by Bruce Hale
“Nuh-uh,” said the squirrel. “I’m Flaming Spud-sucker, he’s—”
“I don’t care!” Brick hissed. “You. Frog. Run a zigzag on the left.”
Queenie pouted. “But who gets the ball?” she asked.
Brick stabbed a finger at me. “Him.”
“What?” said the frog.
“What?” said the squirrel.
“What?” said Queenie.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
Brick grinned. “Nope. They won’t expect it—that’s why it’ll work. Team, ready . . .”
“Break!” everyone shouted, clapping their hands. They ran into position.
I crouched beside Brick, shaking my head. “You’re bonkers,” I whispered.
“No duh,” he muttered. “Just run with it.”
I wondered if it was too late to switch to the golf team.
On cue, the center hiked the ball. Brick faked, then handed off to me.
His spikes stabbed my palm. Yowch! I flinched. The ball fell from my hands and bounced crazily.
Huge Petsadena players tore through our line like sharks through a seafood buffet. Stagger-stepping after the ball, I drew a bead and—zzthwip!—snagged it with my tongue.
The chase was on!
Tongue wrapped around the ball, I sprinted for the sidelines. Forget about preserving yardage—I just wanted to preserve life and limb.
Ducking and weaving, I evaded a badger and a wombat. I was only three steps from the line, when—bam! A marmot blindsided me.
Amazingly, I hung onto the ball. We sailed over the Petsadena bench, hit the track, and rolled—bibbidy-fibbidy-bibbidy-whomp!—until something hard stopped me.
All was spinning darkness.
I heard faint music, a heavenly choir.
Was I dead?
My jaw was wrapped around something big. Hmm. Unless they serve football-sized bugs in heaven, I was still alive. I carefully unfolded my body and unwrapped my tongue from the ball.
“Thanks,” it seemed to say. “Kinda sticky.”
“Don’ men . . . shun it.” I pushed my helmet off my eyes. Stars danced all around. The world throbbed to the beat of my heart.
Strange, furry shapes dangled above me. Was this a bat cave? The football didn’t think so.
From the corner of an eye, I recognized the football field and some referees. The other direction, I saw lots of feet. My momentum had carried me up against the Petsadena stands.
That meant the furry shapes above must be the six mascots.
I sat up, bonking my head on a dummy. “Ouch!” it said in a muffled voice.
Pretty fancy, I thought, even better than my sister’s Little Wetsy doll. The football agreed with me.
Then the referees arrived, along with Jim Schortz. They helped me stand and walked me across the field. They even took the football, who didn’t seem to mind.
“Bye, foo’ball,” I said, waving.
I felt just swell . . . like a terminal case of measles.
“Way to go, Gecko,” said Brick as I limped past. “You gained two yards.”
“An’ I losth five teeth,” I joked back, trying to make my tongue work.
Natalie and Shirley Chameleon were waiting by the bench, worried eyes big as soup bowls. As we drew near, Jim Schortz asked, “You okay, dude?”
“Thsure, I’m great,” I said. “My tongueth’s thstretched, my body acheths, and now I hear footballs and mathscoths talking to me.”
The assistant coach chuckled. “Mascots talking?” he repeated. “Riiight.”
“What do you mean?” asked Natalie. She reached out to help me sit.
I told them how the dummy had spoken when I bumped it.
“No fair,” said Shirley. “They’ve got better mascots than us.”
Jim said, “Whoa, that’s weird,” then mouthed something to Natalie that looked like Humor him. “Listen,” he said, “I gotta go help Buford suit up. He’s taking your place.”
Jim Schortz hustled off. After making sure I would recover, Shirley rejoined the cheerleaders, leaving me alone with Natalie.
My partner paced along the bench. “You know what’s funny?” she said.
“That Coach ever believed I could play football?” I asked.
“Besides that,” she said. “Why would Petsadena spend all that money on talking dolls? I mean, they’re just going to throw the things around . . .”
My head started to clear. “And who could hear them over the orchestra and the cheerleaders, anyway?”
We fell silent.
Natalie looked at the field, where Buford had just joined the team. He took a handoff and ran for thirty yards before the other side tackled him. The Gophers cheered and pounded Buford on the back.
“Look at those poor dummies,” I said. “They still think they can—”
“That’s it!” she said. “They’re not dummies!”
I shook my head. “Natalie, I know you take this cheerleader thing seriously. But you gotta face it: Most of my teammates aren’t the brightest.”
“Not your teammates,” she said. “They are dummies. But I was talking about those dummies.”
She pointed at the gopher mascots hanging from the Petsadena bleachers.
My eyes went wide. “You mean . . .”
“Partner, you found the missing players.”
22
Gopher the Gusto
“Of course,” I said. “Six mascots, six missing players. They probably knocked our guys out . . .”
Natalie nodded. “Then they stuffed them into gopher costumes and strung ’em up.” She flapped her wings. “We’ve got to save them.”
I looked past her. “We will. But first we drop the dime on the culprit.”
Full of new energy, I limped over to Coach Stroganoff. “Coach, we found the missing guys,” I said, pointing at the gopher dummies across the field.
The groundhog followed my gaze. His furry brow puckered in concern.
“Quite a hit you took there, Bottomchucker,” he said. “Sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, Coach,” I fibbed. “And the name’s Gecko—Chet Gecko. I have a confession to make. Don’t be surprised . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’m not really a football player.”
He nodded. “I’m not surprised.”
“I’m a private eye,” I said. “Going undercover was the only way to solve this case. And now I’ve found both the kidnappees, and . . .” I pointed at Buford.
“The kidnapper,” said Natalie and I together.
“Buford?” asked the coach.
“The same,” I said.
We watched as the kidnapper in question caught a short pass and streaked down the field. Each time a would-be tackier approached, the skunk raised his tail and they backed off. In short order, he strutted across the goal line.
“Touchdown!” shouted Natalie. I caught her eye. “I mean, er, bad kidnapping football player!”
Beef Stroganoff clapped his massive paws. “Way to go, Skunk!” He turned back. “You just made a serious accusation. Got any proof?”
“Well, he’s tight with this Petsadena football mom . . .” I looked around, noticing Jim Schortz talking to someone near the bleachers. “And he can help us prove it. Jim!” I called.
He and the Petsadena polecat looked our way.
“Hey!” said Natalie. “It’s that football mom. What’s she doing with Jim?”
The handsome chuckwalla flashed a quick grin and casually moved one paw behind his back. But not before I spotted a paper sack in it.
“And what’s in that bag?” I asked.
“Good question,” said Coach Stroganoff. He crooked a “Come here” finger at his assistant.
Jim shrugged his shoulders as the polecat edged away. The coach, Natalie, and I started slowly walking toward Jim. Just as slowly, he eased backward along the track.
We picked up the pace. So did Jim.
“What’s happening?” asked Natalie.
<
br /> “It’s Private Eye Rule Number Twenty-seven, in action,” I said.
“Which is?” asked Coach Stroganoff, breaking into a trot.
“If they run away, they’re probably guilty,” I said, trying to keep up. “Jim’s in cahoots with Buford!”
This wasn’t going to work. In my battered state, I couldn’t run fast enough. Time for another play.
“Go get ’em, Coach!” I said. “Natalie, let’s do an end-around pattern.”
She frowned at me. “What’s that?”
“Where you pick up my end and fly around to cut off Jim.”
“What do you think I am, a passenger pigeon?” Natalie groused, but she flapped high enough so I could grab her legs, then took off.
Coach ran full tilt after Jim, who pounded down the track toward the exit. Natalie flew to intercept the speeding chuckwalla. Beneath us, football players looked up, confused.
“Ref, can they do that?” asked a Petsadena player.
Natalie panted with the effort of keeping us both airborne. “First thing . . . next week . . . you’re dieting,” she said.
“Aw, you’re just sore because your boyfriend turned out to be a bad guy.”
“He’s not . . . my boyfriend!” she gasped.
We cleared the field. Jim had almost reached the gate.
“Go, Natalie!”
“Can’t . . . hold you!”
In the space of a heartbeat, Natalie’s wings gave out. We plummeted right into the chuckwalla’s path.
“Yaah!” someone cried. (It might’ve been me.)
Ga-blonk!
Jim Schortz tripped over a tangle of private eyes and sprawled headlong. His paper bag fell beside me.
Coach Stroganoff caught up and stood over Jim with paws on his hips. Natalie groaned and rolled over.
I opened the sack and upended it. Paper money tumbled onto the ground in a green blizzard.
“What’s that?” said Natalie.
I looked over at the fallen chuckwalla. “That,” I said, “is a pronoun, used to indicate something, like that guy’s in big trouble.”
23
For Love and Cake
Coach Stroganoff refused to let me confront Buford the skunk until the game ended. Crime is serious. But, after all, it’s not as serious as football.
He did send a referee to release the missing players from the gopher costumes. Six groggy guys tumbled out.
“Proof enough for you?” I asked the coach.
“We’ll see,” he said.
We stood guard on a bummed-out Jim Schortz and watched as Buford and his deadly tail led Emerson Hicky to victory. At last, my cheering teammates carried him on their shoulders (carefully) over to where we waited.
“Great game, Furious Barcalounger!” shouted Coach Stroganoff, patting the skunk on his back.
“Furious Barcalounger?” I asked.
Coach beamed. “I figured out his nickname while we were waiting.”
Buford waved to someone in the growing crowd behind me. “See, Mom?” he said. “I did it!”
Somehow, this accusing-the-culprit part wasn’t starting quite the way I’d planned. I jumped in.
“Nice game, Buford,” I said, “for a crook.”
“What?” he asked.
“You conspired with Petsadena and Jim Schortz to kidnap those players.”
My teammates muttered, confused. Coach watched with arms folded.
Buford bared his teeth. “Are ya nuts, or just jealous?” he said. “I didn’t kidnap nobody.”
“Don’t lie,” said Natalie. “We saw you after practice, talking to that lady polecat from Petsadena.”
“But—” said Buford.
“She made stomachache pills in the pharmacy,” I said, “and gave them to you. Then she paid off Jim Schortz to help, didn’t she?”
The skunk looked from me to Natalie to the assistant coach. “Paid off . . . ?”
Jim looked away.
I hefted the money sack. “And here’s the evidence, you crook.”
Coach Stroganoff raised a thick eyebrow. “Well?” he asked. “What do you have to say?”
Buford’s eyes searched the crowd. At last they locked on someone.
“Mom?” he said.
I followed his stare. There stood the Petsadena football mom—a black polecat looking guiltier than a kindergartner in a cookie jar.
“That’s your mom?” asked Natalie.
“I’m adopted,” said the skunk. “Mom, how could ya do it?”
She blushed. At least, I think she blushed. It’s hard to tell on a polecat.
“Sweetheart, I just wanted you to play,” said Buford’s mother.
Buford sighed, exasperated. “Mo-om. I told ya, I can do it myself!”
Once the football mom confessed, the rest was easy. A mopey Jim Schortz admitted his part. With help from the polecat, he’d doctored several sticks of team gum with a chemical that made you sick and woozy.
“Of course!” I said. “Then you pretended you were taking the sick guys home, but you really brought them here.”
“The Petsadena football moms kept them safe in the toolshed and put knockout drops in their chocolate milk every day,” said the polecat. She seemed almost proud. “They were glad to help.”
I frowned at Jim. “So you sold out your team, kidnapped students, and disguised them as mascots—all so Buford could play?”
“It was the moms’ idea to dress up the dudes like gophers,” said the chuckwalla. He hung his head. “But the rest . . . yeah, I did it.”
Natalie asked, “But why?”
Jim Schortz fingered his silk shirt. “Costs a lot to look this good.”
“And your little scheme is going to cost you a lot more,” said Coach Stroganoff. He grabbed Jim’s arm in one paw and the polecat’s in the other. “Let’s go.”
Before he could leave, Marge Supial parted the crowd. “Oh, Beefie,” she said. “You’re so forceful.”
The big groundhog leaned close to her. “Not now, Smootchie-Poo,” he muttered. “Beefie’s busy.”
Her face fell.
“But he won’t be tonight,” whispered Coach Stroganoff with a wink.
Nurse Supial brightened and kissed him on the cheek. Yuck, more mushy stuff.
As Beefie and his charges started off, up staggered my long-lost client, a slightly woozy Herman the Gila Monster. “Um, Coach?” he said.
Beef Stroganoff squared his mighty jaw. “Herman, I owe you an apology. Get back on the team, mister.” He dragged the culprits away to face their punishment.
I walked up to Herman. “And you owe me my fee,” I said.
Herman frowned sleepily. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” said Natalie. “Fair’s fair. You hired us, we solved the case.”
The big lug thought about that. We waited. And waited. And waited. At last, he nodded. “Fair’s fair, Gecko,” he said. “Tomorrow, three cakes for you.” The brute turned to go.
“Uh, Herman?” I said. “I think you mean six cakes—one for every player.”
He turned back, wearing an expression that put the ugh! in ugly. “Three cakes, and I no break you in half for getting Herman kidnapped.”
“Three cakes it is,” I said, and shook his meaty paw. Ah, the negotiation game.
Herman trundled off to join his girlfriend, a dainty kangaroo rat. I knew that after tomorrow, we’d be back to bully and prey. But for now, Herman was another satisfied client.
“Three cakes,” said Natalie, grinning.
“Three cakes,” I agreed.
That was enough so that Natalie and I could have our cake and eat it, too. Then have some more cake and eat it, too.
(I never really understood what that saying is supposed to mean, but as long as there’s cake, who cares?)
1
Fire Drilled
When my morning began with a lumpy bully, a fire drill, a mysterious stranger, and a cootie attack—all by recess—I knew it would be one of those days. A day when yo
u wish you’d strangled your alarm clock. A day when you wish you’d perfected that fake cough and stayed home sick.
Unless you’re a detective, that is. We eat trouble for breakfast, with a side order of danger, hold the mayo.
The whole thing started with the plop of a pop quiz onto my desk.
Mr. Ratnose’s quizzes are scarier than a broccoli-and-liverwurst smoothie. Especially when you haven’t done the homework.
I stared at the sheet. The questions made about as much sense as training wheels on a Tyrannosaurus rex. Cold sweat trickled down my cheek.
Only one thing could save me. . . .
Ring-ah, ring-ah, ring-ah!
The fire bell.
A smile curled my lips. Saved by the drill.
Mr. Ratnose’s pointy kisser wore a puzzled frown, but he gave us our marching orders.
“Single file, everyone,” he said. “Line up.”
We formed a line and trooped out the door. Just my luck, Shirley Chameleon cut right in front of me.
“Oh, hi, Chet,” she said, as we walked down the hall.
“Shirley.”
She had big green peepers and a long, curled tail. If I went for dames, I might have thought she was pretty cute.
But this gecko doesn’t go for dames.
“It’s . . . um, would you . . . er,” Shirley mumbled.
“Spit it out, sister,” I said.
She turned a delicate pink. “Would you be my valentine?” asked Shirley.
“Absolutely.”
“Really?” she said.
“Yup,” I said. “When monkeys fly out of my nostrils.”
Shirley’s face fell like a kindergartner’s home- baked cake. “Chet Gecko, you are so mean!” She rushed off, taking her cooties with her.
I sighed.
Just ahead of me, Bitty Chu, a goody-good gopher, turned in place. She gave me a dirty look.
I gave her a dirtier one. She turned back around. What makes dames so ding-y around Valentine’s Day?
By this time, we had reached the playground. Lines of kids covered the grass like army-ant sauce on a sundae. Natalie’s class stood by ours, but my mockingbird pal was out of earshot.
