by Matt Musson
“Did what?” I asked.
“Took the drugs,” Thor answered matter-of-factly.
I was shocked and blindsided.
“What do you mean ‘Took the drugs'?” I demanded.
“Well,” replied Thor, “While we were helping get Mr. Shiner into the ambulance – I heard the other attendant on the radio. He told the hospital this appeared to be a drug overdose. He said he thought Mr. Shiner had taken ‘Ecstasy'.”
I was stunned – and I am sure that my jaw dropped to the floor.
“Ecstasy?” I was almost shouting now. “You must be out of your mind! There's no way Mr. Shiner would be taking Ecstasy. EXLAX maybe. But, never Ecstasy. ”
“Look,” said Thor, “I'm only telling you what the paramedic said. That's what he called in over the radio – ‘Probable drug overdose'. And, when the hospital asked what kind of drug was involved – the ambulance guy said – ‘it looks like Ecstasy to me.' He said it, not me. Don't shoot the messenger! ”
“I'm sorry,” I apologized. “I don't mean to yell at you, Thor. But, that just does not make any sense? Do any of you guys really think Mr. Shiner would take Ecstasy?"
Nothing about this made sense to me.
I continued, "And, what's the deal with all that talk about Merlin's Magic? Was that some kind of hallucination? What's magical about a miniature golf course?"
I looked into my friends eyes and saw they were just as confused as I was.
"What do you guys think?” I asked.
We stared at each other until one Ranger finally spoke up.
“I think,” said Toby, “that we have a mystery.”
**************
Chapter Eight – Polly Wants a Cracker – Or Else.
It was late in the afternoon before we assembled in the Ranger's primary clubhouse.
The ‘PC' is a tree house built into an impressive white oak that grows around back of Freddy's grandparents' house. It was originally built by Freddy's grandfather and Father.
We took it over a few years back and upgraded the place. We replaced some old boards, expanded the great room, fixed the leaky roof and added a much needed coat of paint. A wireless Internet router gave the place a homey feel and kept us in touch with the outside world.
Freddy's grandparents are great about having us roam around their backyard. Plus, they are way too old to ever climb the rope ladder. So, we have plenty of privacy and don't have to answer questions about our adventures.
(Adults might not want to hear some of our answers).
Freddy’s Grandmother is always bringing out cakes and cookies and lemonade for the whole club. And, his Grandfather loves to sit in the old bench below the clubhouse and tell us about days gone by. He tells amazing stories about steam trains and model T's and the very first airplane that ever came to Granite Falls.
Freddie’s Grandfather also tells us stories about Freddy's Dad and our own Dads' when they were kids.
Boy, were they delinquents! It is even shocking. They had BB gun battles and bottle rocket wars. They had homemade firecrackers and went around flushing them down toilets. Heck, they carried pocketknives to school every day!
(It's hard for me to believe there was a time when you could carry a knife to school and no one even cared? Now days if you bring nail clippers onto campus, they want to try you as an adult.)
Anyway, back to the here and now. This afternoon we were at the PC, filling in the other guys on the events at the golf course.
“So,” Charlie summed up. “That's the situation. Somehow, Mr. Shiner was drugged. And, he apparently has some sort of ‘magic' that he asked us to help protect from Wiley Porkbutt.”
Shad responded, “Let's just get Jeep to sweep the place for magic.”
I looked over a Shad and I was a little put out. Did he think I was some sort of magic sniffing bloodhound?
“What am I, Harry Potter?” I asked. “How am I supposed to ‘sweep the place for magic'? What am I looking for? Do any of you have some for me to practice on? If I don't know what Magic sounds like, and I don't, I can't hear it call, can I?”
“What kind of magic are we looking for?” asked Freddie. “Is it a spell book? A wand? A magic lamp with a genie inside?”
“That's the big problem,” said Toby. “We don't know what it might be. It could be any of those things. Heck, it could be the Magic School Bus for all we know! We won't recognize it until we find it.”
Thor was more practical.
“Maybe there isn't any magic. Maybe it was just a drug induced hallucination.”
Charlie reluctantly agreed.
“Given that there is no scientific evidence for the existence of magic – I have to accept that Thor is probably right. But, the fact remains that Mr. Shiner needs our help. We can't ignore that. As Rangers we are sworn to ‘defend the weak and the helpless.' We have to do something to defend Mr. Shiner. It's our duty.”
As we were contemplating Charlie's words a sing song voice came ringing in from outside the window.
“There's poop in my water.”
Freddie looked around the room. He kind of huffed and then he leaned out the window and yelled back. “We're having a meeting,” he explained.
The voice grew more insistent.
"There is poop in my WATER!”
“Hold your horses," Freddie yelled back. "I'll clean out your bowl after we're done.”
“BALONEY!” answered the voice, rocketing from annoyed to outright angry.
A large limb branched from the central tree trunk our club house was built on and it stretched out of the window in question. Marching into the clubhouse on top of that knurled oak branch was a foot tall feathered creature.
The flutter of light gray feathers and his resolute walk gave the distinct impression that he was in no mood to wait for even a minute. Stepping inside the window – he turned his twelve inch frame and fixed his tiny black eyes on Freddie.
Once more, he opened his large black beak and this time he spoke softly and emphasized each work.
“There is poop, in my water!”
“Okay. Fine!” said Freddie, almost shouting. He got up from his position and huffed again. “I'll clean out your bowl right, now. Will that make you happy, your highness?”
The creature did not give a verbal answer. He made two up and down shakes of his body that we took as an affirmative.
I guess I should tell you about Rottweiler.
Rottweiler is an African Gray parrot that just flew up one day at the club house. He fluttered in the window on a rainy spring afternoon, demanding food and water. When Freddie asked him what his name was – he answered, “Rottweiler”.
We fed him and then took him to the veterinarian where he was checked out. And, since none of us had ever kept a parrot before the Vet gave us the rundown on care and handling. Of course, we placed an ad in the paper and on the Internet but no one ever came forward to claim him.
Since he came to live with us, we have begun to wonder if there was a reason he was flying free.
Rottweiler is a bird with very little patience. He is also scary smart. Freddie and Shad are sure that he is too smart to be a normal bird. They insist that he escaped from a genetics lab somewhere, and sometimes I think they may be right.
Rottweiler looked around and spied his favorite mark. He unfurled his wings and flew over beside Shad.
“Hey, Round Boy,” and he fluttered his wings and sang - “Nillaaaa.”
“Sorry, Rott,” Shad responded. “I didn't bring any extras.”
This answer only seemed to annoy the creature. He turned his head sideways. “Nilla,” the bird ordered firmly.
“Look Rott, I only have a few to tide me over until snack time. How about some bird seed - or maybe a nice juicy caterpillar?”
The little parrot moved a few steps closer and turned his head. His small black eyes drilled in on Shad. “Finger?” Rottweiler warned.
“Okay. Okay. N
o need for any of that.”
Shad hurriedly reached into the pocket of his shorts. He yanked out a vanilla wafer and plopped it down in front of the parrot.
Shad gave sheepishly explanation, “I am working on a model of a P-51 Mustang fighter I got for my birthday. I'm going to need all my fingers to put it together.”
“Nilla,” Rottweiler sang happily, as he lifted up the cookie with one foot and broke off a chunk with his powerful black beak.
Freddie finished rinsing out Rott's water dish using liquid from a plastic jug. He swished the water around and with a quick flick of the wrist he flipped the old water outside. Putting the bowl down on the feeding ledge we built onto the window sill, he refilled it.
“There you go, Rottweiler,” Freddie said with hint sarcasm. “I certainly hope you are happy now.”
Grasping the vanilla wafer firmly in his long black toes, Rott flew it over to the window ledge.
“Thanks, red boy.”
He bent over and took a sip. Leaning back, he made a gargling noise. Then momentarily contented, he made an announcement to the club.
“We will now rejoin our program... already in progress.”
***************
Chapter Nine – Closing with the Enemy
Since we felt honor bound to do something – the obvious place to start was back at Granite Falls Mini-Golf. We hopped onto our bikes and electric scooters and returned to the scene of the collapse.
The Golf Course was closed, of course. A handmade sign ‘Closed Due to Illness', hung down from an orange painted chain that stretched across the entrance to hole #1.
The deserted golf course was depressing and had a kind of hopeless feel to it. And, we weren't sure what to do now that we were here.
I started sweeping the place listening for the standard stuff. But, aside from a handful of dimes and quarters, a gold hoop earring and a sterling silver ID bracelet engraved ‘LYNDSEY', I came up short.
“Hey Guys! Come see this!”
I looked around and spotted Freddie over on hole 18. He was kneeling down on the green Astroturf and his head was bowed, as he stared straight down into the cup.
“This hole just keeps going,” he said. “The balls drop down inside and completely disappear.”
“That's right, goof,” Shad replied. “It's like one of those bug motels. Golf balls check in, but they don't check out.”
“Yep,” agreed Toby. “The balls disappear down the hole so you have to pay for another ball to play another round. So what?”
“Well, where do they go?” asked Freddy.
“They go to golf ball heaven,” Shad replied sarcastically.
“Really?” said Charlie. “I thought they went to live on a golf ball farm in the country.”
“The golf balls travel down the tube to a central collection spot,” Bogdon explained authoritatively. “It is a common feature of miniature golf courses to have an underground cistern to catch balls on the final hole. If we scan the area we will probably find a trap door or a false boulder through which the balls may be retrieved.”
“But don't you think that’s mysterious?” Freddie asked. “Maybe we should send a camera down this hole and check it out?”
“I think the only mystery here is how you managed to avoid Summer School,” Shad jibed.
Before we could resolve golf's answer to the Bermuda Triangle, a big black sedan with the personalized license plate ‘PARK KING' pulled up out front. A full sized white pickup truck pulled in beside it and a couple of guys in hardhats got out and started unloading surveying equipment. Councilman Wiley Porkbutt emerged from the sedan and walked over.
In a perfect world, the Councilman would look like a crook. He would have oily black hair and a handlebar mustache that he twisted at the ends. Then there would be no mistaking him for what he was: one of the bad guys.
The problem is the Wiley Porkbutt is well dressed, well groomed and looks like a fine upstanding citizen. But, he has all the heart of Dunkin Donut.
As Grandpa Gus likes to say, “I can put my boots in the oven – but that don't make ‘em biscuits.”
“What brings you young gentlemen out on this fine day?” inquired the Councilman.
“Well, Sir,” replied Toby, “With Mr. Shiner in the hospital, we came over to see if we could be of any assistance. We hoped there was something we could do to help save the golf course. ”
“That is certainly admirable,” replied Councilman Porkbutt. “It does my heart good to see young citizens taking an interest in the community. But, I am afraid the mini golf course's days are numbered. The Council has voted – and the will of the people has got to be respected.”
The councilman quit talking and began making a speech.
“Progress, Boys. Don't be afraid of progress. This golf course has provided countless hours of enjoyment to Granite Falls' citizens. It has served the public well. However, we must look to the future and we have to make room for what is best for coming generations. And, Progress is the cornerstone of our community's potential.”
The councilman stuck his hand in the air with his finger pointed upwards.
“This piece of property was not always a golf course, you know. Eighty years ago this was the sight of the renowned Porkbutt Spa and Warm Springs Resort. People came from all over the state to soak in the hot mineral waters of the resort's huge indoor swimming pool. The water was touted as a cure for everything from arthritis to gout. Why, it was practically an institution.”
“But, one day the spring ran dry. The crowds stopped coming. And, the resort closed. Luckily for the citizens of our fair town, my grandfather Beauregard Porkbutt received a substantial insurance settlement when the Spa unexpectedly burned to the ground. Grandpa Porkbutt wisely invested in roadside real estate and that was the beginning of the Porkbutt Preferred Parking Empire that we know today.”
“So you see boys, progress is the key to the Future.”
Charlie responded with a smooth tongue of his own.
“But Sir. Must we erase the past like a blackboard. Can't we save the best parts of our heritage as we build for tomorrow? ”
“Ah, a good point, young man. But, isn't this miniature golf course a relic that’s outlived its time? Don't we live in the information age? Isn't it better to concentrate on cerebral development and hand/eye coordination in front of the computer screen - rather than fritter away our days exposed to the elements and risking the ravages of solar radiation?”
(Was the councilman actually suggesting we stay inside and play video games?)
“Besides,” he added, “given that Mr. Shiner's health problems are apparently linked to illegal drugs, I don't know that as a Father or as a member of the Town Council, I can stand idly by and see the youth of our community lead down the pathway of corruption.”
Charlie responded, “Councilman, how would you know about Mr. Shiner's condition? I thought medical records were confidential?”
The councilman turned – looked Charlie right in the eye and responded with an edge.
“You will find, young sir, that there is very little that goes on in my town that I am not aware of.”
Then the councilman put a smile back on his face.
“Gentlemen, I am afraid that duty calls and I must leave you. I do hope that we will not have to be on opposite sides of this issue. After all, the Granite Falls mini golf course is truly a lost cause.”
With his spontaneous civics lesson finished, the councilman left us and walked over to consult with his surveyors.
Thor summed up my feelings when he said, “I think Wiley Porkbutt would steal a fly from a blind spider.”
We all shook our heads in agreement. But there was nothing left to say. Besides, Wiley Porkbutt had sucked all the oxygen out of atmosphere. So, we broke up and went home.
We would have to return that evening when there were not so many witnesses.
**************
Chapter Ten – Batter Up
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After supper, we all met up at our secondary clubhouse – the one we call ‘the Bat Cave'.
It's not really a cave - and there aren't any bats. It is just our secret hideaway where we keep all our good stuff away from the prying eyes of Parents – and other non-club members.
Our Bat Cave is not even located beneath stately Wayne Manor. Instead, it is on the far side of town, behind what's left of the old Granite Falls drive-in theatre in Martin Stoney’s U-Store It.
To gain entrance to the U-Store It, you first have to punch in the correct codes at the drive through gate. Then, if you follow the blacktop around to the far right side of the property, you come to a double sized mini-warehouse on the end: Unit 007.
Our unit looks just like the other units. In fact, we go to great lengths not to attract attention. The only real difference is that if you remove the old rusty padlock, the door still won't open. Off to one side, behind a small panel expertly camouflaged to look like an individual brick, is a state of the art thumbprint scanner. Only the thumbprints of the current members of Ranger Company A can trigger the scanner to open the door.
Even after the door is open, you only have 15 seconds to punch the correct code into the keypad on the inside wall. Failure to do so will simultaneously cut power to the unit and automatically dial the club members’ cell and home phones announcing a break in.
How do kids get their own mini storage unit – and why is it so well protected?
Well, first, kids can get their own mini storage unit because no one expects kids to rent a mini storage unit. When you take the contract home ‘to get signed' and then show up the next day with enough cash to pay for the entire first year's rent, grownups assume that you are just the go between representing some other adult. Secondly, the unit is well protected because that's where we keep all our really good stuff.
Inside, in addition to a work area, we have kayaks, scuba gear, night vision equipment, model rockets, and tons of remote control stuff for land, sea and air. We also have our electric golf cart, several motorized bikes, our mountaineering and camping gear and miscellaneous scientific and communications equipment.
In addition, it houses our club safe, a four hundred and fifty pound hardened steel monster we purchased when Shoemakers Trust Company went out of business last year. The 1939 model from the Circle City Safe Company of Indianapolis, Indiana has a bank quality combination lock and plenty of room for our most valuable valuables.
