Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  He kicked his boots off the railing and said, “She’s playing catch with Michael in the backyard.”

  That stopped me in my tracks. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He shook his head and hitched a thumb around back. “Take a peek. They’ve been at it quite a while.”

  What I saw when I looked around the corner was roly-poly Mikey waddling after a softball, scooping it up, and hurling it to Marissa.

  “See? You’ve got a good arm,” she called. “You just needed practice!”

  My jaw dropped.

  Marissa complimenting Mikey?

  These were definitely strange new developments.

  “Pssst,” Hudson said, motioning me over. “Let them play.”

  So I tiptoed back and sat down in the chair next to him. “Did you have a talk with her or something?”

  He folded up the paper and tossed it on the table between us. “She just showed up on her own. Said she’d had a bad dream about him drowning. I assured her there was nothing on the premises he could drown in, but she wanted to see him anyway.” He smiled at me. “You seem full of vim and vigor today.”

  I laughed. “I ought to be. I slept ’til eleven.”

  His bushy eyebrows reached for the sky. “Oh?”

  So I told him all about the pool party and saving Heather’s life and being totally wiped out and all of that. And when I was done, he sort of grinned and shook his head.

  “What?” I said, ’cause I could tell he was thinking something.

  “You know why Heather broke down and cried, don’t you?”

  I just looked at him.

  “She’s beholden to you.” He eyed me. “Forever.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You saved her life! That’s no small thing. In some cultures, if someone saves your life, you become their servant for the rest of your life.” He smiled. “After all, you wouldn’t have a life without that person.”

  I snorted. “Well, Heather’s not about to become my servant. I’m sure she’ll keep right on plotting ways to kill me instead.”

  He wagged his head like, Nuh-uh-uh, you are so wrong. “She may act like she hates you for it, but there’s no denying what you’ve done. It’ll have a deep psychological effect on her.” He shrugged. “How that plays out will be interesting to see.”

  As I rolled my eyes and told him, “Whatever,” that counterfeit pen sort of jabbed me. So I pulled it out of my back pocket and was about to shift it to a front pocket or something when Hudson zeroes in on it and says, “Is that a counterfeit-detecting pen?”

  Now, there’s nothing unusual-looking about the pen. It does say COUNTERFEIT DETECTOR on it, but it’s not real obvious. It just looks like a random highlighter or marker, so Hudson spotting it for what it was surprised me.

  But then I remembered that Hudson Graham has a kind of secretive past.

  Not bad secretive.

  I don’t think, anyway.

  More CIA or FBI or, you know, Undercover Guy secretive. Like maybe he was a spy at one point. He never talks about it, but sometimes something happens that sort of gives away that he’s got secrets, and this was one of those sometimes.

  “How’d you know that’s what this is?” I asked. Then, because I had secrets to cover up, I said, “I thought it was just a regular marker when I found it.”

  He gave a little smile as he took the pen and turned it between his fingers. “It’s very plainly a counterfeit pen.”

  I didn’t want to push it, so instead, I asked, “How’s it work?” as I pulled Grams’ twenty out of my pocket. “I marked this and it just stayed yellow. That’s ’cause it’s real money, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Why does counterfeit money turn brown?”

  “There’s starch in standard paper, that’s why. It reacts with the iodine in the counterfeit pen’s ink and turns from yellow to brown.”

  “So…real money doesn’t have starch in it?”

  “Correct.”

  I thought about this a minute, then asked, “Why don’t counterfeiters use paper without starch in it?”

  “Some do. If they can get their hands on it without raising suspicion.”

  I blinked at him.

  I blinked at him some more.

  Finally I choked out, “They do?”

  “Sure.”

  “So…one of these pens wouldn’t work on it?”

  He shook his head. “But there are other ways of determining whether a bill is real or fake.”

  “Like…?”

  He took the twenty from me and rubbed it between his fingers. “Aside from the paper, which has a distinctive feel, there’s the security thread, the watermark—”

  “Wait—what security thread? What watermark?”

  “Well, look,” he said. “It’s been a while since I’ve really analyzed a bill, but see this eagle here behind the Federal Reserve stamp? See this wavy TWENTY USA behind the Treasury Department seal? See how the art is made of incredibly fine lines? All these things are very hard to duplicate, but the security thread and the watermark are the real giveaways.” He held the twenty up to the sunlight. “See this?” he said, pointing out a faint, smudgy-looking vertical line that ran through the upper and lower number 20s on the left side of the bill. “That’s the security thread.”

  “Is it a thread thread?” I asked, looking up through the bill.

  “No, it’s the currency denomination printed in a line, but it’s called a thread.” He pointed to the right edge of the bill. “Here…can you see the watermark? It’s a smaller picture of the president, which you can only see when you hold it up to the light.”

  “Yes!” I said, taking the bill away. “Wow! I had no idea.”

  He stood up. “Let me get you a loupe. You’ll be able to see everything a lot more clearly.”

  So he brought out a little pyramid magnifier, and when I held it up to the twenty, I could see all sorts of detail. And that security thread was just what he’d said—a repeating USA TWENTY in teeny-tiny characters.

  “There’s one more thing,” he said, easing the bill out of my hands. “See this number twenty?” He was pointing to the one in the bottom right corner. “When you look at it straight on, it’s gold. When you look at it sideways, it’s…” He hesitated. “That’s odd.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe it’s because it’s the newest series? In the older issues, the gold twenty appears green when you view it from the side.” He slid his wallet out of a back pocket and removed a different twenty. “See this one?” he said, passing it over. “It’s an older issue—it changes color.”

  I looked at his gold twenty face on and then from the side. It definitely turned from gold to green. “Wow, that’s cool,” I said, but my heart felt suddenly lumpy. Like the blood inside it was thick and having trouble pumping through.

  “Here, this one does it, too,” he said, handing over another bill. “And this one.” He inspected my twenty again. “I wonder why this one doesn’t.”

  “Can I keep all these?” I joked, taking my twenty back.

  Just then Marissa and Mikey came around the corner. “Sammy?” Marissa asked.

  I shoved Grams’ twenty and the counterfeit pen in my pocket and handed the other bills back to Hudson. “Hey!” I said. “I heard you were here, so I thought I’d swing by.”

  “Cool!”

  Hudson smiled at Mikey. “You ready for lunch, slugger?”

  Mikey was red-faced and sweating, but he panted, “Do I get to light the grill?”

  “Yes, m’man.” He turned to us. “Girls, do you want to stay for shish kebabs? Michael and I will cook for you.”

  Marissa looked at me, so I shrugged like, Whatever you want, and to my surprise, she blurted, “That sounds great.”

  So while we kept half an eye on the wonder that was Mikey cooking, Marissa talked and talked and talked about Danny and the pool party and all her long-range projections for everything that had happened. “Heather made such a f
ool of herself, don’t you think? First she nearly drowns, then she has a complete meltdown. Who wants to go out with that?”

  But while she’s talking, what I’m really thinking about is how the gold twenty on Grams’ bill didn’t change colors.

  Why didn’t it?

  One of the other bills Hudson had handed to me had been the new style, just like Grams’.

  It changed colors.

  Why didn’t mine?

  And despite the fact that the bill had passed the watermark test and the security thread test, despite the fact that it felt like real money and passed the counterfeit pen test, the gold twenty staying gold bothered me.

  Why would my bill be different from any other?

  Plus, other things were creeping into my head, haunting me.

  The bundles of cash I’d found had all been so new. So crisp and clean and…perfect. If the money was stolen, it would be, you know, varied. Some worn, some crisp, most in between. Right?

  The amazing sketches that I’d found in Buck Ritter’s desk drawer at the Heavenly also spooked around in my brain. The ones of birds and faces, done in fine lines made out of dots.

  Just like the art that’s on money.

  And that dream I’d had about the money disintegrating haunted me. Maybe it hadn’t disintegrated into sand.

  Maybe it had disintegrated into dots.

  Marissa’s words were a blur. And no matter how much I tried to focus on how the bill I’d shown Hudson had everything right about it except for one tiny detail, it was that one tiny detail that I couldn’t get out of my mind.

  Why didn’t the gold twenty shift colors?

  The more I thought about it, the more this icky-sicky feeling grew in my gut. I hadn’t just stumbled onto three thousand dollars. I was in the middle of something deep and dark.

  And—I could feel it now—dangerous.

  THIRTY-THREE

  My problem was, I wasn’t sure I had a problem. Maybe the twenty I’d been checking was some brand-spanking-new issue where they didn’t use color-changing ink. Maybe I was totally worried over nothing.

  What I needed was more information. So I started thinking that if I could get my hands on a bunch of money—you know, just to look at—maybe I’d see other bills without color-changing ink.

  I thought about going to the bank, but figured that no matter what story I tried, they’d never let me near their stacks of cash. I thought about going to Maynard’s Market, but the only one who might help me out there was the Elvis impersonator, and he only seems to work nights. And I thought about going over to the Pup Parlor, but Meg and Vera are kinda paranoid about their money. They keep it locked up tight in a thick cast-iron safe, and it’s this big ordeal any time Holly needs a little money for something.

  Besides, I didn’t want to have to explain what I was doing, and I didn’t want to feed them some lame story about what I was doing.

  So I went to the only other place I could think of.

  The Heavenly Hotel.

  As usual, André was behind the counter, chomping on his cigar. And he was making like he was reading the paper, but what he was really doing was keeping his eye on me.

  “You’re back,” he growled.

  “Happy to see you, too,” I said, then did something I’d never done before—I walked behind the counter like I worked there.

  One of his eyebrows arched waaaaaay up. “What are you doin’?”

  I grinned at him. “Let me see your money.”

  He pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “What is this, a stickup?”

  “Oh, right,” I laughed. Then I came as close to the truth as I dared. “My friend just taught me how to spot a counterfeit bill. I’m here to do you the favor of checking your money.” I smiled at him. “No charge.”

  His eyebrows did a sort of rolling wave. Like a little hairy sea of suspicion.

  The cigar floated back to his mouth.

  Finally he growled, “I know how to check for phony cash.”

  “Watermark? Security thread? Color-shifting ink? All of that? Or do you just swipe with a pen?”

  He studied me. Then without a word, he popped open the ancient register and pulled out a ten. “Show me.”

  “It’s easier with twenties,” I said, still smiling.

  He switched the bills and grumbled, “What in the world are you up to, girl?”

  “Trouble—what else?” I laughed, trying my best to sound like I was definitely not up to trouble. I gave a sad little shake of my head. “Why are you always so suspicious?”

  He grunted. “’Cause I work in this joint.”

  “Well, lighten up!” I pointed out the security thread, the watermark, and how the number twenty shifted colors as you looked at it from different angles. “Isn’t that cool?”

  “I had no idea.”

  “So let’s do another.”

  One by one, we went through all the twenties, fifties, and even tens in his drawer.

  Every single bill had color-shifting ink.

  “Looks like you’re all clear,” I said, like a cheerful little do-gooder.

  “Uh, thanks, Sammy,” he said, and for the first time ever, his voice didn’t sound like a growl. It sounded almost…soft.

  “No problem,” I called over my shoulder as I headed out. But the fact is, there was a problem. There was a problem with the way I felt. I felt sneaky and creepy and kinda sick to my stomach.

  Why couldn’t he have growled at me?

  Why couldn’t he have told me to quit wasting his time?

  Why did he have to sound so grateful?

  And there was another, bigger problem.

  A big color-not-shifting problem.

  A problem tucked neatly away inside my pocket.

  And, I was afraid, tucked away inside the cushions of my grandmother’s couch.

  I hurried home, and when I discovered Grams wasn’t there, I felt so relieved.

  Until I found the note:

  GONE SHOPPING—BACK SOON.

  I felt panicky all over. She was probably spending the cash I’d slipped her. What if it was fake? What if she got caught?

  I hurried over to the couch, unzipped a cushion, and started inspecting the gold number twenty in the bottom right corner of every bill.

  I checked nearly two thousand dollars in twenties.

  Not one of them shifted colors.

  “Oh no!” I whimpered. “Oh no.”

  My mind began a complete free fall about the money. If it was fake and I got caught, would they throw me in jail? Would they make me pay for everything I’d bought with it?

  How would I ever do that?

  I didn’t have any money!

  And I sure couldn’t borrow from Grams!

  Which made me start panicking about Grams. Besides her being out on a possibly-fake-money spending spree, there was the Jackal to worry about. He knew there was some sort of connection to our apartment—what if he and the Sandman and Buck Ritter from Omaha, Nebraska, were, like, old Mafia guys? The Jackal was sure smooth enough to be a Mafia guy.

  And what if some head honcho Mafia guy was putting big pressure on the Jackal because the money was supposed to get laundered first.

  What did laundering money mean, anyway?

  Washing it?

  Making it less crispy?

  I shook off that thought because what did it matter what laundering was? It was something they did to dirty money or fake money or whatever! The problem wasn’t that, it was what the Jackal might do to get his money back. He’d already been pretty over the top. I mean, come on—he’d broken into Mrs. Wedgewood’s apartment!

  Wait. Worse than that, he’d pretended to want to go out with her!

  If he was that desperate, what if he forced his way into our apartment and then, like, tied up Grams and…and ransacked the place!

  What if he found the cash and the digital camera with the picture of him and he put the whole thing together…only he thought Grams was the one behind it all?

&n
bsp; What if they killed her to keep her quiet?

  I tried to tell myself to get a grip. I tried to say, Mafia guys laundering money in the Senior Highrise?

  Please!

  Like the Nightie-Napper wouldn’t foil their evil, sudsy plans?

  But I couldn’t shake the image of Grams all roped to a chair being tortured by a one-eyed Mafia guy.

  As I stuffed the cash back inside the cushion and zipped it up, I was completely panicked and desperate to do something.

  But…what?

  My brain started Dumpster-diving for a plan. Any plan. And after inspecting a few ideas that were total garbage, what it came up with was one that at first seemed like junk, but the more I dusted it off and looked it over, the more potential it seemed to have. Because right now all I had were hunches and guesses. I had to know if there was really something going on before I…what? Before I called the police or the FBI or the CIA or whoever you call to report that a one-eyed Mafia guy is laundering money in the Senior Highrise?

  But—like Officer Borsch had told André—to get a search warrant, they had to know what they were searching for. And I knew Officer Borsch well enough to know that my hunches and guesses were not enough for a search warrant.

  But if I could somehow see inside the Jackal’s apartment, I might be able to pick up some clues that would help me figure everything out and give me something besides hunches and guesses to tell Officer Borsch about.

  The more I polished the idea, the more I liked it.

  But I didn’t know where the Jackal lived, so the Sandman’s apartment was actually the one to try. It was on the fourth floor—the same floor where I’d scared Buck Ritter to death. The same floor where the fire escape door had been rigged not to lock. It was the place where the Jackal had used his secret knock.

  The Sandman’s apartment seemed like headquarters.

  But how was I going to see inside? I couldn’t just go up, use the secret knock, and say, Hey, dude. Are you in the Mafia? Are you laundering phony money? Are you planning to tie up my grandmother and torture information out of her?

  But then it hit me that there was someone who could go up and ask a bunch of questions. Maybe not about laundering money, but that didn’t matter. The point was, she could snoop. Maybe even get inside!