“I think it’s time for you to go to bed,” he says.
“Let me show you how to work this first.” I try to buy myself time to flush the page before he sits down to look more closely.
“You go to bed. I see what’s going on here.” He shoos me out of the chair and sits down in it. He’s face-to-face with my best friend, with only a fake mustache keeping us from being discovered. If my dad even senses that we are up to something, he won’t let me out of his sight. Our plot to take down the Arch will be ruined, and all the cadre’s work will be for nothing. To top it all off, I’ll probably also be sentenced to a summer of hard labor in the old country. I might as well show him how to buy plane tickets online before I go to bed.
As I trudge up the stairs, I hear my mother’s voice. “Poker, Kasmir?”
“Don’t worry,” Dad says. “I know how to keep him away from this kind of bad influence.”
CHAPTER 22
Mom and Dad are very quiet over breakfast. The computer sits like an elephant in the corner we all try not to notice. Even though it’s switched off, I know it’s figuring out a way to betray me. The moment I first saw it, I knew it was too good to be true.
It’s not like my dad to keep anything to himself, especially when it comes to disciplining me, so he must be more upset than he’s ever been. The thought of what they discovered last night makes my stomach turn. I don’t even want to think about how he plans to keep me away from bad influences. Not talking to Moby for a couple of days was pretty tough; I can’t imagine not seeing my friends for a whole summer.
After breakfast my parents head out for the shop and leave me a list of chores they think will keep me busy until they get home. As soon as they are gone I fly through the list, doing the absolute minimum so I can say I did them all without lying. Like I requested last night, everyone meets behind the Dumpsters at eleven o’clock to make sure all the pieces of the plan are in place.
“Shelby, did you talk to Sam?” I ask.
“Yes, the student council meets on Monday. That’s when the treasurer, Sherman, will give Archer the check from the activities treasury to buy the uniforms,” she says.
“Which he will actually use to pay back Mace?” one McQueen asks.
I touch my fingertips together. “If things go according to plan, Mace will never get his hands on the school’s money.”
The hatted McQueen says, “Why are you trying to beat him at poker? Why not just turn him in?”
“He hasn’t taken any money from the school yet, so there isn’t anything to turn him in for except playing poker,” I say. “Trust me, I know his mom and dad. His punishment would be a slap on the wrist. If he wins enough at the regional to pay off Mace, he gets to give the club money back and tell everyone he got new uniforms donated.”
“If that happens, he’ll look like even more of a hero than he already does,” Sizzler says.
“Exactly,” I say. “That can’t happen. We need him to lose the tournament, so he has to take the club money to pay back Mace. Once he does that, we have him where we want him.”
“We see,” says the McQueen, even though I suspect he doesn’t. “And how exactly do we make sure he doesn’t win enough to pay this Mace back?”
“We’ve got a man on the inside.” I put my hand on Moby’s shoulder. Or at least we will if Mace comes through on his end of the deal and gets us the fake ID.
The regional tournament is being held in the ballroom of a fancy hotel downtown. On the drive home last night I worked out a deal with Jarek to drive us Saturday night and cover for us with my parents. In return I have to sweep up the Clairemont all summer (assuming I’m still in the United States), throw in some of my best comic books, and do “a favor to be named later.” It’s a steep cost, but bringing down the Arch’s scheme is worth almost any price.
There’s a track meet that afternoon, so Sizzler is assigned to keep his eye on the Arch. Ever since he escorted Sherman to our little meeting, it hasn’t been a secret that he’s in the cadre. The Arch won’t talk to him, but he’s still on the track team. Moby, Shelby, and I spend the afternoon at my house, since my parents are at the shop. We try to watch TV, but nerves make it impossible to concentrate. Sizzler calls us to keep us informed about the Arch’s whereabouts. Apparently, the stress of leading multiple lives is wearing on the Arch, because according to Sizzler, he doesn’t win any of the races that day.
I fidget with the computer, trying unsuccessfully to make it move faster. Shelby uses her theater skills to apply Moby’s mustache and wig while he finally finishes Watchmen. It’s a pretty complicated story about a bunch of superheroes and villains that doesn’t end the way you expect a comic to end. The good guys don’t save the day.
“So that’s it? The bad guy wins!” He slaps the cover shut.
“Yes and no. See, he doesn’t think he’s the bad guy.” I don’t try to explain it any more than that. It’s one of those things you just have to think about for a while.
Jarek shows up right when my parents get home from work. He makes a big deal out of us being late so my parents won’t have time to ask questions. The commotion keeps them distracted while Moby and Shelby sneak out my window. The last thing we need is my parents asking why there was a girl in the house and why Moby looks like a police officer from 1976.
Moby is already in the backseat when we get to the car. I breathe a sigh of relief when we buckle in and pull away from the house.
“I hope you guys know what you’re doing,” Jarek says, weaving through traffic.
Moby tilts forward from the backseat. The sight of the mustache glued to his face makes my cousin flinch.
“Don’t worry, we’ve done this before.” Moby leans back, yanking his dad’s suit out of his backpack.
Jarek just shakes his head and smashes the gas pedal to the floor.
He drops us off a block away from the hotel so we won’t risk being spotted by someone we know. We find the side entrance to the lobby that Mace told us about and go in. We slink around the edge of the room. A gigantic potted plant serves as cover while we take in the lay of the place. Across the lobby we spot the coatroom where we’re supposed to meet Mace.
“There it is,” Moby says.
There are tons of people in the lobby. Any one of them might know my parents. I whisper, “We need to find a way around all these people.” He doesn’t answer, and when I turn to tell him again, I see why.
He’s gone.
I scan the lobby and catch a glimpse of a wrinkled gray suit weaving its way to the coatroom. I pull my sweatshirt hood over my head, spring from my hiding spot, and catch up to him.
There’s no sign of Mace. The coatroom is empty. I guess I should’ve expected as much. What can I do now? Tell on him for taking Moby’s gambling winnings and not giving us the fake ID he promised?
We wait five minutes past the time we were supposed to meet before I decide we should go look for Mace.
“C’mon, Mobe. . . .” The smell of leather and cigarettes hits me half a second before I bump into Mace.
He acts as surprised as we are. “Whoa! Where’s the fire, Lex Luthor?”
“You’re late,” I say.
“And you are ungrateful,” he says with a smirk.
“I already paid you. Remember? You were supposed to be here five minutes ago. We’re on a schedule.”
He raises an eyebrow. “All right. That’s the spirit.” He fumbles in his pockets. “I asked around about you, you know. You’ve got kind of a reputation.”
A few beads of perspiration soak into my hood. I don’t like the idea of this guy knowing anything about me.
“I hear you’ve picked up the torch.”
Moby comes to my defense. “It wasn’t a torch, it was a lighter. And Archer lit—”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I cut Moby off.
Mace pulls out the ID card, looks at it, grins, and flicks it with his finger. “You know, messing with the jocks. Sounds like you got that old museum of a
school wired. I’m glad someone’s carrying on the traditions I started.”
Does he really think that he and I are somehow the same? That my anti-Arch activities are me picking up the torch? The thought of it makes a metallic taste rise in the back of my throat. The coatroom now feels half the size it did when we walked in, and it’s getting smaller all the time. I want to tell him that he and I are nothing alike, and I plan on dropping the torch just as soon as I take out the Arch. But he doesn’t deserve to hear it. I need to get out of here and away from this guy.
I hold out my hand and Mace gives me the card. I have to admit, it looks like a real driver’s license—or at least what I imagine a driver’s license from Arizona must look like. I’m twice as sure about our chances than I was ten minutes ago. I hand the card to Moby.
“You boys have fun tonight,” Mace says with a chuckle.
“Thanks. We will,” Moby says, spoiling my chance to stare Mace down as he leaves the room.
I turn to Moby. “You ready to do this?”
“I’m nervous, Chub.”
“About what?”
“What if someone recognizes me?”
His wig and mustache look good. I smooth out the bigger creases in the suit. “Nobody will recognize you,” I say, wishing I believed it as much as I sound like I do.
“All right, I’m ready.”
Back in the lobby Moby spots a digital reader board that says the regional finals are in the Grand Ballroom, one floor below the lobby. A flood of people head for the stairs. We wait until no one is watching, then slide into the crowd and make our way downstairs.
When I see the check-in counter, it’s clear we aren’t at Thunder Alley anymore. The security here is much more serious. The guys checking everyone in are even wearing earpieces like the Secret Service.
Moby has an ID, but I don’t. I’m counting on one of the McQueens’ famous diversions to give me a chance to sneak in too. I will need to time things perfectly to be at the front of the line when they do whatever it is they have planned at 6:35.
We spot the players’ entrance, and I check the clock on the wall. We watch for a few minutes to see how quickly they are letting people in. They’re averaging three players a minute. At exactly 6:33 we step into the line behind six other players. I draw the string of my hood tight and keep my head down as we wait for our turn. If the McQueens are ever going to come through for the cadre, now is the time.
The line moves quickly, and it’s only 6:34 when we get to the front. We’ll have to stall.
The guard holds out a hand the size of a bunch of bananas. “Invitation and ID,” he says.
“Yup,” Moby says, staring at the ground.
“May I see it, Mr. . . . ?”
Moby doesn’t answer, so I kick him in the foot.
“Oh, right,” he says. He pulls the invite and the new ID from his pocket and practically throws them at the guard.
As the guard studies the ID card, my heart almost stops. He raises one eyebrow, then the other. This is it—my greatest plot ever is over before it begins.
Then his look dissolves into a smile, which he tries to hide. With tight lines stretched at the corners of his mouth, he says, “Chi Chi Montana?”
Moby just looks at the ground. I kick him again.
“He’s hard of hearing,” I say a little too loudly. “Aren’t you, Chi Chi?”
He looks at the guard. I pray he will just say a simple yes so we can go in.
This time my prayers are not answered.
Moby points to his ear. “Sorry, army.”
The guard straightens up but still looks suspicious. “Where did you serve?”
My head is a fountain of sweat now.
“Well . . .” Moby takes a deep breath. He’s about to improvise. I cough loudly into my hand. Thankfully, he takes the hint. “It’s classified.”
The guard looks at the ID one more time, then hands it back to Moby.
“And you are?” he says to me.
“He’s my son?” Moby says, just as the clock on the wall flips to 6:35.
The guard’s forehead wrinkles. “Oookay, I’m going to need to see your ID too, sir.”
Anytime now. What is taking the McQueen Special so long?
“Your ID, sir?” He folds his hands in front of him and lets out an impatient sigh.
I make a big show out of checking my pockets.
“Did you look in your wallet?” Moby suggests. I shoot him a look to let him know he isn’t helping. He just shakes his head and shrugs at the guard. “Kids.”
The man nods and starts to say, “Mmm-hmm,” but he’s cut off by a deep boom from somewhere in the hotel. The crystal in the chandeliers tinkles together, and the lights blink for a second. People look around and murmur as security guards press their earpieces into their ears. I glance at the clock as the guard who was checking us in rushes from his post.
The McQueens have come through again.
CHAPTER 23
The McQueens’ diversion creates enough chaos for me to sneak through the door behind Moby. We press into the crowded ballroom and don’t look back. At the center of the ballroom are the green felt tables where the matches will be played. Bleachers surround the tables on three sides, creating a mini-stadium for the spectators. This is definitely a bigger deal than the games Mace runs in the basement of the bowling alley.
I lead Moby to a dark corner behind a set of bleachers, scanning the room for the Arch as we go. We still have twenty minutes until the games start, and I need to make sure there will be no surprises.
“Are you ready for this?” I ask.
Moby nods. He tries to stand tall and look confident, but I catch the rotten-vegetable smell of the fart he just sneaked out.
I fan the air.
“Sorry.”
I fight back a gag. “It’s okay. The cadre is counting on you.” I clap a hand on his shoulder, and he straightens up again. “Do you remember the plan?”
“Don’t . . . win,” he recites.
“Don’t win, buuuut . . .”
“Buuuut . . . don’t let the Arch win either.”
“Perfect.”
“It would be a lot easier if I could just win, though.”
I can’t have him changing the plan at this point. “We’ve talked about this, Mobe. First and second place are the two spots that win money. We just have to make sure Archer isn’t one of them.”
Moby shifts from foot to foot. “But I think I can win it!”
“Look around you,” I say. “The guy who won this tournament last year is on TV all the time now. Do you think we’ll get away with this if you have to do an interview after it’s over?”
His eyes flick back to mine.
“Do you know who won second place last year?”
“No.”
“Good, neither do I. All we need to do is keep the Arch out of the top two, and his reign as resident superhero of Alanmoore Middle School is over.” And Archer will finally pay for what he did to me.
The farthest set of bleachers is filling up. The top row is deep in the shadows, just like the bleachers in our gym. I’m about to go grab a seat when I see a very familiar face.
Mr. Mayer makes his way up the stairs and sits right in the spot I wanted. There are two more sets of bleachers, so I decide to find someplace where I won’t be sitting directly across from him.
Just then there’s a commotion by the players’ entrance. I stand on my tiptoes to see what’s going on. The small crowd parts to make room for a guy in a black felt cowboy hat with a silly blue feather in the band.
Mr. X is in the house.
A security guard walks by, talking into a walkie-talkie. “Cherry bomb in the toilet?” the guard says, grinning the grin of a former troublemaker. “It knocked it clean off the wall? Classic!”
That explains the boom. Apparently, the McQueens have graduated from newspapers and soup.
I need to take my spot before somebody else does, so I slip around the back of the bl
eachers and up the stairs into the shadows. From my seat I watch as the Arch shakes hands with Mace. As he tries to let go, Mace pulls him in close and whispers something in his ear. The brim of the cowboy hat shadows the Arch’s face, his body tenses, and he leans away. Mace is probably reminding him what will happen if he doesn’t pay back the money he owes.
I remember Mace forcing the claw machine to do his bidding with a quick jab of his knee. I wince imagining the Arch on the receiving end of that shot. It should make me happy to see my nemesis with his tail between his legs, but ever since we confronted each other at Thunder Alley, I’m having a hard time despising him. Since then I’ve caught myself thinking of him more as the kid who used to be my best friend, instead of the fake hero he’s been posing as. Watching Mace intimidate him now reminds me that even though he’s taller than I’ll ever be, he’s still just a kid tangled up in a dangerous adult game.
Besides, he was never Mace’s best friend. When the Arch finally faces the music for all of this, I don’t want it to be at the hands of some overgrown bully. I want him to live the rest of his life knowing it was the friend he tried to forget that took him down.
The lights dim and everyone goes quiet as a man in a suit walks out in front of the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the regional finals of the Great Northwest Poker League. Let’s meet the players!”
The lights blaze back to life, revealing the players seated at six tables. The crowd ripples with applause.
“Tonight’s format will be blah . . . blah . . . blah . . .” The announcer explains the rules, and the dealers start passing out cards. It’s hard to tell exactly what’s going on, but by watching the players’ body language and the size of their stacks of chips, it’s pretty obvious who the winners and losers are. I wonder what my parents would think if they saw all of this money being thrown away on a game.
I draw my hood even tighter, making the hole just big enough for me to keep one eye on Mr. Mayer and one on Moby.
After an hour and a half of watching players get eliminated, my butt is numb and my legs are asleep. They started with six tables but are down to just one. The remaining seven players are seated at the final table. Moby is at one end, the Arch at the other. Mace is in the middle position, across from the dealer.
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