“He’s a kid in our class,” Moby says.
“He a friend of yours?”
“No, he’s our nemesis.”
“Uh-huh,” the Colonel says.
“We know he’s up to something,” I say. “Why would someone want a fake ID?”
He kicks back in the chair, extending the footrest, and laces his fingers behind his head. He’s in his reminiscing pose; we’re about to get something good. “When I was sixteen, I lied about my age to join the army. Maybe this kid’s a patriot, wants to join up and give back to the country that—”
“I don’t think that’s what it’s for, Grandpa,” Moby says.
The Colonel snorts. “Well, that’s a shame.” He puts his arms on the armrests and drums his fingers. “Probably using it for no good, then.”
“Like what?” I ask.
He gets a faraway look in his eyes as he considers the question. “Anything you can’t do unless you’re an adult, I guess,” he says. “Why, with a fake ID a guy could do almost anything. . . .” He proceeds to list just about every activity my father says is wrong with the world today. But the difference is that when the Colonel lists them off, he talks about them like they are all his favorite flavors of ice cream. “Buying cigarettes, getting alcohol, gambling—”
That grabs my attention. “Wait, you need ID to gamble?”
I think hard. If the Arch had been smoking or drinking alcohol, I’d have smelled it or someone would have talked.
The Colonel rubs his boot brush of a haircut. “You need ID unless you have as much gray hair as me.”
Could gambling be the secret the Arch is so desperate to keep? Did he lose all his allowance playing cards somehow? The Arch is supercompetitive, so it makes sense in a weird way. But should someone who’s willing to throw perfectly good money down the drain like that be allowed to handle the money for the new uniforms?
I reach into my pocket and touch the king of hearts. “Thank you, sir!”
“Glad I could help.”
“Moby, we have some calls to make.”
He springs into action, grabbing the phone off the end table.
“You boys going to get that kid in trouble?” the Colonel asks as we scurry out of the room.
“We’re not sure what he’s up to, sir. But we’re going to find out,” I say.
The Colonel ponders it for a moment. “Fair enough. Just remember, he’s still a kid like you boys.”
I stop in my tracks. Sometimes I forget the Arch and I are only a month apart in age. Being in trouble for kid stuff is one thing. I’m starting to think he’s gotten himself into some kind of adult trouble.
“And remember one other thing too.”
“What’s that, sir?” I turn around.
“You tell that boy, no matter how bad he screws up”—he straightens up and puffs out his chest—“there’s always a place for him in the US Army.”
I’ll have to remember to tell the Arch that—right after I crush his empire of lies.
CHAPTER 18
The next morning I wake up late and have to hurry to meet the cadre and the McQueens before school. We need to plan our next move. The stress of running a cadre is really affecting my sleep. At least I don’t have any hair to lose over it.
There’s a lot of chatter when I tell Shelby and the McQueens what Sizzler overheard last night. I call the meeting to order.
“We know our beloved student body president is hiding something. I think what Sizzler heard is the key to figuring out what it is.”
The spokestriplet gives me a knowing look. “Why do I think you have an idea what it might be?”
“I’m not sure, but I have a hunch,” I say. I still can’t understand why Archer would blow his allowance on a lame game, but it’s the only thing that makes sense after hearing the Colonel’s list of reasons for a fake ID. “We’ll only get one chance to nail him, so we’ll need proof.”
“Tell us what it is, and we’ll help you get your proof.” The other two McQueens nod like both of their heads are attached to the same string.
It’s the perfect chance for me to make it up to Moby for hurting his feelings during the flagpole plot. “This one stays between me and Moby until we have absolute proof.” Moby stands a little taller. “You guys are going to have to trust me.”
One by one everyone in the circle nods.
“So, what do you want us to do?” Shelby folds her arms, annoyed at not being let in on the secret.
“I’m so glad you asked,” I say, grinning. “Because I happen to have a plan. Sizzler, are you still close to the Arch?”
“Don’t know,” Sizzler says. “He hasn’t said a word to me since our little talk with Sherman the other day.”
“But you’re still on the track team, right?” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Which means you can keep an eye on him while Moby and I do what we need to do?”
Sizzler bobs his huge head. “I can watch him.”
“Good. I hope you’re all free after school today. Here’s what we’re going to do. . . .”
There’s the normal amount of talk about me at school that day. In the halls I hear the same whispers I’ve been hearing for years—“lice,” “bald,” “spaz”—but now there’s a new one as I walk by an open classroom door on a bathroom pass. Someone inside the classroom calls out, “Firebug,” which gets a laugh before the teacher tells them to cool it.
The cadre eats lunch together, all of us trying to keep the excitement about our after-school mission under control.
The hatted McQueen shoves a handful of Tater Tots into his mouth. When they’re mashed to a slobbery pulp, he says, “Oh! We heard a new one about you today, Chub.”
Kids are always starting rumors about me. I’m an easy target.
“Is it the one about me being adopted from the circus?” I say.
All three McQueens laugh, and Shelby gives me a pitying look.
“No,” says the hat. “But I do like that one. Word on the street is that your parents’ business is a front.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, word is the real business is laundering money for the mafia. Pretty good, right?”
“What does that mean?” Shelby asks.
“My grandpa and I saw it in a gangster movie once. Laundering money is where you take stolen money and run it through a business or something legal so the cops can’t trace it back to a crime,” Moby says. “Mafia guys do it all the time.”
It seems like there’s a new surprise from Moby every day.
“My parents have laundered money,” I say, to a bunch of gasps.
“The Russos own that Italian restaurant a block away from our shop. They dropped their entire deposit into a drum of olive oil one night, and the bank wouldn’t take it. My parents used the big machine to clean it for them.”
Everyone sits back in their chairs, bored by the real story. The truth is never as good as the legend.
When the final bell rings, the entire cadre meets behind the Dumpsters to go over the plan once more before getting to work. The only one who isn’t there is Sizzler, who can’t be late for track practice and risk the wrath of Coach Farkas.
We leave school together, heading to the Arch’s house to snoop around for proof he’s up to what I suspect.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Shelby asks. “Breaking and entering is a crime.”
“First of all, we aren’t breaking anything. The latch on Archer’s window has been broken since first grade.”
“So?” she says, missing the point.
“So, you can’t break something that’s already broken.”
Moby connects the dots. “So we aren’t breaking . . . we’re just . . . entering.”
“Exactly,” I say. “And just plain entering isn’t a crime. Besides, if all of us stick to our part of the plan, nothing can go wrong.”
Shelby will be our lookout in case the Arch somehow slips away and Sizzler can’t warn us in time. The McQueens will distract Mr. and Mr
s. Norris, and Moby and I will sneak into the Arch’s room. He won’t risk keeping anything incriminating at school. It will be in his room.
The Arch’s house is a few blocks past mine, but when we were friends, I went there so much I could’ve ridden my bike there with my eyes closed. It’s far enough out that the businesses and sidewalks are replaced by woods and fancy signs telling you the name of the neighborhood you are entering. If I lived here, I’d save every penny I had to make sure I never had to move into a neighborhood like mine.
I know all the good hiding spots within three blocks of the place. I position Shelby at the school bus stop half a block away because it has a clear view both up and down the street, as well as a direct line of sight to the Arch’s bedroom. She’ll give the signal if the Arch somehow evades Sizzler and comes home early, or if the McQueens’ distraction doesn’t work. Moby will see it from the Arch’s bedroom window, and we’ll have plenty of time to escape before we get caught.
It’s always some little thing that gets you caught. I read that after all the stuff Al Capone did, they sent him to jail for messing up his taxes. The lesson is, don’t take silly chances, especially when you are doing something not quite legal. We can’t risk being spotted by someone out walking a dog or something, so Moby and I decide to approach the Norrises’ house through their backyard rather than from the front. We creep out of the bushes and hide behind an ivy-covered shed that used to be my best spot when Archer and I played hide-and-seek. I sneak to the corner of the shed, where I can easily see the big tree in the Norrises’ front yard.
The McQueens show up right on time. They stroll up the street and a moment later set up to execute their diversion. One of the hatless triplets flops down on the grass under the gigantic maple tree, his brother kneeling next to him. The one in the hat gives them the thumbs-up, then marches to the front door and rings the bell.
A moment passes before I hear the door open.
“Hello, can I help you?” I can’t see her from where I am, but I would recognize Mrs. Norris’s voice anywhere.
“Good afternoon, miss. I’d like to talk to you and your husband if I could.” The McQueen takes off his hat and wrings it in his hands.
“What’s this about?” she says.
“Well, miss, it’s about that very inviting, very dangerous climbing tree you’ve got in your front yard.”
Two of the triplets are on the lawn, one acting injured and the other pretending to try to help him.
“Is that boy okay?” Mrs. Norris sounds very concerned.
“That’s what I’d like to talk to you and your husband about.”
“CHARLES!” she yells. “A boy fell out of the tree in the yard. You better come see.”
“Not again!” Mr. Norris’s voice booms from inside.
When Mr. Norris appears on the front porch, Darby, I think, starts rolling on the ground, moaning and holding his stomach. His brother pats him on the shoulder to comfort him, a concerned look on his face.
“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Darwin McQueen, and that unfortunate boy is my brother Darby,” the spokes-McQueen says.
Both Norrises rush out onto the lawn to help the fake faller, and I glance toward the bus stop. Shelby waits a few seconds to make sure the McQueens have set the hook and then signals the all clear. We cautiously step out of the secret spot behind the wall of ivy and sprint to the window on the side of the house. I pray they haven’t fixed the latch since last time Archer and I sneaked in. When I press on the frame, it squeaks slightly as it slides up, and I let out a breath of relief that no breaking was needed. All we have to do is enter. A minute later we are in.
I haven’t been in Archer’s room since second grade, and not much has changed. As I noticed in the photo that Sizzler took, the one difference is all the trophies wedged onto shelves that used to be full of books and action figures.
“Keep an eye on Shelby,” I tell Moby. “If she gives the signal, you tell me and we go.”
“Got it.”
He takes up his post by the window, and I start my search. I’m not sure what I’m looking for exactly. The bed is unmade, the silly old Wolverine doll lying on the pillow. The headgear the Arch was drooling all over in the picture sits on the bedside table, looking like something you would use to catch a bear.
I start with the most obvious place you’d hide something, under the mattress. Next I check under the bed, and then behind the bookcase and in the closet, the whole time listening for the single ring of the Norrises’ home phone. That’s Sizzler’s signal that Arch has left track practice early.
“How’s it going, Mobe?”
“Just watch, man.” He doesn’t turn around.
For once he’s sticking to the plan, so I go back to searching. Something in Sizzler’s photo caught my eye before, so I pull it out of my pocket to look at it again. I walk to the other side of the bed, where Sizzler must’ve stood when he snapped the picture. I look at the picture, then at the shelf in the background. For some reason it looks different in the shot than it does now that I’m standing here. Behind me, Moby lets out a sigh. I turn around and he’s still watching out the window. I guess I’m watching the watchman.
I look at the photo and then the room. The picture was taken from a different angle because Sizzler is over a head taller than me. What can’t I see from my height? My eyes flick back and forth from the image to the actual room, checking off each item that appears identical. But as I work my way to the top of the bookcase, something in the photo stands out. It’s on the top shelf, blocked from my view. I tuck the picture away and climb up on the bed.
I stretch to reach the thing and drag it off the shelf. My scalp flushes as I realize what I have in my hands. I’ve only seen it in bad pictures from a cheesy blog, but there’s no mistaking the big, goofy cowboy hat with the blue ostrich feather in the band.
Gotcha!
The visit to the Colonel has paid off. Finally I know what the Arch has been hiding. As I suspected, he’s been using the fake ID to gamble. He is as tall as the average adult, at least an inch or two taller than Mr. Mayer. When he puts on the hat, covers his face with sunglasses and a fake mustache, and doesn’t talk very much, there’s no reason he can’t pass for an adult. Of course, the hat solves only half the mystery. What does all of it have to do with his presidency and the uniforms? Now that I know what he’s been hiding, it’s only a matter of time before I figure out the rest. I smile, imagining the look on his face when I tell him that I’ve uncovered his secret.
“I got you, Archer,” I whisper under my breath. My hands ball into fists, crushing the brim of the hat. “Or should I say, Mr. X?”
“Evil genius!” Moby says, shaking me out of my self-congratulatory trance.
I whip around, but he’s still watching the window. I climb gently off the bed.
“No . . . way,” Moby says.
“Oh, yes way!” I reply. I look outside, expecting to see Shelby calmly manning her post. Instead she looks like a flamingo trying to take off with its feet nailed to the ground.
The signal! I nearly drop the hat.
I stick my head out the window just in time to see all three McQueens sprinting away in the opposite direction, one of them holding his hat down on his head as he runs.
Moby doesn’t budge.
“Moby! I thought you were the . . .”
I look down. In his lap is a tattered copy of Watchmen.
“Archer has Watchmen too,” he says, as though it’s somehow good news.
I slap my head. Shelby is running up the street now, her arms and legs like four propellers in her awkward flamingo stride. The front door slams and Mr. Norris yells something about “no-good con men.”
“We gotta go!” I whisper, shoving Moby toward the window. He tries to keep reading, but I shove him as hard as I can and say, “NOW!” Finally he drops the comic and starts to move.
There’s only one thing to do with the cowboy hat—I put it on my head and dive out the window, shutting
it quickly as Mr. Norris’s footsteps thud down the hall.
Moby is ahead of me as we sprint for the woods. Mr. X’s hat bobbles on my head, and I don’t even try to keep the smile off my face as we run like crazy.
CHAPTER 19
We all rally at my house after the mission. I show the cadre the hat I took from the Arch’s room and bring them up to speed. The cowboy hat is all the proof I need that Archer is actually the mysterious Mr. X from Mr. Mayer’s poker league. A kid pretending to be an adult so he can play poker has to be illegal. But why mess with the clubs at school? Why mess with me? Is he afraid I’ll find out and expose him, or is there more to it than that?
I need to confront the Arch about the hat, and I need to do it somewhere he doesn’t have an advantage. School is his turf for now, so I’ll check the schedule on the blog and confront him at the bowling alley next time Mace’s poker league meets. I’ll give him the chance to apologize for betraying me and to give the money back to the clubs. If he refuses, I’ll use what I know to take him down.
Sizzler uses his phone to check the poker blog. The next event is the last one of the year, the semifinal qualifier for the regional tournament this Friday night at Thunder Alley Bowling and Fine Dining. Archer can’t afford to make a scene there or everyone will realize Mr. X is just a kid.
Sizzler reads off his phone, “ ‘The top five finishers are automatically in the regional tournament, where the prize is ten thousand dollars.’ No wonder Archer is so nervous. That’s a lot of money.”
The thought of getting that much money for winning a game of cards makes me dizzy. I think about all the things my parents could do with $10,000.
“So what’s the plan?” Sizzler asks. “Beat him at his own game?”
Everyone looks at me.
“I don’t know how to play poker.”
“But think about it,” Shelby says. “The poetic justice of you swooping in and taking his victory away from him!”
I have to admit, it does sound pretty good. I better figure out how poker works so I can come up with a plan to beat the Arch. If he can win against adults, including our principal, it can’t be all that tough. Can it?
I Am Fartacus Page 13