by James Leck
FYI — My condition makes me fall asleep at the worst times. I can’t help it. The doctors say it’s neurological, which means there’s something wrong with my brain. The shrinks say it’s all in my head, but not in my brain. The shrinks say it’s because I haven’t come to terms with my parents dying. I say I’ve come to terms with it all right — as much as a kid can come to terms with a thing like that — but I still can’t help falling asleep. They tell me to meditate, to exercise, to try and stay relaxed. But when you just got your butt kicked and you’re jumping over a fence trying to catch the prime suspect in a robbery investigation, it’s hard to stay relaxed. So my condition kicked in, and I fell asleep.
I dreamed I was lying on the bottom of the river. A purple grizzly bear rode up to me on a bicycle. He rang a bell on the handlebars, but it didn’t make any noise. Instead, a school of little fish, with sharp little teeth, came out of the bell and attacked me like piranha on the prowl. I tried to fight them off. I tried to bat them away, but I was tired, so tired. And that’s when the bear got off the bike, waddled over and sat on my face.
I woke up gasping for air, but all I got was a mouthful of fur — cat fur, to be exact. A fat orange and white cat had decided to take a nap on my face while I was passed out. I swatted it away, sat up and checked my watch. Ten minutes had passed. Missy was long gone. I plucked cat hair out of my mouth and decided to head back to the Kutchers’.
Friday, May 23, 5:35 p.m.
14 Mercury Lane, The Kutcher Place
Standing on the Kutcher front stoop, I replayed what Missy had said. A bike had been snatched; there was no doubt about that. I didn’t know where she was going with the whole “I tried to bring it back, but the stupid kid had a new one” spiel, but I had a hunch it was a smoke screen to keep her out of trouble. One thing I was pretty sure about — if the Riverside Boys had a hot bike, they’d be bringing it to the Flea Market tonight.
“Oh my God, Jack!” Sandra gasped, opening the door and breaking my train of thought. “What happened to your face?”
“Huh?” I said. I leaned to the side and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window beside the door. I was covered in tiny scratches. The killer fish in my dream suddenly made sense; that cat must have been playing with my handsome mug before he decided to use my face as a bed. “Oh that. It’s nothing,” I said. The last thing I needed was for word to get out that the local P.I. fell asleep when the going got tough. “You got a minute?”
“Well, we’re just starting supper,” Sandra said, peering back into the house. “You can come in, but it’ll have to be quick.” She had changed out of her skirt and was wearing a pair of old gray sweatpants. It didn’t matter; she was still out of this world.
“Is Ronny around?” I asked, slipping into the foyer. Somewhere in the house forks and knives tapped against plates.
“Just a sec,” she said, gliding up the stairs and disappearing into a side room.
When she returned, she had a wet cloth and Ronny. He was still in his Oreo outfit (minus the dress shoes), which was made even more priceless by the white napkin tucked into his shirt collar.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the cloth and wiping my face. “I’ve got some news about the bike.”
“You found it,” Sandra chirped, rising up on her toes and clapping her hands. This was very cute stuff.
“Not exactly,” I said. “But I did find out that Bucky King and his merry band of hooligans are probably unloading a bike tonight at the Flea Market.”
“What does that mean?” Sandra asked.
“It means that yours truly will be crashing the Riverside Boys’ party tonight, and I’ll find out if it’s Ronny’s bike.”
“Won’t that be dangerous?” Sandra asked.
“Yes, it will,” I said, not mincing words. “It’s going to be incredibly dangerous, but you’re my client, and I’m willing to take that chance.”
Sandra took my hand and looked deep into my eyes. “Be careful, Jack.” We were having one of those moments between two people where the world stops and a classic love song kicks in, and you just melt into each other like two hot sticks of butter.
“Yeah, be careful!” Ronny boomed from the stairs, totally interrupting our romantic interlude.
“Find his bike, Jack,” Sandra said, squeezing my hand, and then she went up the stairs and gave her brother a hug. “Don’t worry, Ronny. Jack will get your bike back.”
I let myself out.
Friday, May 23, 6:28 p.m.
A street with no name, Grandma’s House
I had a plan. I was going to stake out the Flea Market, go undercover and infiltrate the Riverside Boys. This would be cloak-and-dagger stuff, and like any good snooper, I had a stash of top-secret paraphernalia that would get me into places that I wasn’t supposed to get into. So I headed home to get my disguise together, check in with Grandma and grab a bite to eat.
Grandma was sitting in her rocking chair, knitting something red and watching Jeopardy when I slunk in through the front door.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, sitting on the couch. “I got caught up in a case.” I made sure I had my black eye turned away from her. Grandma wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, but she was as sharp as a tack. On top of that, she was a big lady. Not fat, just big. She was tall, with thick arms and wide shoulders. But what stood out the most were her hands; they were large and calloused from working in the garden (which was really more like a farm). In short, she wasn’t someone you wanted to fuss with.
“What is the Ganges River,” she said. On TV, a short man wearing a bow tie answered “the Nile” and got it wrong.
“People today don’t know their geography,” she said, shaking her head. “Now what were you saying, Jack?”
“Sorry I’m late,” I said again.
“Off solving some great mystery, I suppose?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it great,” I said. “Just trying to find some kid’s bike.”
“Oh, they’re all great mysteries, Jack. Even the small ones,” she said without looking at me. “What is the Colorado River.” This time the man with the bow tie agreed with my grandma and he got five hundred dollars richer.
“Anyway,” I said, standing up and keeping my black eye out of sight, “I’ll just grab something quick for dinner. I’ve still got a few loose ends to tie up tonight.”
“There’s meatloaf, potatoes and carrots on a plate in the oven, and a lemon meringue pie in the fridge.”
“Thanks, Grandma,” I said, moving toward the kitchen.
“Oh, and Jack,” she called, without taking her eyes off the TV, “what’s wrong with your eye?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, and kept walking.
“Halt!” she barked when I had one foot in the kitchen. She grabbed the remote control and pressed “Mute”; that’s when I knew she was serious about having this conversation. I stopped and turned around.
“It’s nothing, Grandma,” I said. “I missed a fly ball in gym class.”
“And all the scratches?”
“Looking for a foul ball in the woods behind the school,” I said with a shrug.
Grandma frowned. We both knew this was a load of horse manure. She could smell it on me, but she couldn’t prove it. Not that lying to my grandma was something I took pride in, but I’d heard plenty of stories about her rebellious younger years. I got the sense that she’d only be disappointed if I crumbled mid-bluff, so I held my ground under the gaze of her shrewd blue eyes.
“Gym class,” she grunted.
“Gym class,” I nodded.
“Curfew,” she barked, “is ten o’clock sharp. You got that, young man?”
“I got it, Grandma,” I said. Then the sound came back on the TV, and I slipped into the kitchen before she decided to call my gym teacher and check my alibi.
After I wolfed down
some chow, I headed upstairs and got into character. I put on my disguise, which consisted of a blond wig, an old Cubs baseball cap and a black Nike hoodie. I managed to transform myself from the tall, dark and handsome Jack Lime you all know and love to my scruffy alter ego for the evening, Roger Daltry. I topped off my new look with a pair of glasses that I’d found up in the attic. They were a little retro (in a Buddy Holly kind of way), and the prescription made things kind of blurry, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. Plus, I hoped they’d cover up my black eye a little, just in case Missy had let her brother know what I looked like. Now I was ready to get down to some serious business.
Friday, May 23, 8:57 p.m.
Riverside Park, The Flea Market
Riverside Park is a green belt that runs along the Iona River. The planners at Luxemcorp must’ve thought it would be just terrific for business if the fine citizens of Iona could sit on their patios, leisurely sipping cappuccinos, gazing across the river at the peaceful sway of the trees and listening to the gentle flow of the water. I hated to rain on their parade, but it wasn’t all sunshine and lollipops on the other side of those trees, because every Friday night at nine, the Riverside Boys were getting ready to do some crooked business at a little something called the Flea Market.
I hunkered down behind some bushes with a good view of the trash-infested clearing the Riverside Boys used for their illicit business venture. The sun was just about to set, but here in the trees, it was already getting dark. The air was thick, and thanks to all the rain we’d been getting, it reeked of dampness. Farther down the river, ordinary people joked about the ordinary things they did in their ordinary lives. Here, at the far end of the park, an assortment of Iona’s shadiest kids were setting up shop, ready to sell their wares to anyone with enough dough to grease their dirty little paws.
I took off my retro glasses and tucked them into my pocket so I could actually see the seedy activities that were just heating up as kids started to trickle into the clearing. They stumbled over rocks and slogged through the thick, black mud that lined the river just to find a cheap deal. These were kids who got good grades, kids who never got into trouble, all handing over their allowances to buy things that’d probably been stolen out of their best friend’s locker. I saw Joey McQueen buying some poor sap’s PSP. Lily Jones laid down cash for a pink cell phone. Billy Patterson got himself a new MP3 player. I didn’t spot a bike in the mix, but I couldn’t be sure there wasn’t one being kept out of sight for the big rollers. I had to get a closer look, but I couldn’t just march out of the trees like a guy busting in on his sister’s pajama party. I had to be subtle about things.
I made my way back up to the main asphalt path that wound its way through the park and spotted the narrow trail that led to the market. I started down the path and went over the cover story I’d made for Roger. He was an out-of-town kid who’d heard the Flea Market was the place to be if you were looking for something cheap. His little brother was sick, so he wanted to get him something real nice for his tenth birthday. He was hoping to pick up a bike, maybe something with a banana seat and streamers. Everything was hunky-dory until I was ambushed halfway down the path.
“Freeze, buster! I got you covered!” someone shouted.
I whipped off the glasses and spun around, looking to see where the voice was coming from.
“I said freeze, bozo!”
“I’m just heading down to do a little shopping,” I said. Was this some kind of security checkpoint the Riverside Boys had cooked up so they wouldn’t be taken by surprise?
“State your name, soldier,” the voice demanded. I thought I caught a glimpse of movement off to my right.
“Roger Daltry,” I said. “I’m just looking for a bike for my kid brother.”
“Just an innocent shopping trip, eh, Roger? Well, let me tell you something, the plan just changed.”
Now I was sure the voice was coming from my right. I thought I could see a figure in the trees, and unless my eyes were playing tricks on me, that somebody was wearing an army helmet and his face was covered in green paint. The rest of his body was concealed behind a bush. I considered jumping into action, but didn’t want to blow my shot at finding the bike if Sergeant Wingnut actually was a watchdog for Bucky’s gang.
“Now listen carefully, soldier,” he said. “You’re going to march down that path and ask about a pair of night vision goggles. If they have them, you ask how much, and when they tell you, you act like you forgot your money. Then march back up here. Don’t bother looking for me, just keep walking. I’ll find you. And don’t try to bail on me, bug-bait, because I’ll be watching your every move. You got that?”
This wasn’t a lookout from the Riverside Boys. This was a lone wolf cooking up some hare-brained scheme that would probably get me killed if I went along with it. I considered my options and decided to play along. I wanted to avoid any loud and messy confrontations.
“All right, boss,” I said, in my best Nervous-Nellie voice. “I’ll do what you want, just don’t hurt me.”
“Smart choice, soldier,” he said. I could see him smiling beneath all that green paint. “Now hop to it!”
I left Private Nutso squatting in the woods and turned my attention back to the case. I had more important (and sane) things to do, so I straightened my wig, pulled down my hat and put on the glasses. It was showtime.
The path led me straight down to the clearing I’d been watching from the trees. I spotted three goons standing at the edge of the river and decided to see if they had the dope on this crooked operation.
“What’s up, what’s up, what’s up, fellas?” I said, getting into character.
“What’s up,” the tallest one said. He had a sneer permanently frozen on his face. “You got any beer?”
“Afraid not, my man,” I said. “I’m driving.”
“So what?” Sneer said, and all three of them snickered like hyenas.
“You’re not from Iona, are you?” another one of them asked. I recognized him from my geography class. He wasn’t hard to ID because he had a head as big as a hot air balloon. But from what I’d seen in class, there wasn’t much filling up all that space.
“No, I’m from out of town, but word is this is the place to go if you want a sweet deal on some high-end merchandise.”
“So, how’d you get in?” Sneer asked.
FYI — Iona is a gated community, or an “insulated living environment,” as the bigwigs at Luxemcorp like to say. There’s an iron gate across the only road into town, and you need a security code to get it open. If you don’t have the code, you have to get past the Luxemcorp guards who are posted in a little white house just inside the gate. Sneer was clearly testing my alibi, but I passed “Going Undercover 101” a long time ago, and these were silly kids’ games.
“I parked on the highway,” I said.
“Then you walked?” the third one asked. His name was Derek Sanders. Everyone calls him Heavy because he tips the scales at close to three hundred pounds, but couldn’t be more than five foot eight. Heavy is also blessed with hair as red as a carrot, which makes him about as hard to spot as fireworks on the Fourth of July.
“That’s right, chief,” I said. “I needed the exercise.”
“Whatever,” Big Head grunted. “What are you looking for?”
“A bike,” I said. “Something cheap, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I think I know what you mean,” Heavy said, and winked at his compadres. Then he turned and disappeared into the trees.
When Heavy came back, he was wheeling a slick yellow and black mountain bike. It had heavy-duty wheels, shocks and lots of gears. This was not Ronny’s bike. But at that particular moment, it wasn’t the bike I was concerned about. It was the beast emerging from the trees behind the bike that got my attention. Sneer, Big Head and Heavy were intimidating in their own bungling kind of way, but this guy was
tall and pumped up. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt, worn-out jeans and work boots that weren’t laced up. He had one cigarette behind his right ear and another dangling between his lips as if it had been forgotten. This was Bucky King, in the flesh.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” Heavy asked, stopping the bike in front of me. Bucky stood a few feet away and lit up his cigarette.
“Ah, actually, I was looking for something smaller,” I said, trying to play it cool, “maybe with a few streamers, a banana seat and a little bell.” I had to be careful; I didn’t want to blow my cover.
“You’re serious?” Sneer asked from off to the side. Big Head had disappeared.
“Yeah,” I said, “it’s for my little brother, Tommy. He’s got a thing for streamers, banana seats and little bells.”
“You must think I’m stupid,” Bucky cut in, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air. “I don’t suppose your little brother’s last name is Lime? Tommy Lime? Is that his name?” he asked, stepping over to me and poking me hard in the chest with a massive finger. “’Cause I’m one hundred percent certain that you’re Jack Lime. My sister told me you might be stupid enough to come down here tonight.”
“You got me, Bucky,” I said, holding up my hands. “You’re a heck of a lot smarter than you look.”
“Not really,” Bucky said, completely missing my clever insult. “Because everything you’ve tried to pull tonight is so lame a retarded chicken could see through it.”
“You’re a long way from politically correct, my friend,” I said.
“And you’re a long way from Kansas, Dorothy.” The small crowd that had gathered around us had a nice laugh at the expense of yours truly.
“Do you have the bike?” I asked, ignoring the fact that I was in no position to be asking questions.
Bucky smiled, started to turn away, then spun around and slammed his fist into my gut like a runaway locomotive. The wind blew out of me like a deflating balloon. I tried to crumple, but Big Head grabbed me from behind and held me up. “That’s for my sister,” Bucky said, and took a long drag from his cigarette. “I don’t know what frigging bike you’re looking for Lime, but you mess with me and you’re going to pay.”
