by Ryan Calejo
“Because friendship means caring about someone other than yourself,” I said. “And from everything I’ve heard about you, I don’t think you’re capable.”
V glared at Saci. “Also, because I think you’re obnoxious, untrustworthy, and just about the worst kind of person.”
“You two know me pretty good…,” Saci said, and grinned. “So, friends or not?”
“Not.” I held the match up to his cap. “Now, where’s this ‘treasure room’ of yours?”
“Peru!” he answered quickly. “IS IN PERU!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
My eyes bugged. He had to be kidding… “PERU? That’s, like, on the other side of the CONTINENT!” I shouted.
“And it’s a very lovely place,” Saci said. “Beautiful landscapes. Amazing people.”
“But you’re from Brazil. Why wouldn’t you just keep your treasure room here?”
“Because that’s where everyone would expect me to keep it.…” He looked at me like I was about as intelligent as a domesticated turkey. “Você está louco ou o quê?”
I’d heard enough. “So you want your cap well done or extra crispy?”
“No! PÁRE—I telling you da truth! You stuff is in Peru, okay? Now, you burn my cap, deal off. But if you give me chance, I take you to my place, okay?”
“Think we can trust him?” V whispered into my ear. That was like asking if I thought it would be a good idea to leave our last jar of honey around Winnie the Pooh.
“He’s basically the shrewdest, sneakiest, and arguably most cunning sombra of all time,” I said. “No way we can trust him. But we have his cap; he’s gonna play ball.”
Violet glanced down at the cap. “Gosh, it really does reek, doesn’t it?” she said, pinching her nose.
And she wasn’t kidding. The thing smelled like a puke-inducing combination of rotten sardines, horsehair, a laundry basket full of unwashed gym clothes, and oddly enough, chicken feed. “The legends say he had a bruja put a spell on it so that everyone smells whatever smells worst to them. It’s sort of like his security system. To discourage thieves.”
“Pretty slick idea, actually.”
“Yeah, he’s sneaky smart.” Then, turning back to Saci, I said, “Peru is, like, three thousand miles away. Do you have any idea how much time you’ve cost us? It’s going to take days to get there!” And that was if the lobisomem didn’t eat us first. Ya tu sabes.…
“Days?” Saci made a confused face. “Why days?”
“All right. On your feet, Neymar,” I said, hauling him up. “Which way to the nearest train station? And not the Pearl of Luxury Travel, either. They’re not exactly fans of ours.”
“Why you wanna go to a train station for, huh?”
“Duh. To get to Peru. Were you not listening?”
“No, no, no, no. We don’t need no silly train. Saci take us to Peru. And in style!”
“And how exactly does Saci plan to do that?”
“I show you.” He held out his rosary-bead-bound hands. “Untie, please.”
Violet glanced over at me. I shrugged. “We got his cap.”
“You sure that’s enough?”
The truth? I wasn’t. More like 55 percent, but what I said was, “According to all the legends, it is.”
Violet didn’t sound very convinced. “If you say so…” She began to untie Saci, and when she was finished, he broke out into a little dance—bouncing up and down on his toes, his hips swinging this way and that as he high-stepped, hopped, and bopped all over the place. I thought I recognized the dance too—the samba, maybe? Which made sense, since it was one of Brazil’s most popular dances.
“Less do it!” Saci said, offering me a high five. I scowled at him, but it didn’t wipe that big mischievous grin off his face. “Ei, start dancing.…”
“What?”
“You want this to work or not? Dance! ”
“Is he serious?” Violet said.
“No idea.” But since it was impossible to know with this guy, we started dancing just in case. And was this quickly becoming one of the most embarrassing moments of my life? You bet. Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly J-Lo on the dance floor. More like J-No.
Saci, meanwhile, was laughing his annoying little head off. “You two dance so bad! You need lessons! No, forget it—I no think even lessons can help!”
A second before I could say something my mom probably wouldn’t have approved of, Saci twirled and shouted “AÇÚCAR!” and suddenly a cold wind picked up around us. It swirled and gusted, flapping our clothes and sending our recently purchased picnic blanket flying off the side of the hill. Lightning crackled across the sky.
Then, with an enormous SAWHOOOOOOSH, all three of us were sucked straight up in the swirling, whirling, roaring heart of a funnel cloud!
For one crazy second, I had an epic bird’s-eye view of the entire Cabana Mesa hill and the vast, wild jungle surrounding it. Then it was gone, lost in a blur of whipping, screaming wind as we rose up, up, up into the pitch-dark sky.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Being sucked into a funnel cloud was like being sucked into a giant vacuum cleaner. Or at least what I imagined that would be like. A huge, screaming wind that swept you off your feet and spun you in crazy circles as the world whipped by and even more wind screamed in your ears. Icy winds tore at my clothes. My hair blew around my face, stinging my eyes, my temples. I couldn’t see where we were going—the entire world had become this giant, shrieking blur—but I could feel us traveling not only up but also forward somehow. It was the strangest (and probably most terrifying) feeling I’d ever experienced in my entire life, and I was about 99 percent sure I’d left my stomach somewhere back on Cabana Mesa.
When the world finally stopped spinning, we found ourselves standing in a narrow alley between two tall cement buildings. The ground was gray cobblestone. A pair of large green dumpsters, their lids propped open by piles of overstuffed garbage bags, blocked off the alleyway behind us. From pretty much every direction came the frantic sound of road traffic—honking horns, the high-pitched squeal of slamming breaks, revving engines.
“Where the heck are we?” Violet asked, leaning back against the wall, looking a little green. I wobbled to the mouth of the alley and peeked out. Across a couple of lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic was a wide slate-paved plaza decorated with colorful flower beds, trees, and a huge concrete-and-bronze statue of some dude riding a horse. Groups of tourists strolled casually about, a few taking selfies by the antique-looking lampposts, others lounging on one of the hundred or so wrought-iron benches. Traffic swirled around the square in a dizzying blur of yellow taxis, red municipal buses, and delivery guys on shiny green mopeds weaving their way between both. Compared to the wild jungles and farmland of east central Brazil, this place looked like downtown Miami on steroids.
“I think we’re in Peru,” I said, glancing back at Violet. “Lima, maybe.” I could feel a stupid smile spreading across my face; we’d actually whirlwinded (definitely not a word, but it should be) all the way from Brazil to the opposite coast of South America. Just the thought was enough to make my brain spin, not that it wasn’t already.…
Saci, meanwhile, had strolled up beside me and was pointing across the street with his seashell pipe, which he’d somehow taken back from Violet. I had to resist the urge to smack it out of his hand.
“See that hotel?” he said. “That’s where I keep my all my good stuff, entende? It’s, like, my home away from home.… You heard this expression?”
He put one chubby little hand on my shoulder, and I shrugged it off. “Yeah, I’ve heard it.”
The hotel across the street—or Saci’s “home away from home”—actually looked pretty classy, like the sort of place where dignitaries or even presidents might stay on important visits. It was about half a city block wide and about six stories tall, but it blended nicely with all the other buildings that flanked the square on four sides. A doorman in a sleek black-and-red buttoned-up suit stood by
the entrance, greeting guests as they climbed out of limos and expensive-looking sports cars. In all honesty, I was a little surprised Saci had picked such a stylish place to hide his treasures. But it wasn’t until I saw the name of the hotel—GRAN HOTEL BOLÍVAR—on the sign above the tall glass doors that I realized the true twisted genius of it.
“A hotel?” Violet snatched the pipe out of Saci’s hand, sounding more than a little annoyed. “That’s, like, the stupidest place you could’ve picked.…”
“He didn’t pick just any old hotel,” I explained. “He picked the most haunted hotel on the entire continent.”
“What?”
“Gran Hotel Bolívar. Anyone who knows haunted hotels knows that place.”
“It’s true,” Saci said with a sort of proud grin.
“In fact, the fifth and sixth floor are so haunted, I heard they don’t even let guests up there anymore!”
“Not true!” Saci objected. “Dey let people stay there. Jess no one usually lasts the whole night… but dey allowed. Don’ be scaredy-cats—vamos!”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
The lobby of the Gran Hotel Bolívar had this cool 1910s vibe to it and was a whole heck of a lot nicer than I expected a famously haunted hotel to be, with pink marble columns, polished marble floors, and expensive-looking artwork hanging from the oak-paneled walls. As we passed one of the alcoves where three ladies in fancy flower dresses and pearls were sitting at a table sipping tea, Saci clapped his hands together, and suddenly all three of them spat mouthfuls of tea in each other’s faces. At the same moment some young guy in a tux was proposing to his girlfriend on the opposite side of the room; Saci raised his hand, and the bouquet of roses the guy was holding out to the girl along with the ring instantly wilted like month-old lettuce.
Saci giggled under his breath, and V and I both turned to glare at him. “Wha’? It’s my nature.… Saci cannot help.” Then he snapped his fingers, and a bellboy who was hurrying past us with a handful of luggage slipped on a suddenly slick patch of floor and went down in a tangle of arms and leather suitcases.
“Charlie, how do you say ‘You’re awful’ in Spanish?” V asked me, so I said, “Eres horrible,” and she repeated it to Saci with pretty decent pronunciation.
Which had Saci grinning. “Gracias.” Then, sticking his tongue out at her: “Saci can speak Spanish, too.…”
At the end of the hall we came to a service elevator. A large laminated sign above the doors clearly read FUERA DE SERVICIO/OUT OF SERVICE, but Saci obviously wasn’t big on following rules, so—in typical Saci style—he dipped into the front of his overalls, brought out a fat black marker, then turned the sign around and wrote El ascensor se siente mucho mejor ahora (which translates to “The elevator’s feeling much better now”) all while giggling like a five-year-old and punching the up button.
Violet sighed. “If your pranks had a butt, I’d kick it.”
A moment later the elevator doors opened with a ding, and the first thing I noticed was that the floor buttons were arranged vertically—and in ascending order—on the elevator’s stainless-steel control panel. The second thing was that all of them were available for selection, except of course for the top two—floors five and six—which had squares of cardboard with the international symbol for “no” (a red circle with a diagonal line through it) taped over them.
I said, “Maybe we should take the hint?”
Saci gave me a sideways smirk. “Don’ be so chicken, sassy.…” Then he peeled off the cardboard square covering the sixth floor, taped it over the button for the first floor, and jabbed number six with his thumb.
Violet looked like she was going to say something but held back. A second later the doors rumbled closed, and a loud, metallic squeal sounded overhead. I pictured busted gears turning—or rather, trying to turn but being too twisted or rusted to actually accomplish it.
I was about to ask if this elevator was even safe to use when the whole thing suddenly jerked into motion. “That’s reassuring,” I mumbled.
“Sassy, I tole already,” Saci said, turning to me, “calm down.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” I snapped.
He pointed at Alvin’s K-G G-Shock, which happened to be hanging out of my shirt again. “That’s what you name tag say.…”
“It’s not a name tag,” I grumbled. “It’s a dog collar. And it doesn’t belong to me.”
“You always wear stuff dat no belong to you?” He gave me a sly sideways grin.
“It’s a long story. Plus, it’s none of your business.”
“You smell funny, too. Like doggie shampoo.”
I groaned.
“And I didn’t wanna say nuttin’,” he went on, “but, man, you fashion sense sooooo bad.… Why you wearing some bony old fingers round you neck, anyway?”
I shook my head. This guy.…
“What’s wrong, Sassy?”
“I told you already—that’s NOT my name!”
“You know what dey say: If da collar fits…”
“No one says that. That’s not a thing.”
Facing forward now, Saci began to bounce up and down on his toes like he was warming up for a soccer match. When he caught Violet staring, he was all like, “Wha’?”
“Scared?” she asked.
The corners of his lips curled mischievously. “You have to be crazy not to be.…”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
The elevator doors opened on a long, freakishly narrow hall lined with ornate wooden doors—about a dozen or so on either side. Cobwebs hung like curtains from the low ceilings. A couple of them even stretched across doorways like dusty, silky barriers. On our left there was a row of ancient-looking sconces set a few feet apart along the wall. Their bleary reddish light cast strange shadows over the ceilings and doors, giving the whole place that spooky, half-lit feel of a haunted house. Even spookier, I could hear strange sounds coming from under those doors and echoing up the hall toward us—heavy footsteps… the squeal of floorboards… distant moans and groans.
My eyes slid to Saci. “I thought you said there were no people on this floor.”
“People?” he whispered. “Nope, no people…” The way he said “people” sent a shiver down my spine. I really, really didn’t like this floor.
The elevator gave a sudden jerk, and all three of us screamed. Then the doors began to close, and Saci had to stick his arm out to stop them.
“After you,” he said, motioning us out.
Violet narrowed her eyes at him. “Try again.”
Saci’s lips puckered into a frown. He looked like a little kid who’d just been yelled at for breaking a dish. “Why Saci gotta go first, huh?”
“Because it was Saci who decided to prank us. And because it was Saci who thought it would be a brilliant idea to take our stuff and hide it in one of the scariest, most haunted places in the southern hemisphere!”
He gave Violet puppy-dog eyes. “Saci sorry, okay? Forgive, forgive?”
“Just walk.” Violet sighed.
As we stepped out of the elevator, I noticed for the first time that there was some sort of greasy fog hanging low and thin over the dusty carpet. It wasn’t smoke—at least it didn’t smell like smoke—but the stuff seemed to be seeping out of everywhere, from the AC ducts, every crack and crevice in the walls, even from under the doors. Almost as freaky was the sharp drop in temperature; the hallway must’ve been a solid twenty degrees colder than the elevator. My breath came out in small white puffs as we followed klepto-Neymar slowly down the hall. I could feel my heart pounding painfully against my ribs. My throat had begun to burn from the cold.
Why the heck did we follow this little twerp up here?
Real smart, Charlie.
As we passed a door—one of the few that stood slightly open—I thought I saw a shadow flicker across it, an almost humanlike shape. It vanished before I could say anything, but I was pretty sure Saci had seen it too, because he started moving faster, hopping rapidly along lik
e a kangaroo late for work.
About halfway up the hall, Saci stopped at a door with a bronze plaque that read 603. “We’re here,” he whispered.
“Well, let’s go,” Violet said, and Saci nodded, sucking in a deep breath before wrapping his chubby fingers around the old-fashioned knob.
But he didn’t turn it immediately; instead he looked back and whispered seven of the scariest words I’d heard in my entire life:
“Don’t believe anything you see in there.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Suite 603 looked more like the secret hangout of some teenage bazillionaire than a hotel room. There were mounds of golden coins scattered everywhere. Gaming consoles—at least two hundred of them, everything from original Ataris to the latest handhelds—were stacked almost to the ceiling on the dining table and the L-shaped countertop of the little kitchenette. Piles of old- and new-school soccer jerseys were draped over the sofas and the row of flat-screen TVs, along with a whole mess of playing gear: shin guards and cleats, yellow-and-green soccer socks, sleeveless undershirts. I noticed that a bunch of the items (especially the jerseys) were signed, and most of the signatures belonged to either Pelé, Kaká, Ronaldinho, or Neymar. “Dude…,” I said, picking my way inside in a half daze. I mean, there was more signed gear in here than in the Football Museum in São Paulo! Beyond the living room area, along the back wall of the room, were rows and rows of trophies, almost all of them either silver or gold, including what looked like a genuine Ballon d’Or (which is the equivalent of an MVP trophy), and an equally legit-looking FIFA World Cup trophy! I could literally feel my jaw dangling down around my ankles. Who the heck has their very own World Cup trophy? Some of the greatest players of all time didn’t even have one!
“Bro, where did you get all this stuff…?” I couldn’t help asking.
When Saci didn’t say anything, I glanced over my shoulder to look at him—and realized he wasn’t there. Neither was Violet.