. He’s obviously not suffering.”
“But that’s Mikey. Painting a fence!”
“Whatever. Let’s go.”
Now, I knew she meant, Let’s go to Heather’s, but I really did think it was a bad idea. Plus, I couldn’t help worrying that if we got caught, people would think I’d been spying on Casey. So as we walked along, I tried to talk her out of it. Finally she spun on me and said, “How many times have you dragged me someplace I haven’t wanted to go? How many spying operations have I done with you? This is the least you can do for me!”
It was so true.
But I still didn’t want to go.
“Fine!” she finally said. “I’ll go by myself!”
Well, I couldn’t let her do that, so I said, “Look. Can we at least leave all our stuff at Hudson’s?”
She stopped, thought, then turned around. “It would be kind of hard to spy with all this, huh?”
So we parked her bike and my skateboard and her softball stuff by Hudson’s side gate, but I left my backpack on, acting like it wasn’t even there. No way I was leaving nearly three thousand dollars by the side of the gate!
Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash Page 9
