The minute the idea hit me, I knew I had to give it a shot. It was risky. It was iffy. But I had the thought in my head, and at this point, I was desperate to do something, anything, to figure things out and fix the mess I was in.
So this was it.
Time to pull out the wig.
Time to put on the glasses.
Time to turn into Old Lady Superspy!
THIRTY-FOUR
I grabbed a notebook and pen, snuck out of the building, and went straight to the bushes where I’d stashed my sack of old-lady stuff.
It was still there.
So I hurried around the building to the back side of the Dumpster and got busy—tummy bulge, flowery dress, sweater, earrings, ugly shoes, wig…. This time was a lot quicker than the last time ’cause I knew what I was doing.
I had to put on extra makeup because even with sunblock I’d gotten a lot of color at the pool party. When that was finally done, I did my lips way outside the line, popped on my granny specs, and stuffed my regular clothes inside the bag.
While I was shoving in my jeans, the counterfeit pen fell out of them and onto the ground. I picked it up and was about to put it inside the bag, but at the last second I stopped, thought a minute, then slipped it inside my little granny purse.
Now, in all the times I’ve gone up and down the fire escape, I’ve only had problems outside the building twice. Well, that’s not including scaring someone to death. I’m talking normal problems.
Anyway, both times were with the gardener going back and forth on his riding mower near the fire escape, and both times I just waited him out.
So when I heard the purr of an engine getting closer and closer, I just backed up a little, making sure I wasn’t visible from the lawn area.
But the sound got even closer, and then I saw something driving across the lawn that made my heart skid to a halt.
A van.
A white van.
I edged out and peeked around the corner, watching as it parked right beside the fire escape. And sure enough, out of the driver’s side comes one bald, glass-eyed Jackal.
I duck back quick, my mind scrambling for a reason he’d be driving a van up to the fire escape of the Senior Highrise in the middle of the day.
Was he making the Big Escape?
Was that why he’d gotten boxes and tape at the Office Emporium?
Is that why he’d been in such a hurry?
Whatever the reason, I don’t have time to hang around and spy on him. Obviously, something’s going down, and I’ve got to get moving. And since I sure can’t go up the fire escape, I ease out of my little changing area, sneak around some bushes, and hurry over to the main entrance walkway. I’m moving fast, too, but before I get to the door, I make myself slow down and creak along. “Hello, dearie,” I say under my breath. “Isn’t it a heavenly day, dearie?”
And that’s when it hits me that the last time I was Old Lady Superspy I had a name. Only…I can’t really remember it. The last name was Florentine, but the first name? Was it Mary? Margaret? Millie? None of those seem quite right, but I can’t put my finger on what is right.
I don’t have time to waste thinking about it, though, so I finally just go inside and creak my way past Mr. Garnucci, who’s playing with one of those handheld electronic poker games.
“Hello there!” he calls out.
I give a creaky little hunched-over wave.
“We visiting someone today?” he asks.
“Eh?” I warble, cupping my ear.
“Who are we visiting today?”
I stand there and just blink at him a minute. “Are you coming with me, sonny?” I ask, acting confused.
“No, no,” he laughs. “Who are you visiting today? I’ll call them and let them know you’re here.”
“Now, don’t ruin it, dearie,” I tell him, then put a finger in front of my big orange lips. “It’s a surprise.”
“Ah,” he says. “Do you know your way?”
“I do, indeed,” I tell him.
And just like that, the interrogation’s over. “Well, enjoy your visit,” he says, and turns back to his electronic poker game.
Now, as I creak my way over to the elevator, it hits me that it would be very helpful if I knew the Sandman’s real name. So I take a little detour over to the mailboxes, find number 427, and see the name T. Egbert.
And while I’m at it, I find J. Allenson, too.
He’s in number 298.
That actually made me feel safer. If the Jackal lived on the second floor, maybe I didn’t have to sweat him going up to the Sandman’s on the fourth floor right away.
’Course, then again, maybe I did.
I hobble over to the elevator and ride it up to the fourth floor. And before I can talk myself out of it, I go up to apartment 427, knock four times, and pause, but before I can even finish the secret knock, the door swooshes open and I find myself face to face with a stout old guy sporting a buzz cut. He’s also sporting a ruddy, sweaty face and a dingy wife-beater T-shirt. “Oh!” he says, obviously surprised I’m not someone else.
I don’t really like the looks of him, but I glance down at my notebook like there’s actually something written in it, then say, “Mr. Egbert?”
He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “Yes?”
“I’m here about the problem with mice.”
“I don’t have a problem with mice,” he says.
But in a sort of pushy-old-lady way, I move past him and into the apartment anyway. “They’re coming in the building through plumbing crevices, so we’re checking under the sinks of all the apartments. It won’t take long.”
“Wait just a minute!” he says, coming after me, only he’s not moving as fast as I am ’cause he’s got a serious limp. “I did not say you could come in here!”
But I’m already in, and what I’m seeing by the kitchen table are packing boxes stacked up and ready to move out. I’m also seeing fat rolls of paper. They’re like butcher paper, only…cleaner. Whiter. And more transparent.
And there are what I think are computer printers—three of them.
And a large plastic high-tech-looking paper cutter.
“I have to do all the apartments or I don’t get paid,” I tell him, but my heart is pounding and my hands are sweating and all of a sudden I’ve got the urge to get out of there.
“Look,” he says, not knowing what to do with me, “just make it quick, all right? I’m actually very busy right now.”
But then, when he turns around and hobbles back toward the door, I see that he’s got the same tattoo on his neck that the Jackal and Buck Ritter had on theirs. And I want to scream, What’s the deal with that tattoo?! but I more want to get out of there. So real quick I take out the counterfeit pen, tag one of the rolls of paper with it, and pop it back in the purse.
The yellow streak doesn’t turn brown.
It doesn’t even turn orange.
It stays a light, clean yellow.
And as the pieces scattered all over my brain come together in a loud, solid clank, my knees start shaking and there’s no doubt in my mind—I’ve got to get out of there now.
“You!” a voice booms from behind me, and without even looking, I know who it is.
The Jackal.
I turn around and I don’t even have to pretend to be an old lady anymore. My joints are all wobbly, and my voice is all warbly as I say, “Hello there,” like he’s a total stranger, ’cause the last time I was Old Lady Superspy, he was in his Suave Guy disguise.
I turn to the Sandman and say, “I took a look under the sink and it’s fine—everything’s sealed up tight.”
Now, as I’m talking, I’m trying to ease my way out because the Jackal is not looking too friendly, let me tell you. As a matter of fact, he’s studying me verrrry closely, and his eyes are all slitty and slanty and suspicious-looking. He starts wagging a finger at me slowly, and I can see him putting the pieces together. And before I can get past him, he blocks my way an
d mutters something in the Sandman’s ear.
The Sandman looks at him like he’s crazy. “She did?”
“Uh-huh.” He gives me a biting look. “And I can assure you she’s not here looking for mice.” He moves in closer to me, saying, “As a matter of fact…”
He reaches for my wig, so I jump back and try to buy a little time. “Gentlemen, please! Call Mr. Garnucci. He can explain everything. He’s the one who sent me.”
“Drop the act,” the Jackal says, coming toward me. Then he calls to the Sandman, “Block the door!”
“Stay away!” I tell him, and then since he’s coming at me and I’m totally desperate, I swing at him hard with my pea green granny purse, trying to bean him in the head.
Trouble is, it’s a dumb little pea green granny purse with no weight to it, and he manages to grab it and twist it out of my hand. “Got your camera in there?” he asks. He reaches inside the purse, watching me the whole time, but instead of finding a camera, he pulls out my counterfeit-detector pen.
His jaw drops and he hurls the purse aside. Then he tosses the pen to the Sandman, calling, “This is worse than I thought!”
I jet away from him, but really, there’s no place to go. The Sandman’s apartment is just like every apartment in the building. There’s no way out except through the front door.
Now, it does flash through my mind that if I can get to the bathroom, I can lock myself in there, but all they’d have to do is snap the chintzy knob off with some pliers.
Piece of dead-granny cake.
And since going into the bedroom or kitchen is like backing myself into a corner away from the front door, I scramble into the living room while the Jackal comes at me, muttering, “Domino’s Pizza. What kind of police department puts together a ridiculous surveillance like that?”
And that’s when it hits me—he thinks I’m a cop.
I look left and right, trying to find a way out of the corner he’s backing me into. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sonny.”
“Classic line,” he mutters. “I couldn’t figure it out, because the woman who lives there was out of the apartment that night. But you were staked out there, weren’t you?”
“Please,” I warble, “you’re scaring me.”
“Oh, knock it off. You’re not even old,” he says, then lunges at me.
Now, if I had been old and stiff, I definitely would have been toast. But he’s got me cornered by a couch, so when he lunges, I jump onto the couch, run across the couch, and charge for the door.
“Stop her, Tommy!” the Jackal cries.
The Sandman’s standing in front of the door like a big ol’ sandbag, but all I can think is that I’ve got to get past him or that one-eyed Jackal is gonna kill me. So I hunker down with my head tucked and my shoulder forward and charge him like a linebacker, thinking I’ll knock him aside and get out the door.
Trouble is, shoulder-slamming him is exactly like charging into a big ol’ sandbag—he doesn’t even budge. And as if the pain shooting through my shoulder isn’t bad enough, the next thing you know, I’m off my feet and flat on the ground.
The world starts spinning around me.
The Jackal and Sandman are waaaay up above me, looking down.
Old Lady Superspy is in serious trouble.
THIRTY-FIVE
I hear the Sandman saying, “What now?” but it sounds like it’s underwater.
“Whaaaaat naaaaaaooooooowwwwww…”
The Jackal says something to Sandman, but I can’t quite make it out. It has to do with killing me, though, I just know it. And since the world isn’t spinning quite so much now and I definitely don’t want to die, I take a deep breath and focus while they argue back and forth. Then, when I feel like I’ve got enough strength, I concentrate every ounce of energy I have, whip my left foot in front of the Sandman’s ankle and my right foot behind his knee, and—whack—I scissor-kick him as hard as I can.
Trouble is, it’s like scissor-kicking a rock. My ankle screams at me, my shin goes into shock, and while I’m busy having spasms of pain, the Sandman just sort of teeters above me—he’s off balance, but he’s not exactly crashing to the ground.
So I grab his ankle and yank, and all of a sudden he takes a complete nosedive.
All of him except his leg.
I’ve somehow broken it off his body.
“Aaaaaaah!” I scream, ’cause there I am with a leg in my hand—the shoe, the sock, and a big ol’ calf.
Only the calf’s got no hair.
Or veins.
Or skin.
It’s, like, plastic.
“Aaaaaah!” I scream again, ’cause I’m plenty freaked out by the leg, and the one-eyed Jackal is coming at me like he’s gonna kill me.
So I twist up onto my knees and do the only thing I can think to do.
I swing that fake leg like a baseball bat and hit the Jackal in the head as hard as I can.
He staggers, and his eye pops out and lands in my lap.
“Aaaaaaah!” I scream again, ’cause now there’s a glass eye staring up at me from the skirt of my granny dress, and I am totally freaked out about everything—the eye, the leg, these old guys who are falling apart in front of me…everything!
And falling apart or not, these geezers are tough, and they’re not giving up. The Sandman’s crawling toward me, and the Jackal’s pushing up from the floor, where he fell when his eye popped out—they’re like old-geezer ghouls, and they’re definitely out to get me!
So I start bashing on the Sandman with his own leg. Whack! Whack! Whack! But as he’s rolling away from me, the Jackal’s coming toward me.
“Stay back!” I yell. “Stay back or I’ll…I’ll…” I pick up his glass eye. “Or you’ll never see your eyeball again!”
He comes at me anyway, but the Sandman’s not blocking the door anymore, so I dive for the knob, yank the door open, and stumble into the hallway. “Help!” I shout. “Help!” And I run to the inside stairs and start bounding up to the fifth floor, hauling the leg and the eyeball with me.
When I get to the fifth floor, I go flying down the hallway, skid to a halt in front of Grams’ apartment, and dive for cover inside. “Grams! Call the police! Call Officer Borsch!”
So there I am, in my granny disguise, holding a fake leg and a glass eye, panting like mad, when all of a sudden I see that Officer Borsch is already there.
Sitting in our living room.
With a picture in his hands.
A sketch, actually.
Of me.
“Samantha?” Grams asks, coming toward me. “Samantha?”
“Uh, yeah, it’s me,” I say, my eyes darting from her to the sketch, then back to her. And then I just blurt it all out. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m really, really sorry. I had no idea it was fake. But we’ve got to do something to stop them quick! Do you have a gun, Officer Borsch? ’Cause you’re gonna need it. They’re tough. That’s why I took their leg and their eye…to slow them down! How can you run with only one leg, huh? How can you see with only one eye? Well, I suppose you can see with only one eye, but your depth perception is totally whacked. Of course, his depth perception is probably always totally whacked ’cause it’s just a glass eye and he can’t really see out of it anyway and—”
“What are you talking about?” Officer Borsch says, coming toward me.
“The counterfeiters! Their headquarters is apartment four-two-seven. They have rolls of paper and printers and boxes of…stuff! Their names are Tommy Egbert and Jack Allenson and—”
“Tommy Egbert?” Grams says. “That’s Tommy Egbert’s leg? Oh, Samantha!”
“You know him?”
“Yes! He’s a very nice person! And he lost his leg serving our country!”
“What?” I shake my head. “No. He is not a nice guy. He’s a counterfeiter! I checked the paper with a counterfeit pen! I…I…The pen’s at their headquarters ’cause the Jackal snatched it away from me. But I did have one! And the paper stayed yellow
!”
Grams is looking very worried. “The Jackal? You are making no sense, child! What paper?”
“The rolls of paper they’ve been using to make counterfeit money! It doesn’t have starch in it!”
“Starch?” But then she’s off and running with a new batch of questions. “Why in heaven’s name are you dressed like that? That was you coming out of Rose’s the other night? What were you doing there?” She shakes her head. “And where did you get those shoes? They are the ugliest shoes imaginable!”
Well. I’m obviously getting nowhere with her, so I turn to Officer Borsch. “They’re bustin’ out of here! They’ve got everything packed up! Probably ’cause you visited them before and they thought you were onto them. They’ve got a van parked on the lawn by the fire escape. You’ve got to do something quick or they’ll be gone.”
Officer Borsch pinches his eyes closed. “You’re telling me there’s a counterfeiting ring inside the Senior Highrise?”
“Officer Borsch! You know me! I’m not making this up.” I shake the fake body parts at him. “Why else would I have this leg and this eye?”
He holds his forehead and takes a deep breath. “I’m afraid to speculate.” Then he adds, “The reason I’m here is because someone’s been spending counterfeit money around town—”
“I know!”
“But the composite sketch they came up with looks like you.”
“I know!” I pull a face. “It could also look like Grams.”
“What?” she says, finally tearing her eyes away from my shoes.
“You know that money you found in your coat and checkbook?”
Her eyes got really big behind her glasses. “Yes…?”
“I put it there.”
She gasps. “You slipped me counterfeit money? Samantha!”
“I didn’t know it was counterfeit! I was trying to be nice!”
“But…where did you get it?”
I look down. “It was Buck Ritter’s.”
Grams gasps again. “The man on the fire escape? You didn’t—”
“Stop!” Officer Borsch cries, covering his ears. “I don’t want to know any more. I can’t know any more! I’m an officer of the law, for cryin’ out loud!”
Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash Page 20