“The point is that it’s probably someone we’d never suspect,” Marty continued. “Someone who looks totally innocent. Someone like, I don’t know, Nicky Evans.”
“Nicky Evans stole his own cell phone?” Willie said.
Marty shot him a withering look.
“I’m just using him as an example, Einstein,” he continued. “It’s someone who doesn’t draw attention to himself. But someone who knows where everyone keeps stuff.”
Cody finished his lunch and crumpled his brown bag into a ball, staring pensively at Marty. “You keep saying he,” Cody said. “What if the thief is a girl?”
“Highly unlikely,” Marty said. “Girls are more likely to engage in crimes such as shoplifting and things of that nature. Everybody knows that.”
“There he goes again,” Jordy said. “Sounding like a college professor.”
Connor said, “And how would a girl rip that big TV off the wall in Ms. Wratched’s room? And carry it away? It must’ve weighed fifty pounds.”
Oh, I know a girl who could do that, Cody thought. She’d probably fly through the air, karate kick it off its bracket, and catch it on the way down.
“Mark my words,” said Marty, craning his skinny neck and letting his gaze sweep dramatically from one side of the cafeteria to the other. “The thief walks among us.”
“Then I wish the thief would steal that disgusting sandwich of yours,” Willie said. “It’s making me sick.”
Eddie Murray Field was all dressed up for the first game of the play-offs. The green grass was freshly mowed, the infield dirt had been raked, and the batter’s boxes and base lines gleamed with a new coat of lime. Fancy red, white, and blue bunting hung from the outfield fences too, just as it did from major league stadiums that hosted the World Series.
At precisely 6:30 p.m., county executive Morris Slaughter picked up a portable microphone and strolled out to home plate to welcome the overflow crowd. Slaughter was resplendent in a dark pin-striped suit, crisp white shirt, and bright pink tie, which matched his complexion, courtesy of a recent weeklong vacation in Aruba.
“Whoa!” Jordy whispered in the Orioles’ dugout. “Somebody forgot the sunscreen!”
“The man is a walking ad for skin cancer!” Connor said.
Slaughter smiled, revealing two gleaming rows of even, professionally whitened teeth. He cleared his throat and began. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a wonderful evening for baseball! And as your two-time county executive, it gives me great pleasure to welcome you to this wonderful facility, for this long-awaited game…”
“He makes it sound like the Super Bowl,” Willie murmured.
“…between the Orioles and the Red Sox!” Slaughter concluded with a flourish.
At this, the Orioles looked at each other with puzzled expressions.
“Uh, aren’t we playing the Braves?” Willie said.
“Sure looks like them in the other dugout,” Jordy said. “Know how I can tell? ’Cause it says B-R-A-V-E-S on their jerseys.”
As the rest of the Orioles cracked up, a nervous-looking aide walked up to the beaming county exec and whispered in his ear. Slaughter’s smile faded, and he raised his hands to the crowd apologetically.
“Ahem,” he said, “of course, I meant the long-awaited game between the Orioles and Braves.”
This elicited a loud sarcastic cheer from the Braves’ dugout as well as from their family and friends in the bleachers, which in turn caused the veteran politician’s face to turn from pink to a deep shade of red.
“And now,” he went on hurriedly, “if you’d rise and join me in the singing of our national anthem…”
The crowd rose, but for maybe fifteen long seconds, there was only silence. County Executive Slaughter stood awkwardly at home plate, his hand over his heart, glancing around to see what the holdup was. His aide looked as if he might faint. The problem was soon diagnosed: the sullen teenager working the sound board forgot to hit the PLAY button. Finally he did, and the first strains of the anthem crackled over the loudspeakers, to everyone’s enormous relief.
“Men,” Coach said when it was over, “I hope our game goes smoother than the pregame ceremonies.”
“There are five-car pileups on the Beltway that go smoother than that,” Willie muttered.
Robbie set the Braves down in order in the first inning, showing off a good fastball and changeup. As the Orioles came to bat, Cody noticed that the same pitcher who had smirked at him in the first game was back on the mound for the Braves. The kid’s name, Cody had learned, was Logan Morrissey. And Logan had turned out to be an okay kid. He was in Cody’s gym class and always picked Cody first when they were choosing up sides.
Today Cody wasn’t worried about any of the Braves smirking at him. The teasing had stopped out here, just as it had in school. The reason wasn’t hard to figure out: Cody had dropped a few pounds. Oh, no one was ever going to ask him to model tight jeans for Old Navy. But he didn’t look like that Terry Forster guy—what did they call him, a big tub of goo?—in his uniform anymore.
But with or without smirking, Logan was throwing just as hard as Robbie, and the game quickly settled into an old-fashioned pitchers’ duel. The Orioles managed just two hits over the first five innings: a single up the middle by Dante in the second inning, and a bloop double down the right-field line by Yancy in the third. But the Braves weren’t doing much better against Robbie and Mike Cutko, who came on in relief in the fifth inning and continued to shut them out.
Cody was growing increasingly frustrated. He had grounded out to shortstop in the second inning, completely fooled by a Logan changeup. In the fourth inning, trying to get something going for his team, he had swung for the fences, taking such a mighty cut at another changeup that he nearly fell down while lifting a harmless pop-up to the third baseman.
“Hey, Babe Ruth!” Willie said when Cody had returned to the dugout with his head down. “You’re swinging out of your shoes!”
As the Orioles came to bat in the bottom of the sixth inning with the score still tied at 0–0, Coach tried to keep their spirits up.
“Murderers’ Row was just taking a little siesta, men!” he shouted. “The bats are gonna wake up right now!”
Instead, Murderers’ Row kept right on snoozing. But, luckily for the Orioles, they got some major help from the Braves’ defense when Robbie led off with a bouncer to second that the second baseman bobbled. Jordy moved him over with a weak ground ball to the first baseman. And Connor followed with an even weaker grounder back to the pitcher, moving Robbie to third.
Two outs, yes, but now there was a runner on third. The Orioles couldn’t believe their good fortune.
“It’s all that clean living, boys!” Coach shouted from the third-base coaching box. “We haven’t even hit the ball out of the infield, and we can win it right now!”
Not only that, but Cody, one of their best hitters, was striding to the plate.
Cody gave his bat a quick pep talk—since Marty had busted him, Cody had gotten good at doing this without moving his lips. As he dug in against the Braves’ new pitcher, he kept reminding himself: No Babe Ruth swings. All we need is a base hit.
The first pitch was in the dirt for a ball. He swung at the second pitch, a low fastball, and fouled it off. The third pitch was outside.
The count was 2–1. He’ll probably come with something right over the plate now, Cody thought. He stepped out and tapped the dirt from his spikes. As the noise from the Orioles’ dugout and the stands grew louder and louder, Cody could feel the adrenaline coursing through him. He dug in again and waggled the bat menacingly.
The pitcher peered in for the sign. He nodded and came to the set position, ready to deliver. Cody took a deep breath, waiting, waiting…
Suddenly a voice rang out. “TIME!”
It was Marty, coaching at first base. He stood there with his hands raised until the umpire granted him the time-out. Then he motioned for Cody to join him for a conference. Over in the third-b
ase box, Coach stared at Marty as if he’d lost his mind.
Marty met Cody halfway down the line and draped a skinny arm around his teammate’s shoulders. “Just hear me out on this, okay?” he said. “Don’t go all Mount Vesuvius until I’m finished.”
Cody was dumbfounded. “This better be good,” he said.
“You should bunt,” Marty said quietly.
“Ex-cuse me?”
“Bunt,” Marty repeated. “B-U-N-T.”
“I know how to spell it,” Cody said. “But why would I do it?” He stared at Marty for a moment with a puzzled frown. Then he said, “Tell me the truth. Are you insane?”
“Au contraire,” Marty said calmly. “Here’s why you bunt. Number one, they won’t be expecting it from a big kid. Number two, Robbie’s pretty fast—he should score easily. Number three, the pitcher doesn’t look like a very good fielder, so you’ll probably leg it out for a hit. Even with your, um, less-than-blazing speed. No offense.”
“Oh, none taken!” Cody snorted. “Why would I be offended?”
“And number four,” Marty said, “let’s face it, you haven’t exactly been knocking down the fences tonight.”
Cody couldn’t argue with that. But bunt? Here? In this situation?
“Trust me, big guy,” Marty said, giving him a whack on the butt, big-league style. Then he trotted back to the coach’s box with a self-satisfied smile, like someone who had just saved the planet from a deadly disease.
Walking back to the plate, Cody conducted an internal debate with himself. Bunt or swing away? Should I listen to the little geek? Within seconds, he had made up his mind.
He took a couple of mighty practice swings and dug into the batter’s box again. As the noise grew once more, the pitcher squinted in for the sign and nodded. But as he rocked back to deliver, Cody suddenly squared around, the bat held loosely in front of him, waist-high. The pitch was low and outside, perfect for what he was about to do. He dropped the barrel of the bat on the ball, pushing it down the first base line. With a little bit of backspin on it, the ball seemed to die perfectly.
As he took off for first, out of the corner of his eye, Cody could see Robbie racing for home. The pitcher and the first baseman both charged the ball. But each hesitated for a split second, thinking the other had it. Finally the first baseman scooped it and made a high, hurried throw to the catcher as Robbie slid across the plate.
“SAFE!” the umpire yelled.
Game over. Final score: 1–0 Orioles. As they raced from their dugout, whooping and cheering, Cody grabbed Marty in a bear hug before the two were mobbed by their teammates.
Suddenly, they felt the presence of someone looming over them.
It was Coach. He didn’t look very happy.
“Marty,” Coach said as the jubilation quickly subsided, “are you the coach of this team now? Huh? Did I die and leave you in charge?”
Marty froze, eyes wide with alarm. He tried to stammer out a reply. Then Coach’s face broke into a big grin, and he clapped Marty on the back, nearly causing him to pitch forward.
“I’m just messing with you, son!” Coach said. “That bunt call was pure genius! That’s using your head! That’s taking what the other team gives you!”
Marty clutched his chest and pretended to keel over. “You got me good, Coach,” he said. “Can a thirteen-year-old have a heart attack?”
Now everyone was laughing and high-fiving. The Orioles were still undefeated. One more win and they’d play for the championship. And all because of a bunt, Cody thought.
He looked over at Marty, who was now explaining his strategy to his rapt teammates.
Maybe Coach is right, Cody thought. Maybe the little nerd really is a genius.
It was a hot, humid Saturday afternoon and Cody and his parents were working in the backyard, planting a bunch of shrubs with funny names that his mom had recently bought at the local nursery.
It wasn’t exactly Cody’s favorite thing to do on the weekend. Earlier, he had tried to get his mom to go to the Verizon store to replace his cell phone, which had never turned up, despite Coach Mike’s assurances. Instead both parents had appeared dressed in old work clothes and muddy boots, lugging a bunch of garden tools and motioning for Cody to follow them.
“I’m doomed,” Cody said under his breath as his dad filled him in on the job that needed to be done.
Planting the shrubs turned out to be hard work. They used a pick to soften the ground, but the pick head kept hitting big rocks, creating sparks, and sending an uncomfortable vibration through the handle and up the arms of whoever was using it.
After a half hour, Cody’s shoulders ached, and his hands were becoming red and swollen. All three of them were sweating through their shirts.
“I thought they outlawed chain gangs,” Cody grumbled.
“No, they’re still legal in Maryland,” his dad said with a straight face. “I checked the statutes. Keep working.”
When they finally took a water break and collapsed in a couple of lawn chairs under an oak tree, Cody said to his dad, “When are you going to investigate the big crime wave at my school?”
Steve Parker grinned and wiped his brow. “That’s a matter for the county cops, not us humble city POH-leece.”
“It’s still going on?” his mom asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Cody said. “Somebody stole a violin from the music room yesterday. And money from the student store. They took the whole lockbox. They even stole an Elmo.”
Now his dad looked stricken. “They stole the furry little guy from Sesame Street?!” he said. He turned to his wife. “Honey, call the FBI! It’s the crime of the century! Someone stole Elmo!”
Cody knew his dad was messing with him. And that it could go on for a while.
“Oh, this is big news!” his dad continued, shaking his head. “Elmo abducted! I wonder if they’ll have a story about it in The Baltimore Sun?”
His mom joined in. “We can only hope Big Bird and Grover and Cookie Monster are safe!”
“Let me know when you’re through,” Cody said, rolling his eyes.
“Okay, okay,” his dad said, throwing up his hands. “Just a little detective humor.”
“Very little,” Cody said. “For your information, an Elmo is this camera thing the teachers use in classrooms to project objects on a screen. It’s supposed to be pretty expensive.”
“This is how old I am,” his mother said. “When I was in school, they used a projector to project objects on a screen.”
Cody let that one roll by without comment.
“Mrs. McManus, our assistant principal, also said a box of printer cartridges and Ethernet cords was stolen from the storage room,” he said.
“Wow,” his dad said. “They’ll take anything that isn’t nailed down.” He took a long gulp from his water bottle and wiped his mouth with the end of his sleeve. “What about security cameras?”
“They’re all over the school,” Cody said. “But mainly in the hallways. The police have checked the tapes too. But apparently all they can see are shadows.”
“Interesting,” his dad said. “Whoever’s involved here, they definitely know what they’re doing.”
Cody nodded.
“And it’s probably more than one person,” his dad continued. “All these different items that are missing…One thief couldn’t get around the whole school and steal all that.”
Kate Parker looked worried. “I didn’t know you were going to such a…rough school. When we moved in, the Realtor told me it was the best one in the area.”
Cody leaned forward in his lawn chair, opening and closing his sore hands. “York Middle’s a good school,” he said. “It’s just facing some challenges right now.”
“Yep,” his dad said. “It’s hard for schools these days, with all the budget cuts and layoffs.…”
“But it’s not like things haven’t been stolen there before,” said Cody, unable to resist telling the juicy story he had heard from Mrs. McManus. “A couple o
f students were busted a few years ago for passing counterfeit money.”
“Counterfeit money?!” his dad said. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“Nope,” Cody said. “And get this: she said the kids made the money themselves.”
“Where’d they get the printing presses and the plates and that stuff?” his mom asked.
“Wow, you are old school,” Cody said, twisting away to avoid her playful slap. “No, the kids used a PC and a scanner and a printer. But I guess the quality wasn’t too good, ’cause they got caught giving fake five-dollar bills to Mrs. Nieves in the cafeteria. And she’s legally blind!”
His dad laughed and slapped his thigh. “Speaking of counterfeit, this is absolutely true,” he said. “Maybe eight or nine years ago, a woman was busted at a Walmart for trying to buy merchandise with a million-dollar bill. You can Google it.”
“A million-dollar bill?!”
“Which, as you know, the U.S. Treasury doesn’t even make,” his dad continued. “That’s why these morons always get caught. You watch. They’ll catch whoever’s doing the stealing at your school too.”
They sat for a few more moments, enjoying the cool shade and the slight breeze that had arisen.
“Okay, buddy,” his mom said at last, rising to her feet.
His dad followed suit, draining the last of his water bottle and tossing it on his chair. “Time to get back to work.”
Cody groaned and rubbed his sore shoulders. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Up and at ’em,” his dad said. “Oh, and Cody?”
“Yeah?”
“I sure hope they find Elmo. Keep us posted on the little guy, would you?”
“And let us know if anything happens to Bert and Ernie too,” his mom added.
With that, his parents dissolved in a fit of laughter before picking up their garden tools.
Cody shook his head and smiled. My folks sure have a strange sense of humor, he thought. Sort of like the coach’s. Must be a disease all adults have.
Coach Ray Hammond had no ego. Or so it seemed to the Orioles, and they liked that about him. Unlike some other coaches in the league, Coach didn’t act like every game was the seventh game of the World Series and only his managerial genius was keeping his team from a certain loss and utter humiliation. In fact, whenever the parents of the Orioles congratulated him and told him what a great job he was doing, Coach would shake his head and point to the players and say, “Nah, it’s not me. They deserve all the credit.”
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