The Adventures of Jack Lime

by James Leck

  “Well, a little over two months ago, I brought Carver to school for a biology experiment. I was working from the hypothesis that small mammals could relate previous learned experiences to —”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Chatty Cathy,” I said, cutting him off. “I don’t need to know about the experiment. Just give me the facts.”

  “But the experiment proved that —”

  “Just the facts,” I repeated.

  “All right, but you’re missing out on a fascinating case study. So let’s see, where was I? Right. After I finished my presentation, the lunch bell rang. I left Carver in his cage in the lab for lunch, and when I got back, he was gone. If I’d just left the camera running, I’d know who had him.”

  “You were recording your lab?”

  “I always record my projects. That way, I can watch them again and see if I made any mistakes, or if there were any variables I didn’t consider. Science is all about observation, you know.”

  Tyrone didn’t fit the part, but there was no doubt about it; I was working for the biggest pinhead in the school. And when I say biggest, I mean that in every possible way. This guy could probably carry all the other pinheads around on his back.

  “I know all about observation, Tyrone. Except in my line of work, it usually involves underwear getting ripped off or a pair of muddy shoes instead of hamsters running around in mazes. Tell me what happened after Carver disappeared.”

  “A couple days later, there was an envelope taped to my locker. Inside was a picture of Carver. There was a message on the back that said to do the French take-home test that was in the envelope or I’d never see Carver again. They told me to put the test in a black garbage bag and drop it in the trash can on the far side of the football field first thing Monday morning.”

  “The drop’s always on Monday mornings?”

  Tyrone nodded.

  “How many projects have you done?”

  “About one a week. I just don’t know why they wouldn’t pick the stuff up. The extra work is starting to kill me, and then they don’t pick the stuff up! It’s crazy!”

  “They might have,” I said, trying to calm him down. “They might have come in the middle of the night, for all we know. We’ll check the can as soon as I finish eating, but there’s got to be a better way of catching this guy than sitting outside and melting in this heat. I’ll need a description of every project you’ve had to do,” I said. “Maybe I can narrow down which classes this fakeloo artist takes based on the assignments you’ve had to do.”

  “I can tell you one thing,” Tyrone said. “Whoever it is, they’re not in any of my classes.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Besides the English essays and the French test, they’ve given me some economics assignments and an ancient history project.”

  “What do you take?”

  “Physics, pre-cal, advanced chemistry and advanced biology. There’s a small group of people who take those classes, and we pretty much follow each other around all day. Plus, the first thing I did was ask around the class. Nobody takes any of those courses this semester.”

  “That could be important,” I said. “Write up that list for me, and I’ll start pounding the pavement, knocking on doors and asking the kind of tough questions people don’t like to answer.”

  “No problem,” Tyrone said. “Now, let’s go check that can.”

  I didn’t argue with him.

  Tuesday, June 3, 8:33 a.m.

  Iona High, Mr. Kurtz’s class

  The essay was still in the garbage, right where he’d left it. I told him I couldn’t afford missing school two days in a row, so I took his list of projects and headed to my morning class. I had English first, and the essay in the can was on The Old Man and the Sea, so I decided to hit up Kurtz with a few razor-sharp questions.

  “It’s not one of mine,” Kurtz said, as students filed into the room. “And I can tell you this, Mr. Lime, it doesn’t belong to any other teacher at Iona High.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “That essay hasn’t been assigned in two years. So if your friend is planning on selling it or something, he may as well forget it. It’s worthless. Did he find it in the trash?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” I said. “It’s confidential.”

  “First of all,” he said, leaning forward in his chair and opening a big binder, “nothing is confidential when it comes to academic fraud. I’ll be making a note regarding this conversation and bringing it to the attention of administration. Second, your friend may as well throw that essay out. We don’t even have The Old Man and the Sea in the book room anymore.”

  “I don’t follow,” I said.

  “That essay was one of Brian Murdock’s assignments. Brian retired two years ago, and we cleared out all the copies of The Old Man and the Sea when he left. We needed to make room for some new books. Be thankful for that, Mr. Lime.”

  “So there’s not a single, solitary teacher in this building who would assign this essay?”

  “That’s right,” Kurtz said.

  “Why would someone want an essay that’s not worth anything?” I mumbled.

  “Bad practical joke?” Kurtz said.

  Or a mean one, I thought. That’s when I had an idea. “Got to go,” I said, and bolted out of the room.

  “Get back here, Mr. Lime!” Kurtz yelled. “You’ll be late! I’ll mark you absent!”

  The late bell rang just as I stepped out of the school. I raced across the field and tossed the lid off the can. It was empty, completely empty. Even the few cups and soggy cigarette butts that had been sitting at the bottom were gone. Someone had collected the garbage. I raced to the far side of the building where the big green dumpsters sat. Tony Leoni, the school’s custodian, was tossing bags into the dumpsters.

  “Stop!” I hollered, as I bolted across the field. “Stop!”

  “What? What? What do you want, kid?”

  “I need to look through those bags!”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “I dropped something in one of them, and I need to get it back. It’s valuable. I need to look through the bags. Please.”

  “What’s with you kids? Last week some mooyuk chucked his wallet in the garbage. He ripped the bag apart, and I had to clean up the mess. So you listen close, kid,” he started, leaning in on me. Leoni was short, sported a cheesy handlebar mustache and a comb-over that only covered part of his head. But he had Popeye forearms and a way of walking that made kids step aside in the hallways. “You want to dig through the trash, be my guest, but I’m warning you, if I see one bit of garbage floating around out here when you’re done, I’m going to come after you, and when I find you, I’m going to skin you alive. You got that?”

  “It’ll be spic and span,” I promised, crossing my heart. He started to leave, but I had one more question.

  “Do you always collect the garbage on Tuesdays?” I said to his back.

  He whirled around and leaned into me again, breathing stale coffee into my face. “You know darn well I collect on Mondays, don’t you, kid?” he hissed, poking me in the chest with a thick, pudgy finger. “Are you some kind of snitch or something? Did the principal put you up to this? Does Snit want a piece of me?” I thought Leoni might skin me alive right there. “Well you can tell Snit that I had an appointment yesterday. I don’t need a snotty kid telling me I’m a day late! I know I’m late!”

  “Just wondering,” I said, holding up my hands. “Just wondering is all.”

  Leoni glared at me, then turned and trudged back into the school. “Not one scrap!” he hollered before disappearing into the school.

  Folks, there are parts of this P.I. game that are nastier than cleaning the boys’ bathroom with a broken toothbrush. Digging around in those dumpsters was one of them. Let’s just say that when Principal Sni
t came out to find me, I was knee deep in filth, covered in sweat and I reeked like the fish burgers we had for lunch a week ago. But I had the essay.

  Tuesday, June 3, 9:32 a.m.

  A street with no name, Grandma’s House

  Snit decided I couldn’t go back to class stinking like week-old fish burgers, so he wrapped me in some old blankets and drove me home. Apparently, Snit had issues with me skipping classes to work on my investigations. My grandma seemed to have issues with that, too. So we all sat down and had a very pleasant chat over tea and crumpets to address the matter. I made nice with Snit, and they decided that a suspension was out of order, but I had to promise to keep my nose clean. Snit said his good-byes, and I hopped in the shower.

  I’ll spare you the intimate details of the conversation I had with my grandma after Snit left (if being yelled at counts as a conversation), but let’s just say I was in serious trouble. Surprisingly, she wasn’t excited about me finding Tyrone’s essay, and she wasn’t interested in listening to reason. But I could understand where she was coming from. Grandma had been enjoying her golden years when little old me arrived on the scene, looking for trouble. I apologized and promised to stay on the straight and narrow. Then I kissed my grandma good-bye and headed back to Iona High. I needed to see Tyrone, and fast.

  Tuesday, June 3, 12:31 p.m.

  Iona High, The Cafeteria

  Tyrone was about as hard to find in the cafeteria as a wolf at a sheep convention. Except in this case, he was the sheep, and somewhere in the crowd there was a wolf who was ready to bite the head off little old Carver if I didn’t watch my step. Tyrone was sitting at the back with two empty trays of food in front of him and a physics textbook jammed under his nose. I tossed the essay onto the table.

  He grimaced at the stink before he realized what it was. “What are you doing!” he cried. “If that’s not in the can, Carver’s a goner!”

  “Relax,” I said, sitting down. “I haven’t figured it all out yet, but I think we’re dealing with a fakeloo artist who’s just blowing a lot of hot air.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I talked to my English teacher today. We don’t even have a copy of The Old Man and the Sea at Iona High. The teacher who used to torture his students with this particular essay retired two years ago. Plus, Leoni collects the garbage on Mondays. I don’t think your hamster- napper ever intended on making off with this essay or any of your work. It all just got collected with the trash.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said and pounded the table with his hands. The two trays jumped six inches and landed with a crash. The cafeteria got quiet, and quick. I think they were expecting Tyrone to rip my head off.

  “Nothing to see here,” I said, turning to face the room full of slack-jawed gawkers. “There’s nothing to see here, kids.” For the time being, everyone went back to their business.

  “Why would someone get me to write an essay that was never assigned and that they’d never pick up?” Tyrone hissed.

  “That’s why I’m here. I need to pick your brain. Who would get a kick out of you doing a whole bunch of projects? Why would someone do that to you?”

  “Well,” Tyrone started, “it’s kept me pretty busy. I mean, it’s kept me up late, and I don’t have much time for my own homework. It’s made my grades slip a little.”

  “That’s a start,” I said. “What kind of grades do you get?”

  “Perfect grades.”

  “What do you mean, perfect?”

  “Perfect. One hundred percent.”

  “You always get one hundred percent? On everything?”

  “I used to, until Carver disappeared. The extra work has hurt me. I think I’ve got a ninety-eight average now.”

  “A ninety-eight average? And you take pre-cal, physics, chemistry and biology?”

  “Advanced chemistry and biology. Unfortunately, there’s no advanced physics here.”

  “Jeesh, I guess I thought those kinds of grades were reserved for fairy tales.”

  “No fairy tale,” Tyrone said. “I need those grades so I can win the Luxemcorp Prize. If I don’t win that, I’m not going to university.”

  FYI — When Luxemcorp was done creating this little slice of suburban heaven called Iona, they needed to convince city slickers to move into their gated metropolis. So they threw in the kinds of perks that only a gazillion- dollar multinational conglomerate is able to offer; things like free Segways, golf course memberships, a high-speed train to zip them into the city, a sprinkling of classy boutiques and a smattering of hip restaurants. Plus, one gigantic scholarship for the top high school graduate. In honor of themselves, they called it the Luxemcorp Prize.

  “How much is that worth?” I asked.

  “Thirty-five grand each year you’re in university,” he said, and then slammed his hand down on the table, sending the trays flying again. “That’s it!” he yelled. “They’re after the scholarship! They want me to lose!” The cafeteria was dead quiet again. All eyes were on us.

  “Tyrone,” I said, “why don’t we walk and talk.” We’d already drawn too much attention to ourselves. “If the person who has Carver knows we’re on to him,” I whispered on our way out, “Carver’s life might be in danger.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t figure this out earlier!” Tyrone said once we were in the hall. He hit his forehead with an open hand. If he’d hit me like that, my head would have cracked open like an egg. “It’s got to be someone going after the scholarship.”

  “There can’t be too many on that list,” I said. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “I don’t know … not really. I mean, I thought they were my friends.”

  “There’s got to be someone who’s close to your grades who might want to take you out of the running.”

  “I never thought about someone doing that.”

  “Think,” I said. “Who’s your main competition?”

  “Well, there are only two people who are really close to me,” he said. “Walter Hampton and Polly Chew; they’ve both got averages in the high nineties.”

  “Then we just have to track them down and figure out if one of them has Carver. It’s a start.”

  “How are we going to do that?” Tyrone asked. “Like you said, if they know we’re on to them, they might kill Carver.”

  “Do you have that picture of Carver they sent you?”

  He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to me. I scanned the photo, looking for some kind of clue. Then it hit me. It was right in front of us, in black and white.

  “Look at the paper,” I said.

  “What?” he asked. “What am I looking for?”

  “The bum who’s pulling this con job takes these snapshots of Carver so you know he’s alive the day he took the picture. The date’s right there, at the top of the page. But there’s something else at the top of the page,” I said, pointing at the paper.

  “The Daily Telegraph,” he said.

  “That’s right,” I said. “We just need to stake out Hampton and Chew and find out which one gets The Daily Telegraph.”

  “You’re brilliant,” Tyrone said, patting me on the back so hard I thought he might have knocked a tooth loose.

  “I’ll take Hampton. You take Chew,” I said. “I figure the paper will get there around seven, so we should be in place by six-thirty, just to be on the safe side.”

  “There’s a bit of a problem with that plan, Jack,” Tyrone said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t get here until eight in the morning.”

  “What do you mean, ‘get here’?”

  “I don’t live here,” he said. “I live in the city. My dad works at Sam the Butcher’s on Main. We come in on the train every morning at eight.”

  “Huh? Really? I guess I thought everyone who went to Iona High lived here.
”

  “Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “There are a few of us who come in from the city. My dad heard about the Luxemcorp Prize at work, so he took me out of my school in the city and registered me for classes here so I’d have a shot at winning the scholarship.”

  “That’s why I’ve never seen you around before.”

  “This is my first year here.”

  “And that’s probably why you’ve got someone upset enough that they’re willing to kill Carver. They probably figured they had the scholarship wrapped up until Mr. Perfect-Grades-from-the-City showed up and spoiled their plans.”

  “Probably,” he said, nodding.

  “Now things are starting to make sense. Look, I’ve got some favors I can call in. I’ll line up someone to stake out Chew, and I’ll watch Hampton. I’ll let you know how it turns out tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks, Jack,” Tyrone said, and we went our separate ways.

  Wednesday, June 4, 7:02 a.m.

  34 Kuiper Belt Crescent, The Hampton Place

  There I was, squatting behind the neighbor’s fence, waiting for the Hamptons to get their paper. This line of work isn’t all glitz and glamor, that’s for sure. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s dreary, dirty and dull. It’s about rooting around in dumpsters and eating a stale granola bar you found in your pocket for breakfast instead of your grandma’s buttermilk pancakes because you’re waiting for the morning paper to show up, and the kicker is, you’re not going to get to read it. But when the action happens, all that waiting pays off — big time. The newsie had just turned the corner on his bike, tossing papers onto lawns as he went, and he was heading my way.

  I hunkered down and waited for him to pass by, then I scurried across the street to see what the Hamptons liked to read with their morning coffee. Bingo! It was The Daily Telegraph. I was just about to drop the paper back onto their step when the front door flew open, and two people rushed out.

  “Thanks, kid,” the first one said, grabbing the paper out of my hand. He was tall, thin as a rail, with wispy gray hair that poked out from under a black fedora, and had a nose that was as long and sharp as a hatchet. I figured that was Mr. Hampton. “Hurry up,” he said. “We’re going to be late for the train again.” Behind him, pulling on a long black trench coat, was a younger man with the same build and the same hatchet nose, but he had black hair instead of gray.