by Bruce Hale
Lamar and the crow swooped overhead, just missing me.
“Get ’im, Fweeter!” squawked Lamar.
Before the two mugs could return, I doubled back, hopping onto the roof, dashing across it, and slipping down the building’s backside.
“Where’d he go?” called Twang.
“Find him, ya yo-yos!” squawked the kingfisher.
Hugging the library wall, I crept along quietly. I peeked around the corner. The coast was clear.
Head down, I beat feet for the nearest building and—fwhump!—ran straight into something big, thick, and furry. Boomchukka?
Two paws gripped my shoulders and held me at arm’s length. I looked up into the frown of that bobcat teacher I’d met on the sixth-grade playground.
“Easy does it,” he growled. The cat, I noticed, had pointy ears, just like the silhouette of the mysterious blackmailer. “What’s all this hullabaloo?”
I did my best to look like the model student I would never be. “‘Hullabaloo’? Who?”
“You,” he snarled.
“Ooh,” I said.
“You’re that detective who was pretending to be a reporter.”
Twang and Boomchukka rounded the corner of the library, spotted us, and stopped dead.
“I, ah, was thinking about a career change,” I said.
The teacher stared at the two Stench Bombs. His face was as hard to read as a Martian phone book.
After a pause, the ferret and raccoon nodded and wandered off.
The bobcat looked me over with ice-cube eyes. His paws tightened on my shoulders. “Better not play rough,” he purred. “Someone could get hurt.”
My snappy retort died unspoken. “Uh. Yeah.”
His eyes narrowed.
The class bell pealed. B-r-r-ring!
And just like that, the iron paws relaxed. “Get to class, Gecko.”
I trotted off. I hadn’t been so glad to walk into Mr. Ratnose’s room since the time Shirley brought a do-it-yourself sundae machine to science class.
The big bobcat had me sweating bullets. If he was one of the blackmailers, I had a feeling that this gecko was about to find himself in deep, deep doo-doo.
14
Trouble or Nothing
Come recess, I hotfooted it for the library like a millipede on a summer sidewalk. Without Natalie around, I needed the extra brainpower only our librarian could supply.
Inside, a passel of first graders swarmed over the long tables, giggling, pulling hair, picking their noses, and generally behaving in a dignified first-grade manner. My sister, Pinky, was among them.
I ignored her with the practiced calm of a big brother. Skirting the crowd, I made for the librarian’s desk.
Two students ahead of me were checking out books, so I checked out the rest of the library. Other than the little kids, traffic was pretty light. A cluster of sixth graders were working at the computers. I looked closer.
Oliver Suddon, the owl, tapped on the keyboard while the mole Sarah Tonin and Trixie the rabbit watched over his shoulders. That must be Oliver’s precious study group. But where was T-Bone?
“What’s shakin’, bacon?” said Cool Beans. The opossum librarian sat behind his desk, beret tilted jauntily on his massive skull, wraparound sunglasses reflecting the room. He was as cool as a polar bear’s pantry.
“I’m working a case,” I said, “and I could use your brain.”
He grinned. “Copacetic, daddy-o. Just got it back from the cleaners.”
Sometimes it doesn’t pay to dig too deeply into a possum’s personal life. I said, “This blackmail case has got me bamboozled. I think I know whodunit, but I can’t get the goods on ’em.”
Cool Beans leaned back and stroked his whiskers. “Who we talkin’ ’bout?”
“T-Bone LaLouche, the Stench Bombs, and that bobcat teacher who’s always in a bad mood.”
“Kent Hoyt.”
“What can’t hoit?”
“No, no, Kent Hoyt. That’s the cat’s handle, his name.”
“Oh,” I said. “Anyway, looks like they’re in this together, but I need proof.”
“The proof is in the puddin’,” he said.
My stomach rumbled. “I could use some pudding, too,” I said. “But right now I’d settle for proof.”
Cool Beans scratched his barrel chest. He scoped out the room slowly (like a possum does everything).
“Don’t look now,” he said, “but one of your suspects just made the scene.”
I followed his gaze. That rotten ringtail, T-Bone, had joined his study group. Trixie and Sarah made way for him by the computer.
“I told you not to look,” said Cool Beans. “Hey, Sherlock, want my advice?”
“Sure.”
“Follow that old saying: When you rattle the door, the roaches will run.”
I scratched my head. “So you’re saying I should run with the roaches?”
The possum rolled his eyes. At least, I think he did—it was hard to tell behind those shades.
“No, man. I’m sayin’ if you want the blackmailers to goof up, make ’em think you’ve got the drop on ’em.”
“Ah.” Not a bad idea. “Cool Beans, can I borrow some paper and a pen?”
The librarian snagged a flyer advertising tonight’s school dance and flipped it over. “Will this do?” he asked.
With half an eye on T-Bone and half on my work, I scrawled a threatening letter.
Dear Mr. Blackmailer (and crew),
The jig is up. Your goose is cooked. I’m blowing the whistle on you today—right after school.
Say your prayers, pal.
—Mister E
When I finished the note, I folded it into an airplane. “Keep tabs on T-Bone for me,” I said.
“Where you goin’?” said Cool Beans.
“To rattle the door.”
I strolled back to the book stacks. At the edge, I turned, waiting for my chance. I glanced left, right, then hurled the airplane straight at T-Bone.
Before the missile hit, I ducked back out of sight.
“Che-et!” My little sister, Pinky, stood with hands on hips. “I’m telling.”
“Keep it zipped, munchkin,” I muttered.
“Nuh-unh,” she said, getting louder. “I won’t.”
I gave her the Super Colossal Big Brother Death Ray stare. “You. Will.”
“Nuh-unh! You’re not s’posed to throw—”
I clamped a hand over her mouth. Pinky struggled. “What’ll it take to shut you up?” I hissed. “A custard maggot cup?”
Her eyes smoldered. Slowly, Pinky’s hand came up, showing three fingers.
“Three? That’s—oh, all right.” I removed my hand.
Pinky smiled. “Three a day,” she said.
“Don’t push it.”
She stuck out her tongue at me and wandered back to join her class. If you ask me, little sisters are the mothballs in the milk shake of life.
I ambled back to Cool Beans’s desk. Without looking at T-Bone, I asked the librarian, “Well? How did he react?”
“Hard to say,” said Cool Beans.
“Why’s that?”
“Your airplane wobbled, Wilbur.”
“Where did it land?” I asked.
“Smack-dab in Oliver’s lap,” said the possum.
The class bell rang, cutting our talk short. As I strolled to the door, I glanced over at the computers.
Oliver’s study group whispered with heads together. The last thing I saw on the way out was T-Bone’s narrow mug watching me and scowling.
I’d lit the fuse. Now we’d see how this firecracker went kablooey. (And whether it would blow up in my face.)
15
Mum’s the Bird
Lunchtime passed peacefully enough. Too peacefully. None of my suspects staged a kidnapping, stole a tank, or broke down and confessed.
Sometimes detective work can be harder than a week-old sowbug biscuit. (Which, coincidentally, is what they served with lunch.
)
Back in Mr. Ratnose’s class, I let my mind wander. (Not that I usually stopped it.) Questions circled like termites around a porch light.
Who was giving the Stench Bombs their orders? Would my note nudge the blackmailers into making a mistake? And would my parents break down and buy me a ticket to the wrestling rematch of “Spoiled Beef” Stroganoff and Antone “The Stone” Jones? (Hey, a gecko can dream, can’t he?)
At the front of the class, Mr. Ratnose jabbered on. He claimed to be teaching science, but I knew the truth: It was a cruel experiment in Death by Boredom.
Ten minutes before recess, a lemming showed up at the door with a note. My teacher pointed the little rodent toward me.
“Note for you,” he said.
“Who from?”
The lemming shrugged. “I dunno. Some bird janitor in sunglasses.”
Natalie. I smiled and unfolded the note.
The messenger coughed. “No tip?” he said.
“You want a tip? Never order Chef’s Surprise in the cafeteria.”
The lemming sneered and shuffled off. I read the note.
Chet,
Important developments! Meet me at the scrofulous tree at recess.
N.
Ha! Good old Natalie—she’d discovered something.
I watched the clock. When the recess bell blared, I rocketed from my seat like a hoptoad with electrified underpants. In less time than it takes to forge a permission slip, I was standing beneath the scrofulous tree.
Other kids poured onto the playground. I watched closely. Would Natalie disguise herself as a substitute teacher next? A Ukrainian bug smuggler?
Minutes passed. No Natalie.
A pack of second graders played a spirited game of Chase Me Till I Conk Out. They giggled until their lunch almost made a reappearance.
After ten minutes, with recess slipping away, I sat down at the base of the tree. And that’s when I saw it: a red, liquid smear on the ground.
I crouched and leaned over the puddle. Was it blood? I sniffed. Hard to tell.
It could’ve been just the jelly from a beetle-jelly sandwich. But I wasn’t about to taste it to find out.
I tried to keep my chin up. But dark thoughts crowded my mind like a bully cutting into the lunch line.
Was Natalie hurt? Or worse, had she been murdered over what she knew?
One thing was for sure: When the class bell rang and she still hadn’t shown up, I knew the reddish stain meant something bad.
When I returned to my desk, I found out what. A note greeted me. Scrawled in crude crayon, it read:
Gekko,
We got whut you want. Meet beehind the portabuls after shool.
I sagged into my seat. What had I started? The blackmailers had snatched my partner; they’d made their move, all right.
And I hoped they believed that a bird in the hand was worth more than one in the ground.
16
Put on a Happy Chase
The school day ended, not with a whisper but with a clang. (The clang of the bell, to be exact.) While my classmates rushed past, I stalked down the halls like little David on his way to the Goliath family reunion.
My neck and shoulders prickled. The showdown was at hand.
I skirted groups of gabbling girls. The school dance wouldn’t start for a while, so students lounged around, killing time.
Not me. I was a lizard with a mission. Actually, two missions: rescuing my partner and busting the blackmailers.
By the time I reached the portables, they were empty as Flunkenstein’s brain at test time. I crept between the buildings.
What I needed right then was a brilliant plan, a couple of football teams as backup, and a black belt in kung fu. All I had was luck and pluck.
And my luck hadn’t been all that great lately.
I peeked around a corner. In the building’s shadow stood Lamar and Twang, two of the four musical thugs known as the Stench Bombs.
“Don’t be shy, bright boy,” said Lamar. “Join us.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said, drawing near, “but I don’t play an instrument.”
The kingfisher’s laugh was as fake as my book report on Famous Popsicles of the Nineteenth Century. “Check out the comedian, Twang,” he said. “Funny, eh?”
“Roger that,” said Twang the ferret.
“Twang, what did I tell ya about calling me Roger?”
“Sorry, Lamar.”
The bird turned back to me. “Listen, joke boy, we got something you want,” rasped Lamar. “And if ya wanna see her again, ya gotta play ball.”
I crossed my arms. “I was dodgeball champ, two years running. Let’s play.”
Lamar ruffled his feathers. “Last chance, smart mouth. Ya want your partner; we want something from ya.”
“Yeah, what?”
“The goods.”
“The goods?” I raised an eyebrow.
“The goods you got on us,” said Twang.
“Oh,” I said, “those goods.”
The kingfisher took a step toward me. “So, whaddaya got?”
“The goods,” I said.
“Yeah, and what are they?” the ferret snarled.
“Oh,” I said, “they’re good. They’re really, really good.”
Lamar and Twang exchanged a look. The kingfisher moved to my right, while his sidekick edged left. I stepped back.
“Come on, Gecko,” Lamar squawked. “Spill the beans.”
“All right,” I said, “I know about your little blackmail scheme.”
Lamar scoffed. “Blackmail? We were doing a pickup for a friend, and we took a tiny carrying charge. How is that blackmail?”
I backed up another step. A twig cracked behind me. I spun.
Boomchukka bulked, wide as the backside of a bulldozer. I darted between Twang and Lamar, and whirled to face the three lugs.
“Do I look like a balloon?” I said.
“Uh, no,” said Boomchukka.
“Then stop filling me full of hot air.”
“Okeydokey,” said the kingfisher. “Take ’im, guys!”
“Uh, technically,” said Boomchukka, “we’re not all guys. I mean, Twang and Fweeter are girls.”
Twang slunk forward. I backpedaled.
“Ya know what I mean!” snapped Lamar. “Get Gecko!”
Whirling, I made like a bakery truck and hauled buns. I aimed for the gap between two portables.
“Caw, caw!” Fweeter the crow dive-bombed from the roof, straight for me.
At the last second, I tripped and fell, foomp! (Not exactly the kind of move that’d win me a spot on the football team.)
Thomp! Two bodies collided just behind me—Twang and Fweeter, no doubt.
I hopped up. Vaulting a skreezitz bush, I fled down the hall, back toward the other classrooms. Maybe I could ditch the Stench Bombs or hide in the office.
If I could outrun them.
My heart thudded like Boomchukka’s gnarliest drum solo, and my breath grew shorter than a mite’s stepladder.
Fwamp-fwamp-fwamp. Wings thrummed behind me.
I ducked, and Lamar’s swoop grazed my hat. A corridor opened on the left. I took it, while the kingfisher rushed past.
With only seconds to hide, I scanned the building. Locked tight.
Then a puzzled face popped up beside a nearby bush.
“What’s, hnorf, happening?” said Sarah Tonin, the mole. Her eyes widened. “Quick, down here!” Sarah leaped from her hole. I dashed for it and plunged in headfirst.
Down, down, down in darkness I tumbled, bumping and sliding. The tunnel surface was slicker than a sixth grader’s excuse note.
At a sudden curve, light dazzled my eyes. I shot from the tunnel and landed—boomf!— facedown in some kind of netting. Thoughtful touch, that.
“Intruder alert,” a tinny voice blared.
Huh?
Then, with a click and a whir, three robots gathered the ends of the net.
“Nice and tidy,” said a familiar
voice. “Make sure it’s tight.”
“Bzzz, yesmaster,” a robot droned.
I rolled over, blinking. Electric lights revealed a good-sized chamber. And standing in the center, his mild eyes framed by thick glasses, was the screech owl, Oliver Suddon.
“Wicked cool,” he said. “Look who just dropped in.”
17
Buy Low, Cell High
Ponk, ponk, ponk. My butt bumped the ground as the robots dragged me along a corridor. What was happening here? My brain raced like a four-year-old at bath time.
“Oliver?” I said.
“Mm?” he answered, strolling just ahead.
“If your pals got you into some scheme, and you want a way out, I can help.”
Oliver’s head swiveled. His dinner-plate eyes grew even wider. “Really?”
“Sure, I know how awful peer pressure can be,” I said. “Just let me go, and I’ll get Ms. Shrewer to take it easy on you.”
The screech owl’s face split in a grin. “Let you go? Ho, ho, ho! Peer pressure—ha, ha, that’s droll!” His eyes twinkled. “You have no idea, do you?”
I forced a laugh. “Hah! Of course I do. I know exactly”—Oliver’s contemptuous gaze met mine—“nothing about what’s going on here.”
“I thought so.”
He faced front again. We kept walking (or in my case, bumping).
Oliver stayed quiet, but then, like a kindergartner with a juicy secret, he couldn’t help talking.
“Ooh! Ooh! Here’s the thing,” he said, “I’m the one applying the pressure.”
My jaw dropped. “You’re the blackmailer?”
“‘Blackmailer’?” He sighed. “And I thought you were such a hotshot detective. Don’t you see my plans go far beyond mere blackmail?”
“Huh?” My interviewing technique was stellar. Usually.
Oliver led the way down a flight of earthen stairs. Bimp, bamp, bomp! The robots jounced me even harder. When I craned to look up at their square heads, I could’ve sworn they wore mechanical smiles.
