Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  No, I told myself. He wouldn’t have risked being seen.

  But…what if the Sandman had taken a picture?

  Like I’d wanted to do with Rex Randolf?

  What if the Sandman had shown the picture to the Jackal and now the Jackal was lurking outside, waiting for Grams to come out of Mrs. Wedgewood’s apartment so he could find out where she lived?

  It didn’t feel too likely, but still. Picture or no picture, he now knew Grams’ name. He could just look up “Keyes” on the mailboxes and know which apartment was hers!

  And if he’d heard the phone ringing when he’d called from the Wedgie’s apartment, and he knew that Grams lived in the apartment next door, and he figured out that Grams had been down to Monte Carlo night with Mrs. Wedgewood, then the obvious question was, Who had answered, “Domino’s Pizza”?

  Plus, he had to have figured out by now that Rose Wedgewood was not someone who would be on the fire escape or someone who could run for help in an emergency.

  So what was his next step?

  Break into our apartment so he could search for the money there?

  The money had to be what he was after.

  Right?

  The more I tried to figure it out, the more panicked I felt. All of this was heading in a very bad direction.

  And then, right when Grams gave me the coast-is-clear nod, that sneaky little master of disguise finally pulled off its mask, and there I was, face to face with the same mistake I’d made over and over again.

  I’d kept the truth from Grams.

  Scratch that.

  I’d lied to Grams.

  But still I told myself that this was different. This was…fixable. There had to be some way to smooth things out, to fix things and keep the cash.

  I pulled Grams back into the Wedgie’s apartment and whispered, “What if that Rex Randolf guy is waiting out there?”

  “No one’s out there,” Grams said. “I just checked.”

  “But…what if he’s hiding somewhere?”

  She cocked her head. “Why would he be doing that?”

  I shrugged. “I just get a creepy vibe from him.”

  She studied me a minute. “Why?”

  “It’s…it’s…it’s the way he acts. There’s something…not right about him.”

  She studied me some more, and then rather than just saying, Oh, pshaw! and dragging me home, she patted my forearm and said, “You wait right here.”

  So while Mrs. Wedgewood complained to Mr. Garnucci about the building being infested with mice, Grams walked up and down the hallway, checking for sneaky creaky old guys. And when she finally returned and said, “There’s no one,” well, I sure wasn’t going to hang out with the World’s Biggest Wedgie for the rest of the day. I took a deep breath and followed Grams home.

  I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder, though.

  I did it three times.

  It sure felt like someone was watching.

  Watching and waiting for the right time to pounce.

  EIGHTEEN

  There was no doubt in my mind—Rex Randolf would be back. And when he showed his sneaky little face again, I wanted to be ready. So after I finally took a shower, I told Grams I was going over to see Holly, then escaped the apartment and went to the mall.

  I was really backsliding, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

  I did not want to give up the money.

  I didn’t mind spending it, though. I mean, what else was I going to do with it?

  Save up for college?

  Please.

  I’m thirteen!

  And since having the money in the apartment made me feel nervous—like somehow I might be putting Grams in danger—I went to the mall and started doling out dough.

  The first thing I bought was a new pair of jeans. They were the kind Marissa swears by, with a little bit of stretch in the denim. They looked old, so I knew Grams wouldn’t notice, and the minute I tried a squat in them, I was sold.

  Com-fy!

  I also bought a sweatshirt ’cause the zipper on my old one is about toast and the sleeves are way too short.

  Then I went back to that art store and found out that the photograph I thought Hudson would like was five hundred and fifty bucks! Plus tax! I almost fell over, but after thinking about it for a while, I bought it anyway.

  Hudson Graham really is the coolest old guy ever.

  When I mentioned that it was a present, they wrapped it for free and threw in a gift card. So I filled out the card in really swirly handwriting:

  For Hudson—

  Thank you for making this world a better place.

  Your Secret Admirer

  I checked it over and couldn’t help smiling.

  This was fun!

  After that I bought some other random stuff. Like a pretzel and a corn dog and a strawberry-orange Juicers and a couple of See’s candies.

  I was having a blast!

  But the main thing I bought was a digital camera. It took me forever, too. I checked out all the display models and finally chose a supercompact one that could zoom way in. It was smaller than a deck of cards and could fit in my pocket easy. The owner’s manual was three times as big as the camera!

  The camera needed to be charged, and I needed to figure out how to work it, so I parked myself in a sort of secluded corner of the food court near a power outlet, plugged in the camera, and started reading the manual.

  It was already after six when it finally hit me that maybe I should be getting home. I packed everything up quick, threw out the box and wrappers, and then realized I still had Hudson’s gift to deliver.

  So I found a pay phone, called Grams, and said, “Hey. Thought I’d check in. I’m over at the mall.”

  “Oh!” There was a little pause and then, “Well, thank you! I was wondering. Holly called here looking for you.”

  Uh-oh. I took a deep breath and forced a laugh. “Yeah. You know me. Little Miss Sidetrack.”

  She laughed. “Casey also called.”

  “Really?” I said with embarrassing enthusiasm.

  “He said he’d try back later.” Then I could practically see her scowl. “And Rose called right before you did.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’ve been summoned to attend to her royal highney.”

  I busted up. “Grams!”

  She hrmphed, then said, “Excuse me, but I’ve seen a little too much of that woman’s backside lately.”

  “So…is she…stuck?”

  “No. That Rex fella is stopping by.”

  “Oh?” I took it down a notch and tried to act casual. “When?”

  “He’s coming over at seven-thirty.” She gave a little snort and whispered, “Heaven only knows what he sees in her.” Then real matter-of-factly she says, “He’s quite a handsome man. Very dapper. I wonder if he’s new to the building. I certainly would remember if I’d seen him before.”

  Well, that sent all my quills flying. “Don’t even say that, Grams. He’s a smooth-talking snake!”

  She tisked. “Oh, Samantha.”

  “Grams! Promise me you won’t let him into the apartment if he decides to ‘swing by.’”

  “Why would he swing by? He doesn’t even know where I live.”

  My brain was screaming, Maybe he does! but I couldn’t say it. I didn’t even want to think it. “Look. Just don’t let him in, okay?”

  But now what? I had to come up with a plan. A plan to get Rex-the-Jackal-Randolf digitized so I could find out who he really was. For that, I needed to buy myself some time. So I said, “I won’t be home for…probably another hour, okay?”

  “Are you with Marissa?”

  “No…but I might go see her. She was in a real frump earlier.”

  “About her family again? Say! You never finished telling me about Hudson offering to help out with Mikey.”

  “I’ll, uh, I’ll catch you up when I’m home, okay? Or hey! You know what? You should give Hudson a call and ask him about it—it’s quite a story. And h
e’d probably really like to hear from you. Did you know Rommel died?”

  “No!”

  “So call him.”

  There was a short pause and then, “Okay. I will. And thank you for calling, sweetheart. I really do appreciate it.”

  So I got off the phone and went straight over to Hudson’s to deliver the present. I was hoping that Grams had just picked up the phone and called him right away, because Hudson is almost always hanging out on his porch and I sure didn’t want to be spotted leaving the present. The whole fun was in him not knowing who the present was from. Plus, if he knew it was from me, there was no way he would accept it.

  He knows I can’t afford five-hundred-and-fifty-dollar photographs!

  Luckily, he was not on the porch. But I still wanted to be careful, so I practically crawled up to his front door, then eeeeeased the package between the screen door and the door frame, and scurried back to the street.

  My heart was totally pounding by the time I was in the clear. I don’t know why I was so excited about leaving the present, but I really, really was.

  I tried to put it out of my mind, though. I had to figure out how in the world I was going to get a picture of the Jackal without him seeing me. The Senior Highrise hallways aren’t very wide, and they don’t have a lot of, you know, architectural features. There are some dusty plastic plants in big plastic pots, but not many, and no pillars or, you know, fanciness.

  It crossed my mind that there were trash chutes, but I nixed that right away. I mean, who would hide in a trash chute? It’s a chute. A big metal shaft for garbage. And even though they’re plugged up half the time, if you climb in one, you’re gonna gain a whole new definition of Dumpster diving.

  It’d actually be more like dumbster diving.

  Anyway, I’m walking along, racking my brain for how I’m going to conceal myself so I can take a picture, when it hits me—I’m going about this all wrong!

  I don’t have to hide someplace.

  I just have to hide my age.

  How do you hide in a building full of old people?

  Be old!

  I skidded to a halt and did a quick U-turn. I knew the perfect place to pick up an old-guy disguise—or actually, an old-lady disguise—but I didn’t have my skateboard, and I didn’t have much time.

  So I raced over to the SMAT bus pickup area and checked the schedule that was posted by the benches where people were waiting, and almost right away the bus I needed drove up.

  I got on board, paid the fare, and sat down, thinking that I should have gotten an old-lady disguise ages ago. Cruising around the Senior Highrise would be fun!

  When we got to the Stowell Center shops, I got off the bus and hurried over to CeCe’s Thrift Store. I love CeCe’s—it’s got the best funky old stuff you’ve ever seen—it’s just CeCe herself that kinda scares me. She’s a bag lady turned entrepreneur, and she’s tough.

  Sharp.

  And let’s just say she and I have had a couple of little, uh, clashes.

  But if you’re going to CeCe’s Thrift Store, you’re gonna have to deal with CeCe. She’s always there. So I took a deep breath and went inside, and the instant she spotted me, she said, “Up here with that backpack.”

  She’s got signs all over the place telling you to check backpacks and “big bags and purses” and that shoplifters will be “thrown in jail.”

  I knew this going in, and really, in all the times I’ve been to CeCe’s with my backpack, I’ve never had a problem with her stealing stuff out of it. And since the money was on the bottom under all the other stuff I’d bought at the mall, and since the camera was inside a pouch that was inside another pouch, I just tried to act like I didn’t give a hoot as I passed her my pack.

  She put it down behind the counter and said, “It’s been a while.”

  I hesitated ’cause it almost sounded like she missed me. “Yeah,” I said, then went about my business. I didn’t have time to chitchat with a thrift store shark! I had to put a disguise together.

  And I had to do it quick.

  NINETEEN

  On my way back to the Highrise, I swung by Thrifty. I needed an Ace bandage, and I needed some makeup.

  Some old-lady makeup.

  I’m not talking about the kind old ladies use to cover up their pale, spotty skin and dark circles. No, I needed something that would give me pale, spotty skin and dark circles!

  Now, both Billy Pratt and Casey were in plays for drama class last year, and Billy, especially, isn’t afraid to paint his face up weird. He can actually make himself look old or all bruised up or just ghoulish with a simple pencil. I’ve watched him do this shading thing that’s really kind of amazing.

  So I bought a pencil.

  And a sharpener.

  And some pale pancake makeup.

  And an ugly orange lipstick.

  Maybe once you’re old, you don’t see colors right anymore, I don’t know. But you’re definitely old when you start thinking bright orange or gag-me pink lipstick looks good. You’re also old when you forget how to color inside the lip line. Old ladies go way over the top line. Or they go lopsided. Or usually, they do both.

  Anyway, I also bought some clip-on earrings and a mirror, and by the time I got back to the Senior Highrise, it was after seven o’clock and I was not even ready to go inside the building. I still looked like a teenager! And it wasn’t like there was a phone booth nearby where I could jump inside and magically transform into Old Lady Superspy. I had to do this piece by piece, in a secluded little area next to the trash chute Dumpster.

  I sat on the ground, set up my mirror, and got to work covering up my tan with the pale makeup. Then I shaded on bags under my eyes, and spots, and penciled on lines like I’d seen Billy do. I sort of smoothed them over with some more makeup, and then did the same thing to my hands.

  That chewed up about fifteen minutes.

  Then I went to town with the orange lipstick. I just pictured the way our old neighbor Mrs. Graybill used to put on her lips, and when I was done, I looked ridiculous!

  Just like Mrs. Graybill used to.

  Next I clipped on the earrings, took off my high-tops, stripped out of my jeans, and shoved the flat, worn-out pillow that I’d gotten at CeCe’s under my T-shirt, wrapping it on around my stomach with the Ace bandage.

  Instant tummy bulge!

  Then I pulled a big flowery dress over my head, layered a sweater over it, and put on some cloudy beige knee-high hose and a pair of thick, rubbery shoes that were a little too small and an amazingly ugly tan. I took off my ball cap and my softball wristwatch, redid my ponytail up higher, pulled on a gray wig, perched little spectacles on my nose, and checked myself out in the mirror.

  It was kinda scary! And if you didn’t look too close, pretty convincing.

  And since most people in the building had bad eyesight, I told myself that if I kept my distance and acted old, I might really be able to pull this off.

  “Hello, dearie!” I said to myself. “Eh? What was that?”

  I checked my watch. It was already seven-thirty!

  I turned the camera on, shut off the flash feature, and put it inside a pea green handbag, then stuffed all my regular clothes in my backpack and stashed the backpack behind some bushes.

  Old Lady Superspy was ready to rock!

  Or at least snap a few pictures.

  I thought about going in the front door but decided that it was too risky. If Mr. Garnucci was at his desk, he’d call hello like he always does, then want to know who I’d come to visit and all of that.

  Besides, I was running late. The Jackal was probably already at Mrs. Wedgewood’s. So I charged up the fire escape, checking the fourth-floor door on the way.

  Still locked.

  Once I got up to the fifth-floor landing and saw that the coast was clear, I hurried down to Mrs. Wedgewood’s and put my ear up to her door. I held my breath and listened hard.

  I could hear voices!

  So I took a deep breath, hun
ched a little, and reminded myself to be, you know, creaky. Then I rang the bell.

  “Who is it?” Mrs. Wedgewood sang out.

  “Mabel Florentine!” I said in a quivery voice. “I’m here to see Rose Wedgewood. Mr. Garnucci sent me to document a mouse problem.”

  She called, “Come in!” like she almost always does because, well, getting to the door herself can take a while.

  So I stepped inside, and there was the Jackal, sitting in the living room with a cup of coffee and a plate of cookies, dressed exactly the same as before.

  “Excuse the intrusion,” I said, using my best granny vocabulary. “Mr. Garnucci sent me up. He said you were upset about a mouse. If there are still mice, we certainly want to know!”

  “Oh, there are mice!” the Wedge crowed. “And Vince had better get rid of them!”

  I nodded and took the camera out of the purse. “Mr. Garnucci says we need to build a case so we can get the exterminator back. Where exactly did you see the mouse?”

  “Back there!” Mrs. Wedgewood says, motioning toward the bathroom. “But he could be anywhere. And I don’t see how you’ll ever get a picture of him!”

  Now, Rex-the-Faker-Randolf seems to be looking at everything but me—the coffee, the cookies, the armrest—it’s like he’s afraid I’m going to recognize him or something.

  “Oh,” I say, “this is for solid evidence.” I hold it up to my eye and move it around like I have no idea what I’m doing. “Like droppings….” I look down at my feet. “Or mouse holes….” I look over at Rexy-baby and click, then look up at the ceiling and back down at my feet. “This fan-dangled thing is so hard to see through! I think I’ll just take a quick look-see around and get out of your hair.”

  Now, the Senior Highrise is definitely not a deluxe building. The trash chute’s usually plugged, the plumbing backs up, we’ve got mice and, of course, a Nightie-Napper. And in an ordinary building, sending an old lady to take pictures of mouse droppings would be crazy.