by Ted Staunton
The bag was still. Marty Raymond stooped and gently hefted it. Zal gathered the tools and I closed the dryer door.
Upstairs, Marty Raymond told Ms. Khalid everything was fine and gave her some advice about protecting her dryer vent. Even though he said this was a Gator Aid community service, she insisted on giving him a fifty-dollar cheque for the Gator Aider Training Program, and Cokes to Zal and me. She was also going to put a cousin who was looking for “some kind of turtle” in touch with the store. “Bring it on,” Marty said.
At the SUV, he said, “As soon as there is a Gator Aider Training Program I owe it fifty bucks. In the meantime it’s golden PR, a tank of gas — and maybe a turtle. And a snake I can keep for inventory. Think I’ll call him Bob. There’s nothing like free.”
“It wasn’t already part of your inventory, was it?” Zal said.
Marty Raymond laughed. “Planting Chester was a one-off and it worked. Scaring people with snakes in their houses is not a business builder. If it were, I’d do it, believe me. Whatever helps. Speaking of which, you guys did, big time.” Zal started to peel off his T-shirt. “Keep it,” Marty said. “You deserve it.”
“Thanks.” Zal looked surprised. He swung onto his bike. “C’mon, Dunc. I need to throw a few.”
“Okay,” I said. “You go. I’ll be right there.”
Zal headed for the schoolyard. “I better give my shirt back,” I said to Marty Raymond.
“Keep it.” He winked. “Say I gave it to Zal to pass along to you. Here’s another for your gal pal.”
I nodded. “So you don’t smuggle anymore?” I asked, taking a shirt for CC.
“Duncan, smuggling was like doing snakes. It’s not if you get bit, it’s when you get bit. But I’ll tell you true, it wasn’t just the money. There’s a thrill. Know what I mean?”
I nodded again. I couldn’t deny there’d been a little thrill in some of the things I’d done lately. As if he were reading my mind, Marty Raymond said, “I think you do, or you wouldn’t be here right now, where you’re not supposed to be.”
I felt my face turning red. “Now, I promised your Aunt Jenn something,” he said. “And so did you.”
“She’s thinking about it,” I said.
“Well, that’s progress. So let’s not push our luck, pardner. I gather I’ll see you next week. Till then, let’s neither of us get bit again. At the beach, amigo.”
“Pardon?”
“Just goofing. Old saying. Back in the day, I say, ‘See you at the beach.’ You’d say, ‘Twelve o’clock’ or ‘It’s been a slice.’”
“Got it,” I said. “It’s been a slice.” Of what, I wasn’t sure.
CHAPTER 16
Third Base Bounce
Aunt Jenn got home on time for once. She frowned hard at my new T-shirt. “Zal got it for me,” I said, and we moved on to other things. We had a picnic supper ready for Zal’s game.
“Wiley Kendall’s coming too,” she said. “I brought another order home for him. I had to invite him, to be polite.”
This had happened before and was not as bad as it sounded. Zal’s games were usually fun, partly because Wiley Kendall and Aunt Jenn knew their baseball and how to keep a scorecard. Anyway, I had a job to do.
We settled in the bleachers on the third base side, to be closer to Zal at shortstop, saying hi to Zal’s family, who were a couple of rows down. Aunt Jenn shared out egg-and-onion sandwiches and passed me a drink. Wiley Kendall ahemed and said thanks, then said, “Too bad that Lamar guy didn’t bring my order earlier. Duncan and I could’ve used it.”
Aunt Jenn swallowed some sandwich. “Well, I got the impression no one liked him.” She shot a look at me. “I don’t think he’ll be there much longer, anyway.”
We all clapped as Zal’s team took the field.
“Ah, well, ahem, I wouldn’t say I didn’t like him. There was just something, ah, odd about him.”
“It takes all kinds.” Aunt Jenn shrugged and dug out a pencil as the first batter stepped to the plate.
The first few innings were dull. Nothing came Zal’s way, and he was at the bottom of the batting order for his team. When he finally came to bat, he got caught on a called third strike to end the inning.
“You were robbed, Zal!” Aunt Jenn grinned and shouted through the cheering. She and Wiley both marked their cards. I saw my chance.
“You know when I was in that robbery?” I asked, aiming to sound casual. “I’ve been wondering, how come alarm bells didn’t ring and all?”
Aunt Jenn passed me some grapes. “They didn’t want to panic anyone, the robber or the customers. No telling what might have happened then.”
“But if the robber just hands you a note? If there’s no gun or anything …”
“You don’t know that. They trained us at the bank: try to stay calm, do just exactly what they tell you. Wait till they leave. It’s safer if no one plays the hero.”
“Just let the guy get away?”
“Would gunplay or hostages or whatever be better? Think about it, Skeets. That’s why I was so worried when you said you hugged that bandit.”
“Plus, I think I hurt him,” I said. “He was all bent over.”
“Maybe,” Aunt Jenn nodded. “But he probably ducked on purpose, so he couldn’t be measured. There are height strips in bank doorways. Take a look next time.” She reached for her soda. “Anyway, the most we might do was try to slip in a dye pack.”
“What’s that?”
“A paint capsule, pressurized. It breaks and splatters the money. The stains show it’s stolen. But some robbers watch for those, so you don’t do it if they’re on the ball.”
“That Borsa-whatsit fella must be pretty on the ball,” Wiley Kendall put in.
“Guess so.” Aunt Jenn popped a grape in her mouth.
“He’s gone a long time without being caught. I could use his money.”
“Oh, Wiley, you own our building. We could all use the money.”
I looked at Wiley Kendall. I hadn’t known he owned the eight-plex.
“Speaking of on the ball,” Aunt Jenn nodded at the field. “C’mon, pitcher, atta guy atta guy smoke him!”
The pitch flew, the aluminum bat pinged and the other team had a man on first.
“Suck it up,” Aunt Jenn and Wiley Kendall called, marking their cards. “Atta boy, keep it low, lookin’ to second, atta boy!”
The pitch flew. The batter lined a shot at Zal, who took it on one hop, flipped it to second and they turned the double play. People clapped. Zal pushed up his glasses and punched the pocket of his Arturo Rocinante glove.
“Atta go, Zal!” Aunt Jenn yelled. “His hands get better all the time.”
At the end of the game, we all went with Zal and his family for ice cream. Wiley Kendall treated Aunt Jenn and me. “Sweet double play,” I said to Zal.
“Thanks,” he said. “But I struck out three times.”
“You can’t have everything.” I leaned closer. “I got the bank robbery info.”
Zal nodded. “And I got an idea. I can’t tell you yet, ’cause I’m not done, but I don’t think I’m going to strike out.”
CHAPTER 17
Beach Bounce
“So, what have you got?” CC was back from camp. She’d brought gimp bracelets for each of us, an archery award and a snake-catcher stick she’d made in forest craft class. It was a length of plastic pipe and a knotted rope.
She’d already taken it to show Marty Raymond, who’d said she could use it in his Gator Aid presentation at day camp. That was going to be this afternoon. We were wearing our Gator Aid shirts for his visit. Right now, she, Zal and I, CITs all, were having lunch at Park Lawn, in the shade of an apple tree. It was hot-dog day, a good thing, because I was already sick of the baloney sandwiches I made for myself every morning.
I went first. I told them how the Bandit probably operated and what would happen in the bank when he robbed it.
“No gun, huh? So maybe we could grab him ourselves. With a
net or something. I should have made a giant-size snake catcher.”
“Right. If we knew where and when he was going to strike.”
“What have you got, Zal?” CC turned to him.
Zal had been looking impatient. Now he said, “I might have cracked the case. I have a theory, anyway. What I can’t do yet is prove it.”
“Really?” CC hissed. You could tell she wanted to be the case cracker. Truth to tell, I wanted to be the one to crack the case. I hadn’t gotten anywhere with the other mysteries and this had been my idea.
Zal leaned in. “I think the Bandit could be Marty Raymond.”
CC exploded first. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard! Somebody throw a beanball at you, Zal?”
“Yeah!” I echoed. I almost said, meanly, “Just ’cause you’re scared of snakes.”
Zal calmly shook his head. “Listen. First, he matches the description: medium build, soft in the middle, dark beard, wide-brimmed hat.”
“So what?” I scoffed. “There are tons of guys who look like that.”
“You don’t rob a bank looking like yourself,” CC crowed. “You wear a disguise.”
Zal shook his head again. “A smart crook knows everyone will think he’s in disguise. But what if he isn’t? He can hide in plain sight and no one will suspect. It’s the oldest trick in the book.”
In fact, it was a trick in World’s Best. I was stunned. Even CC looked impressed. That didn’t happen often. Then she frowned. “Gotta say, even though I really like Marty, he doesn’t seem that smart to me.”
“They never do,” Zal said. “That’s part of their evil genius.” What could we say? “There’s lots more,” Zal went on. “He’s a convicted criminal. I couldn’t find it online but he admitted it to us.”
“What?” from CC.
“For reptile smuggling,” I said. “But that’s not bank robbery.”
“No, but he did a bad crime for money and he told us he needs money, big time.”
“But—”
“And he told us he’d been ‘fundraising’ in ways he wouldn’t talk about.”
“But—”
“And he’s been lying to us about Gator Aid. I searched online. There is no Gator Aid International. There’s only his website and it’s still under construction.”
I gave up saying “but.”
Zal sat back. “Remember the day we caught the caiman? And how he showed up late? Kind of rushed? The Borsalino Bandit held up a B&G Trust branch not far from Oakwood Park around noon that day. Think about it.”
“I still don’t believe it,” I said. “And, that’s not enough to go to the cops with.” I tried to sound sure but inside a tiny part of me was wondering, could he really have done it?
“You’re right,” CC said. “We need more evidence. And we need to try and find out where he was when the other robberies happened.”
“I’ve got a list of the dates and places,” Zal said, pulling out the sheet of paper I’d seen before. “I think we should watch Marty.”
CC said, “I think we should search Gator Aid.”
Marty Raymond arrived at Park Lawn just after lunch. He got us to help him set up in the gym, and he put on a good show, with some big snakes, a legless glass lizard, an iguana, a chameleon and a turtle. He showed his snake-catcher sticks and got CC up to show her homemade one.
The little kids I was sitting with loved it, especially when they got to touch some of the snakes. At the end, they all wanted to make their own snake catchers. Marty Raymond asked Zal to video the whole thing with CC’s phone. I just sat there, worry coiling in my stomach like, well, a snake.
I didn’t want the guy who taught me how to catch gators and say “see you at the beach,” the guy who remembered my name, to turn out to be the Borsalino Bandit, no matter how much we needed money for school or how cool it would be to catch him. I told myself Zal was nuts, that there was no real evidence, that if we investigated we’d prove him wrong.
My worry didn’t settle down. It slithered over the memory of Aunt Jenn saying stay away, Marty Raymond was trouble, and tightened round his own words: “There’s a thrill, you know what I mean.”
After the presentation, we helped him load everything up. “Muchas gracias, pardners,” he said. “That footage’ll look good in the store and on the website, Zal, which I have got to get online by tomorrow. And, CC, sweet work on that stick. If I bought materials, think you could make a few for the store? Nice little item for the kids.”
Zal nodded brightly.
“For sure,” CC said. “I could come tomorrow afternoon.” How could they seem so relaxed? I got out my bouncy ball to hide my nervousness.
“Hey,” said Marty Raymond, “a Super Ball. Haven’t seen one since I was a kid.”
“Bouncy ball,” CC corrected.
“Sure, whatever.” He took the ball. “Man, these babies can zing.” He looked around. “Hey, c’mon with me.” He winked at us and cocked his head at the school.
We ducked back inside and up to the senior wing, far from the day camp and caretakers doing their summer cleaning. Lockers lined both sides of the hallway.
“We’re not supposed to be here,” Zal warned. He had his ball out anyway.
Marty Raymond just grinned. “Ever play wall ball? Most bounces without hitting the floor wins. Wait’ll you hear the sound. Fire at will, pardner.”
He and Aunt Jenn were right: it was an awesome sound. It should have made the roof come down, but somehow, right then, it wasn’t very satisfying at all.
“Man,” said Marty Raymond, “that takes me back.”
We scooted down the back stairs and out to the parking lot before anyone came to check. He hitched his pants, looked at his watch and whistled. “Whoo, baby, am I running late. Major appointment, Gator Aiders. Things to do.”
Zal elbowed CC, who elbowed me. I winced. “It’s been a slice, amigos. See you at the beach.” Marty Raymond touched his hat brim.
“Twelve o’clock,” I called, as he drove off. The SUV was almost as loud as the bouncy balls hitting lockers.
“What’s with the beach?” CC asked.
“Cool as a cucumber,” Zal said, almost admiringly.
At Mrs. Ludovic’s the suppertime news reported a mid-afternoon robbery. Police suspected the Borsalino Bandit.
CHAPTER 18
Bounce Back
I knew Zal had to be wrong. At least, I thought Zal had to be wrong. I knew he and CC were the brainers, but that didn’t mean they were always right. Why had I gotten us started on this? I should have just stuck with writing a mystery.
Aunt Jenn got home in one of her jazzy moods and cleaned my clock at pinochle. “What’s wrong with you, Skeeter? You look lower than a snake’s belly.”
It was a bad choice of words.
I didn’t feel better until bedtime, when I finished reading “The Two Left Shoes” in volume eight of World’s Best. The detective proved the police sergeant was wrong about a robbery — the Monkey Burglar didn’t do it after all.
Then I knew what I had to do: go along with Zal and CC, to prove that they were wrong too.
When we got together at Park Lawn next morning, they were all about how Marty Raymond had rushed off just before the bank robbery the day before.
I didn’t argue, just agreed that CC and I would visit Gator Aid that afternoon, Zal not wanting to be in a place filled with snakes. I didn’t care if I was breaking Aunt Jenn’s rule again, I needed to keep on top of developments.
“I’ll say we’ve come to work on the snake catchers,” CC instructed, as we biked down after lunch. “Then you keep him busy while I look around.”
“For anything that connects him to the bank robberies …”
“Anything strange,” CC said, as we parked and locked our bikes. “You can’t tell what might be important. Keep your eyes open too.”
She was right. Again.
A Now Open banner was strung between the two fake palm trees in the store window. Underneath was an
other sign: Meet the Oakwood Park Gator.
The door chimed as we pushed it open. Inside, it was warm. Lights glowed in terrariums big and small. In the biggest, complete with pool and a flat rock, was Chester, the caiman from Green Pond.
A stumpy man I’d never seen before was behind the counter. He had a straggly yellow comb-over, and what he lacked in hair, he also lacked in teeth. He squinted at us through thick glasses. “He’p yez?”
“We’re here to see Marty,” CC said brightly. “He’s expecting us.”
The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “On the blower. He’p y’self.”
“Thanks.” CC marched past him, through a doorway, as if she owned the place. I followed. It was detective time.
A large room stretched across the back of the store. Close by, Marty Raymond was perched on the corner of a littered desk, talking on the phone. The far wall had a barred window, a regular door and a larger roll-up one — for deliveries, I guessed. Boxes were stacked there. Beyond them, an air mattress and sleeping bag lay on the floor. Then came another open door showing a sink and mirror. The wall next to us had metal shelves with more boxes, a fridge and a little kitchen counter with a microwave, and dishes in the sink. The middle of the room was taken up with a big work table covered with stuff, including a coil of yellow rope and a bundle of plastic tubing.
There were no masks, no guns, no bags marked Loot. Things looked good so far.
Marty Raymond winked at us and spoke into the phone. “Yeah, but they get big. Eight or nine feet, hundred and fifty pounds. You good with that? Reticulated python? Even bigger. You’d need to feed a grown one a sixty-pound goat every so often. How old is your son? Uh-huh, same size as the goat, then. Makes you think, don’t it? Why does he want these things? … Well, I’m not sure ‘because it’s cool’ is a good reason.”
