Sammy Keyes and the Power of Justice Jack

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  Now, I know the building’s full of old people, all right? But it’s not like I ever see them. I mean, if I can see them, chances are they can see me. Besides, they mostly hole up in their apartments with their TVs blaring.

  Well, unless it’s Monte Carlo night down in the rec room.

  Anyway, the point is, witnessing a whole mob of them outside of Mrs. Wedgewood’s apartment—seeing all those walkers and canes, and hearing the clack of angry dentures—is surprising and kinda … scary. So I pull back quick and crouch down, then take a deep breath and wrap an eyeball around the corner to try to figure out what’s going on.

  Right away I notice two things: One, Mrs. Wedgewood is not in the crowd.

  Believe me—there’s no hiding the Big W.

  And two, Grams is.

  Now, my grams stands out because she looks like a teenager compared to most of the rest of the mob. For one thing, she bothers to get dressed in the morning. And I’m not talking some stretch pants and Velcro shoes—I’m talking a skirt, nylons, pumps.… Grams is a very classy dresser.

  But she’s also the only person in the group who’s trying to calm things down. “Give him a chance,” she’s telling the clacking mob. “He said he’d be right out.”

  “I don’t consider this to be right out!” one old lady snaps at her.

  “I tell you, she’s skipped town!” another one says.

  “How much did you give her?” Grams asks.

  “Enough!” the first old lady huffs, and then the other one says, “She said she could double my money, maybe triple it!”

  “So you just gave it to her?” Grams asks.

  “I live in this dump, don’t I? What have I got to lose?”

  Grams blinks at her. “The money you gave her?”

  “Stop it, Rita,” an old guy barks. “You’re not making us feel any better.” He bangs on the door with the handle of his cane and shouts, “Garnucci! Get out here! We want to know what’s going on!”

  Mr. Garnucci is the building manager, so whatever’s going on, they’ve called in the building’s only big gun to solve it. And obviously they’re not happy with how long he’s taking, because they all start banging, either on the door with their canes or on the wall with their walkers and fists.

  And it is scary.

  It’s like the Attack of the Osteo Army!

  And just as I’m thinking that there’s no way I ever want an angry mob of old people after me, Mr. Garnucci opens the door.

  “Calm down, all of you!” he barks at them.

  “Maybe if you’d tell us what you found, we would!” an old guy barks back.

  Mr. Garnucci steps out and locks Mrs. Wedgewood’s door. “Well, it does not look like she’s skipped town.”

  Now, I’m thinking, Skipped? Skipped? Who would ever use that word to describe Rose Wedgewood? Maybe she lumbered out of town, or quaked out of town, but … skipped?

  And then one of the old ladies warbles, “All you need to skip town is money!”

  “Yeah!” another one cries. “And she took plenty of that from us!”

  Mr. Garnucci looks around at the crowd. “You people are all supposed to be broke! How much did you give her?”

  There’s a moment of complete silence, because what Mr. Garnucci said is true—only people who qualify financially are allowed to live in the Senior Highrise. But then they all start talking at once. “She took everything in my mattress!” “I pinched pennies for years!” “She told me not to tell anyone else!” “She said it was a once-in-a-lifetime tip!” “Yeah! She musta figured we don’t have that much lifetime left!”

  Mr. Garnucci puts up both hands. “Did you get receipts?”

  The Prune-Faced Posse goes quiet again.

  Mr. G shakes his head. “Well. She’s not in there dead. Her things all look in order. And since you don’t even know how long she’s been gone, what do you expect me to do? She coulda gone across town for a burger!”

  “More like the whole cow!” someone yells.

  “Not nice, Mrs. Orren,” Mr. G scolds.

  “But true!” she snaps.

  “The point is, you don’t know where she is. Maybe she’s gone to a movie! Maybe—”

  “Maybe she’s skipped town!”

  Mr. Garnucci heaves a sigh. “The police are not going to do anything if this is all you’ve got.”

  “So that’s it?” someone demands. “You’re not going to do anything?”

  Before Mr. Garnucci’s even done shaking his head, a woman with her hair in a salt-and-pepper bun on the very top of her head steps forward and huffs, “Well, I know someone who will help us.”

  The Polident Patrol turns to face her. “You do?”

  “He’s a fine young man,” Bun-Top says as she opens her purse with shaky hands and produces a business card. She holds it out for the others to see, and one of the old ladies cries, “With a name like that, you know he’ll help us!”

  “What’s his name?” Mr. Garnucci asks.

  The mob turns to face him like they’re ready to take on the world.

  “Justice Jack!”

  SIX

  When the hallway was finally completely clear, I slipped into our apartment with my stroopwafels and whispered, “Sounds like the Wedgie’s got a big scam going.”

  “You heard all of that?”

  I nod. “Did you give her any money?”

  “Heavens no! Although she certainly tried to persuade me. She claimed to have a top-secret tip that could make me rich.”

  “What kind of tip?”

  “She was very mysterious about it, but she acted like handing her a bunch of money would be doing me a big favor. She even tried some baloney about you needing a college fund. A college fund! As if she cares.”

  For an itsy-bitsy fraction of a second, I get the very strange urge to hug Mrs. Wedgewood. I mean, the counselors at school really talk up college, but my own mother has sure never mentioned it, and I’d bet my high-tops she’s never even thought of starting a fund.

  But then I remind myself that Mrs. Wedgewood is a sweet-talking blackmailer and that Grams is right—what does she care?

  Grams gives one of her classic hrmphs. “I can’t believe any of them lent her even a dime.”

  “So do you think she left town?”

  “Where would she go? People live here because they have no place else to go.”

  “What about all the money they gave her?”

  “How much could it be? Not enough to live on for any length of time, that’s for sure.”

  “So where do you think she is?”

  Grams shakes her head. “I have no idea, and frankly, I don’t care.”

  I actually believed her, but the next morning I woke up to the sound of her making a phone call in the kitchen. She was trying to sneak it, but since the apartment’s about as big as a cracker box and I sleep on the couch, I heard anyway.

  “Who are you calling at seven-thirty in the morning?” I groaned, moving my cat Dorito off the top of my head, where he’s been sleeping lately.

  She turned her back quick to hide the wall phone—like somehow that would change what she was doing.

  “Grams, it’s Saturday! Whoever it is is going to hate you!” And then it hits me. “You’re calling the Wedge?”

  “Shhhh!” she says, turning to face me.

  “She can’t hear me, Grams. She’s not home.”

  Grams hangs up the phone. “So where is she, then?”

  I laugh and flop back down. “I thought you didn’t care.”

  “But it’s raining cats and dogs outside!”

  “It is?”

  “Yes! And I just cannot picture her managing in this weather.”

  “What’s to manage if you’re holed up in a cushy hotel with room service?” Then I add, “Besides, whales love water.”

  “Samantha! Be nice!”

  I sit up a little. “Why do I have to be nice when she blackmails me into doing her chores and errands?”

  Grams
frowns, but what can she say, really? I’m right.

  Anyway, around nine o’clock the Prune Patrol started calling us. And Grams had a little chat-fest with people I’d never even heard of, saying stuff like, “No, Teri, I’m sorry. There’s no sign of her yet.” “No, Eunice, no sign.… Sure, I’ll let you know.” “No, Gwenith, there hasn’t been a peep, but I’ll call you if she comes home.” Every fifteen minutes the phone would ring, which seemed to electrify Grams but annoyed the heck out of me.

  “Can’t you set up a phone tree or something?” I finally asked.

  “A phone tree?”

  “You know, where you call two people with any news and then they call two people, and pretty soon everyone’s got the message?”

  “That sounds so complicated. Who would set it up? And someone would surely drop the ball.”

  So the phone kept ringing and Grams kept promising and I kept being annoyed.

  And then Marissa called.

  “It’s for you,” Grams says, sort of taken aback.

  Right away I can tell Marissa’s desperate about something. “Can you meet me at the mall?” she asks in a sort of panic-whisper.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Your parents?” I ask, because her family’s been in crisis mode for months now.

  “No,” she whimpers.

  “Then what?”

  There’s a pause where I can tell she’s holding her breath, and finally she blurts out, “Danny called.”

  Every cell in my body stops moving. There’s no oxygen being turned into CO2. There’s no transfer of ions across cell walls. There’s no beating or breathing or blinking. I can’t even gasp.

  See, Danny Urbanski is a smooth-talking liar and Marissa had had a crush on him for years. But when he was arrested for being a bona fide criminal, I was sure she was finally over him. Plus, Billy had stepped into the picture and she seemed to be happy with him.

  “Please, Sammy?” she begs, and her voice is just a squeak. “I know it’s raining, but is there any way you can get to the mall?”

  She’s obviously desperate, so I tell her I will. But when I get off the phone, Grams is horrified. “You’re going out in this weather?”

  “I have to, Grams. She’s a wreck.” I head for her closet to borrow a jacket. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll take my umbrella is what you’ll do,” she says, and I can tell that her granny foot has just come down.

  I pull it out of the closet. “Fine.” And even though it’s huge and black and ugly, when you whoosh it up, it becomes the Awesome Dome of Dryness, which is nice when it’s raining cats and dogs.

  Or even cats and mice.

  Anyway, I’m all set and ready to go, only when I peek out the front door to make sure the coast is clear, what do I see?

  Two old ladies trying to break into the Wedge’s apartment.

  One’s wearing a thick black sweater and has a nose as big as a beak, and while she’s prying at the doorframe with a long, fat screwdriver, the other one—who’s got hair so white it looks blue—is wiggling a credit card into the gap beside the lock.

  I ease the door closed and whisper over to Grams, “You’re gonna want to see this.”

  Grams takes one look and marches right over to Mrs. Wedgewood’s, going, “Sally! Fran! What are you doing?”

  Now, Grams left our door wide open, and since I don’t want to risk one of the hobbling housebreakers noticing me close it, the first thing I do is grab Dorito and lock him in the bathroom so he can’t escape. Then I hurry back to the front door, and even though I can peek out, it’s kind of a dangerous thing to do. Especially standing up. It’s like if someone sees an eyeball at eye level, they know it’s a person.

  But if there’s an eyeball down near the ground, they either don’t notice it or they think it must have been a dog or a cat or something. And, really, I can’t stand not knowing what’s going on. I mean, come on—there’s two old biddies out there breaking and entering!

  So I get down and sort of crocodile my way to the door, and when I peek around the corner, there’s Grams wrestling the screwdriver away. “Stop it, Sally! You cannot just break into someone’s apartment!”

  “This is none of your concern!” Screwdriver Sally snaps.

  “That’s right, Rita,” the one with blue hair says as she jiggles the credit card. “We just want what’s ours.”

  “What makes you think it’s in there? I thought you said she skipped town!”

  “Then we want something of equal value,” Screwdriver Sally tells her.

  Grams stops wrestling. “So you’re going to steal from her?”

  Blue gives a calm little hunched-back shrug. “She stole from us, didn’t she?” She wiggles the card some more, then stops and looks over at Grams. “I have no idea how to do this. Do you?”

  Grams shakes her head.

  “They make it look so easy in the movies.”

  Sally says, “Come on, Fran. Let’s go. I have a better idea.”

  “What’s your better idea?” Grams asks as they start down the hallway.

  “None of your beeswax, Rita. We don’t need you tattling!”

  I scoot back quick, and after they hobble by, Grams comes in and closes the door. “Could you hear all that?”

  I nod. “They’re nuts. And I know this is big excitement around here, but I really need to get to Marissa. Can you check and make sure they’re gone?”

  So she does, and when her head pops back inside, she says, “Better make it quick!”

  I start to, but then I remember. “Dorito’s locked in the bathroom!”

  She scoots me along. “I’ll let him out. Now hurry!”

  So I zip down the hall and out to the fire escape before some angry old bird comes after me with a screwdriver.

  Marissa was waiting for me by the tower clock in the middle of the escalators. We used to meet at the arcade, but her gaming habit got annihilated by her dad’s gambling habit, and since she’s now always broke just like me, our new go-to area is the clock. It’s actually a cool place to hang out because on one side you can watch people go up the escalator, and on the other you can watch them come down. And if you look up in any direction, there’s a whole circle of railing where you can see people hanging out or walking by on the second level. It’s a prime people-watching spot.

  Anyway, on my splish-splashy walk over to the mall, I’d told myself that I needed to be a good friend and listen to Marissa even though the thought of her slipping back under Danny’s spell made me want to slap her silly. I mean, if you take the evil of Heather Acosta, dip it in Teflon, and wrap it in a dazzling smile, you’d pretty much have Danny Urbanski. I was sure Danny had done a righteous job of gouging the Teflon for good, but when I got to the mall and saw the look on Marissa’s face, I knew it hadn’t, uh, stuck.

  I sat down next to her. “Talk to me.”

  “Don’t you love how they decorate the mall for Christmas?” she says, looking around at all the tinsel and lights and holly wreaths. “And the music. I love Christmas music.”

  I fasten the band around Grams’ dripping umbrella. “You better not have made me come out here in the pouring rain to talk about Christmas decorations.”

  She heaves a sigh. “Danny called this morning.”

  “And …?”

  She gives me a look somewhere between fear and hope. “I was suspicious at first, but, Sammy, he’s changed!”

  I bite back a Sure he has, ’cause there’s nothing new about Danny Urbanski totally snowing Marissa. “Okaaaaay … how has he changed?”

  “He’s humble and remorseful, and … and … Sammy, he was crying.”

  I mutter, “Alligator tears, maybe.”

  “No! He was really sincere!”

  And that was the end of me trying to listen. “Humble, remorseful, and sincere? Those are big words for a little liar with a long history of working you.”

  “I knew you’d be mad, but, Sammy, people do
change. He’s been going to counseling and to church. He says he hates the person he used to be.”

  We sit there, quiet, for what seems like a week. And finally I take a deep breath and go, “So, what does this mean?”

  “I don’t know,” she whimpers.

  “Well, what does he want?”

  She pulls a squinty little face. “For me to give him another chance?”

  Now, it’s not like Danny was ever Marissa’s boyfriend. He was just her über-crush. He knew it, too, and would string her along by being all charming and flirty and sunny while behind her back he was sucking face in dark corners with Heather Acosta.

  “We’re talking as a friend?” I ask her.

  She pulls another squinty face. “I think as more than that.”

  “You think.”

  “Sammy, it was one conversation. He wanted me to forgive him. But he said how much he liked me and missed having me in his life.”

  “But he didn’t come out and say he wanted to go out?”

  “He implied it. And he invited me to meet him at church tomorrow.”

  “So, what did you say?”

  “That I had to think about it.”

  I cover my face with my hands and lean my head back. “What about Billy?”

  “I know,” she whimpers. “I know.”

  I drop my hands and give her an angry look.

  “I know,” she says again. “I know.” Then she adds, “And I do like Billy, and he is fun, but, Sammy, he acts so … immature.”

  I look her in the eye. “Billy is the same Billy he was when I warned you not to break his heart.”

  “I know,” she whimpers again.

  She’s acting totally pitiful and ashamed and sorry, but still—I can tell that nothing I say will stop her from giving Danny another chance.

  And I’m just about to tell her that for a person who’s so good at school and good at sports, she sure is bad at boys, when someone on the level above shouts, “Stop, you scoundrel!”

  Even without looking up, I know exactly who it is.

  SEVEN

  “It’s Justice Jack!” Marissa gasps, looking up.