Bounced

by Ted Staunton

  “I will tonight,” I promised. “We’re coming to your game.” Aunt Jenn and I always went to a few of Zal’s ball games.

  “Cool,” Zal said. “It would be pretty sweet if we caught this guy.” He squinted at me. “Hey, look at that.” He reached behind my ear and held up a dime. “You should wash your hair more often.” He stuffed the dime in his pocket.

  I couldn’t help touching my head. “How’d you do that?”

  “It’s magic.” Then he sighed. “I wish it was. If I could really pull money out of the air we wouldn’t need that reward to help pay for school. I think my parents are pretty worried about how much it costs. I might not be able to go. And I really want to go, Dunc. Dang, SI would be so cool.”

  I was surprised. I looked around me. The garage looked almost bigger than our apartment. Zal’s family worried about money? I said, “Aunt Jenn’s worried too. She’s working like crazy.”

  Zal sighed again. “You know, Arturo Rocinante makes our fees for Studies Institute every at-bat.” He brightened. “Hey, wanta throw a few this aft?”

  “Okay,” I said. “And then go to the library. I have to cut grass for Wiley Kendall first, though. Call for me after lunch.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Business Bounce

  When Zal came by, I put away volume seven of World’s Best and got my glove. It looked pretty shabby next to his new Arturo Rocinante model. Lots of teachers’ cars were still in the parking lot when we got to the ball field at Park Lawn. Miss Linton’s yellow Mustang was in the middle.

  “Weird to think we won’t be back there,” said Zal, sounding confident again.

  “We will next week.” Every summer we all went to the city day camp at Park Lawn. This year we were old enough to be CITs — counsellors in training — and we’d only go half days.

  “That’s not the same,” Zal said. He was right.

  We were leaning our bikes against the chain-link backstop behind home plate when we saw the Gator Aid SUV. It was parked in the driveway of the first house after the apartments ended. Marty Raymond came around the corner of the house and knocked on the door. When no one answered, he turned and saw us, then waved and strolled over.

  He was in full Gator Aid glory: boots, cargo pants, safari shirt over his beer belly, and his straw hat. A pair of wraparound shades hung from a little bungee cord around his neck, below the shell on a string. He grinned at us and tipped a finger off his hat brim. “Pardners, we meet again.”

  I’d stayed away since the blow-up with Aunt Jenn, waiting for her to “think about it.” Obviously, Marty Raymond knew what was what because he didn’t put me on the spot. Instead, he said, “Zal, right? Much obliged for sending along that video clip; primo footage. Got it running on continuous loop in the store, right beside Chester. Think he likes it. Didn’t see you at the grand opening, to say thanks.”

  Zal nodded and punched the pocket of his glove. “That’s okay. I couldn’t be there. I got grounded for skipping school that day.”

  “Uh-oh,” Marty Raymond sighed. “Beg pardon, fellas. I guess there was a little fallout from that caper.” He looked at me. I didn’t know what to say. Marty Raymond went on, “What about your gal pal there? JC?”

  “CC. She got grounded too,” Zal said. “Her dad said if she’d just told him, he’d have come with us.”

  “Hey,” Marty Raymond crossed his arms over his chest. “My kind of dad.” He paused and scuffed at the dirt with a boot toe. Then he looked up and squinted at us from under the hat brim. “Don’t suppose I could interest you in a little HRR just now?”

  “HRR?” I said.

  “Herpetological Rescue and Release. One of Gator Aid’s ana-cilliari services.”

  “You mean ancillary?” That was Zal.

  “My bad. That is precisely what I mean. Got a lady ’cross the way there, called in a flap. Says there’s a snake big as a firehose in the house.”

  As Zal took a step back and said, “I don’t like snakes,” I said, “I’m in.” Marty Raymond grinned.

  “Come on, Zal,” I said, “it’ll be cool.” I had no idea if it would be cool or not, but it was like the last time, in the park: a dare I had to take.

  Marty Raymond said, “Won’t be a biggie, guaranteed. First off, there are no poisonous snakes native to this area. Second, folks see a garter snake, they think it’s a python. They have IRF: Irrational Reptile Fear. Snakes are calm critters: don’t mess with them and they won’t mess with you. Third, I don’t really need the physical help, unnerstand, you’d be more on the PR end of things. You wear one of my new T-shirts, I introduce you as Gator Aiders and say this is part of your training. You hand me things and look happy while I do the heavy lifting — not that there’ll be any.”

  “T-shirts?” Zal said.

  “Green with gold lettering.”

  Zal gave in. “As long as it doesn’t take long.” We got our bikes and walked back to the SUV. The T-shirts were in a box in the cluttered back end, along with cloth bags, cages and an assortment of ropes and poles with odd ends.

  “I still don’t get it,” Zal said, pulling on a T-shirt.

  Marty Raymond said patiently, “Your business start-up, it’s all about image and outreach. That’s why we offer ana — call them extra — services. Gets your name around. Example: next week I’m taking some critters, do a show at the school day camp there. You can bet some families will be down to the shop after that.”

  “Hey, we’ll be there,” I said. “We’re CITs. We get T-shirts for that too.”

  “I look forward to it. It all helps with the old cash flow, which right now is mucho importanto, let me tell you.”

  “But isn’t Gator Aid a big multinational?” Zal asked. “You said—”

  “Indeed we are, pardner, but that don’t mean every operation don’t have to pull its weight and more. Let me tell you, I have been doing some major fundraising the last while.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say non-traditional ways. Look happy pardners, here she is now.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Black Mamba Bounce

  A very pregnant lady was walking toward the house, pushing a stroller with a small child in it. Marty stepped forward.

  “Ms. Khalid? Marty Raymond. Gator Aid.” They shook hands. “These are two of my Gator Aiders, Zal and Duncan. You might have seen ’em on TV at the caiman rescue.”

  “Thank you for waiting,” Ms. Khalid said. “I just couldn’t stand to be in there any longer, with a child, and me like this.”

  “No worries. The GIs and I will have you fixed up in no time.”

  “It would be GAs,” Zal pointed out.

  “Beg pardon. Now just where did you spot the critter, ma’am? Lend a hand there, men.” We helped Ms. Khalid lift the stroller onto the front porch. She unlocked the door.

  “In the clothes dryer,” Ms. Khalid shuddered. “I had a last load because the backyard line is full and I looked in and there it was, all curled up. It was huge! I screamed and slammed the door and Steven started crying and I just got us out of there as fast as I could and called you on my cellphone. We’ve been walking ever since.”

  “You did the right thing,” Marty soothed. “Now we will. You can wait out here if you’d rather. Which way’s the laundry?”

  “Thank you,” Ms. Khalid said. “Through the kitchen, down the stairs. Aren’t you taking any equipment with you?”

  “Just a preliminary assessment. We’ll git ’er done. C’mon, men.”

  Marty Raymond strode inside. Zal and I followed cautiously. The sound of a radio from the kitchen made the silence of the rest of the house more ominous. The screen door’s compressor banged it shut behind us.

  Zal and I jumped. “I don’t like snakes,” he said again. “What if the place is infested?”

  “Not likely,” Marty said over his shoulder. “I scoped the foundation already. It’s in good shape, no cracks they’d get in, and there’s not a lot of undergrowth next to the walls. Your sn
ake likes that stuff. What there is, though, is a dryer vent about a foot off the ground. A snake looking for shade, or maybe smelling a mouse, is gonna head right in there. They like a confined space.” He looked back at us. “Don’t worry, guys. I did snake relocations in South Africa for three years. I know my stuff. C’mon.”

  We followed him through the kitchen and down the basement stairs into the cool.

  “What’s snake relocation?” I asked

  “Farm workers find snakes in fields and orchards and get scared. We’d go out, catch the snakes and release ’em in the wild. Now South Africa, there was a place where your stakes were a little higher.”

  Did you ever get bitten?”

  “Couple times. Scariest was from a black mamba. They’re a little dull-grey snake, with only the inside of their mouths black. And that’s the part you don’t want to see, because they’re venomous as all get out. We’d caught one, bagged him, put the bag on the scale to weigh him. I put the catcher pole on him. He was lying flat inside, which usually means they’re calm. I went to lift the bag and he struck. Two punctures in my thumb. See?” he showed us his right hand. “Right there; those are the scars. Got me right through the bag. They raced me to the hospital and I could feel myself turning numb: feet, hands slowly shutting down, you know? They shot me full of antivenom serum. That’s when it turned out I was allergic to the serum. Anaphylactic shock. It was a fun few days.” Marty Raymond chuckled.

  “And you still like snakes after that?” Zal muttered.

  “Hey, my fault, not the snake’s. You’d be pissed too if I stuck you in a bag and weighed you. They’re misunderstood, you know? It’s my thing, it’s in the blood.”

  It was an unfinished basement. The washer and dryer stood against the far wall, a small window above them. A fluorescent light glared overhead. Marty Raymond turned it off. He bent to the glass of the dryer door, took a small flashlight from a pocket and shone it in.

  “Milk snake,” he pronounced. “No wonder she’s upset. They look like rattlers.” He straightened up. “All right, team. Here’s what we need: Zal, I know you don’t like these critters and I appreciate your hanging in. How about you go on up to the truck please, and get me a snake stick and a hook, both about four footers, and one of the green bags? A stick is one with a handle grip and lever at one end, and jaws at the other. You’ll know it. While you’re there, tell Ms. Khalid that everything is A-OK, under control, piece of cake, et cetera, not venomous and all but done. You may not like snakes, but I can tell you’re a snake charmer. Work a little magic, son.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Meant-to-Be Bounce

  Zal zoomed up the stairs. “How’d you know he was a magician?” I said.

  “I didn’t,” Marty Raymond said. “Is he?” I nodded. There was a pause, then Marty Raymond said, “So, Duncan. I guess we’re breaking a couple of rules here, dude.”

  “Yeah.” We looked at each other. “You know my Aunt Jenn, huh?”

  Marty Raymond nodded slowly. “Sure do. From back in the day.”

  “How come she doesn’t like you?”

  “That’s between me and her, for now.”

  “Did you know her from when she did music? Or when she was travelling?”

  He hitched his pants and leaned against the dryer. “Well, I guess she’d a’ been doing music. I wasn’t part of that. I met her up where your, ah, grandparents lived. They still there?” I nodded. “I tried to get in touch with them a ways back,” Marty Raymond said. “But I never heard anything.”

  “Are you from there?” I asked.

  “No. I was just passing through. Met your family.”

  “Did you know my mom and dad too?” The question just popped out.

  “Ah.” He cleared his throat and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Yup. I did, that. Not for long, though. Just passing, like I said.”

  “Did they like you?”

  “I like to think so.”

  “Was my dad’s name Smith or Jones?”

  His forehead wrinkled. “Wha—? Oh, um, Smith. Yeah, Smith.” He nodded but didn’t look too sure. “It was a long time ago.” He shifted his weight. “Your aunt says you’re a real smart guy, heading to a special school. What do you like doing? More than anything else?”

  My mind went blank. “My friend CC would really like all this,” I said, to change the subject.

  “Yeah, but what about you? What do you like more than anything else?”

  “Well, I like writing stuff. Mysteries, I guess. Adventures. Figuring stuff out. I’m reading The World’s Best 100 Detective Stories. And I’m writing an original story about a jewel robbery that was my idea.”

  “Far out. A writer. I don’t recommend a life of crime. What else are you trying to figure?”

  “How come I’m not supposed to see you?” It just popped out.

  Marty Raymond scratched his beard, crossed his arms, squinted at me, looked away, then squinted at me again. “You know how I said snakes are misunderstood? Well, I think maybe your Aunt Jenn misunderstands me. Which is understandable. Though I don’t think of myself as a snake.”

  He came off the dryer and started to pace around. “Some stuff is meant to be, Duncan. I ran across the store space in that plaza because, well, I was looking for … your Aunt Jenn … and she — you — happened to live here. The store is perfect for Gator Aid. And I run into you and your friends because you’re looking for adventure, right? The Mystery of the Gator in Green Pond, there’s one for you.”

  I wasn’t sure that was exactly right, especially since we’d already bombed his SUV with a bouncy ball, but this didn’t seem to be the time. Besides, Marty Raymond was on a roll, arms waving. He stepped over a litter of toy building blocks. “See? It fits together. It was meant to be.”

  Zal came thumping back down the stairs, carrying sticks and one of the canvas bags. “Got everything,” he said.

  Marty Raymond was still rolling. “That’s why I had to wait till now to do Gator Aid. It had to be here.” He stopped, seeing Zal. “Of course, Gator Aid International has been running for years. Okay, pardner, what we got?” Zal showed him what he’d brought. “Just what the doctor ordered. How’s our client?”

  “She hopes we won’t be much longer.”

  “Just long enough so’s it seems harder than it is.” Marty Raymond winked. He turned the overhead light back on, then handed me the canvas bag and took the stick with the jaws and squeezy handle for himself. Zal kept the one with the hook.

  “This’ll be good training for you. Our little buddy feels pretty cozy in there. I don’t think he’ll budge, so here’s the drill, compadres.” Marty Raymond explained how things would work.

  As he talked, he squeezed the levered pistol handle of the snake stick and the rubber jaws at the other end opened. Zal did not look happy. I wasn’t sure how I felt, except I figured Marty Raymond could handle it — as long as I didn’t think about him dropping the caiman.

  “Remember, PCC: patience, calm, control. He’s not venomous but if he gets riled he’ll still bite, and it hurts plenty. Ready? Let’s go,” Marty Raymond said.

  I reached around from the side of the dryer and pulled the door open as gently as I could. “Hey there, buddy,” Marty Raymond said softly, slipping the snake stick inside. “There we go.”

  I watched his hand ease up on the lever. Gently he withdrew the stick, with the end clamped to the milk snake, just behind the head. It was grey-brown, and big, maybe four feet, with red mottles on its back and black-and-white checks on its stomach. It even made a kind of rattling noise. I could see why Ms. Khalid had been scared. Truth to tell, I was a little scared.

  “Hook under him, about halfway back.” Zal scooped up the drooping snake as well. “Open the bag.”

  I dropped the bag on the floor and held it open. I winced as Marty Raymond slid the snake headfirst, past my hands, deep into the bag and squeezed the catcher handle to release it. The tail slipped off Zal’s hook and disappeared inside as well.


  “Pull the drawstrings.” I pulled, fast. Marty Raymond cinched the metal toggle down and laid the snake catcher on the bag. We all stepped back and watched ripples on the canvas as the snake moved.

  “Duncan, Zal, primo job. Give him a moment to settle,” Marty Raymond said. Zal and I both let out our breath and looked at each other, then at the bag. The snake was still moving.

  “Why didn’t you come here looking before?” I asked as we waited. “We’ve lived here a long time. You could have done Gator Aid ages ago.”

  Marty Raymond coughed and kept his eyes on the bag. After a second he looked at us. “I was doing time.”

  “You were in jail? What for?”

  “Smuggling.”

  “Smuggling? You mean, like, drugs?” Zal said breathlessly.

  “Reptiles. First it was just odds and ends for my own collection. You know, a lizard in your jacket lining, frog in your hat.” I nodded as if I did that all the time. Marty Raymond went on, “But after South Africa, I started a business, all legal, importing reptiles for zoos and pet stores. Didn’t take long to learn which customs agents at the airport would check your shipment and which ones would just stamp the papers and wave you through. If I timed it to get the right agent, I could have papers for two boas, say, but have five in the crate. Extra profit, see?

  “But your real money is in the rarities. People always want what they can’t get. Take breeds from Australia: Australia won’t let them be exported anymore. So I flew down, got a genuine Australian bearded dragon — never mind how — smuggled it back in a tube I checked through as a rolled-up painting. Big score, guys; got me thinking, I was on a roll. Did a few more deals like that, then aimed right for the top: I went to Madagascar, got me a plowshare tortoise to bring in.”

  “Was that bad too?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Marty Raymond sighed. “First, it’s against the law to ship them anywhere; they’re an endangered species. Second, my import papers said the tortoise was an albino Burmese python. It would have been fine except the customs lady I expected to be on duty was off sick. Her replacement was bored poking through dirty socks and got all excited to see a big snake.” He sighed. “Obviously that didn’t work out so good. Anyways, I got four years, ended up doing two and a half. While I was in there, I did some thinking. When I got out, I had some things to do. Gator Aid is one of them. The others,” he looked at Zal, then me, “well … they’re in progress.”