by Nic Saint
Wilfred stared at the card. “So the guy’s dead, huh? So who’s gonna pay for my cruise?”
“I think you will find that plenty of people want to pay for your cruise, Mr. Dobosh,” said Professor Tom, looking up from his phone. He quickly checked the card and nodded sagely. “A card like this was sold at auction not so long ago for one million dollars.”
Wilfred was staring at the professor, a shiver running up his aged spine. “A million dollars? You gotta be kidding!”
“I kid you not, sir,” said the professor, smiling now as he showed him a picture on his phone. It was the exact same Mickey Mantle card that was lying on the desk blotter.
“Son of a turkey fart! That Plauder guy was trying to pull a fast one on me!”
“Yes, he was. He must have known the card was worth a great deal more than what he was offering for it, and he probably had a buyer waiting to take it off his hands.”
“Well, in that case I’m glad he got it in the gizzard,” said Wilfred before he could stop himself. “Well, I am!” he said when the manager lifted one of his thick brows, his eyes now practically popping out of his head as he studied that million-dollar baseball card. “Adam Plauder was a crook and a fraud and he was going to steal my money.”
“His real name was Donny Towns,” said the professor. “And he was a crook. A real one, I mean. He was also known as Hot Gangster.”
“I don’t care if he was hot or not, I’m just glad I escaped by the skin of my teeth.”
“Better put that card back in the safe,” the professor told the manager, who seemed reluctant to drag his eyes away from the face of Mickey Mantle and his blue ball cap, holding onto that yellow slugger and staring off into the middle distance, true victory on his mind.
“He looks like Tom Hanks,” said the manager. “Doesn’t he? In that baseball movie?”
“A League of Their Own,” said the professor, smiling. “There’s no crying in baseball!”
“That was a good movie,” said the manager, picking up the card and returning it to the envelope.
“That doesn’t look like no Tom Hanks,” said Wilfred, indignant. “That’s Mickey Mantle! All Mickey Mantle looks like is Mickey Mantle! He was the greatest athlete that ever lived—not some two-bit Hollywood actor!”
“Calm down, Mr. Dobosh,” said Professor Kelly. “Vernon was just saying that there’s a slight resemblance, that’s all.”
“Well, I don’t like his mentality,” said Wilfred. “Insinuating things about Mickey.”
He’d gotten up from his seat and watched as the manager put the envelope back into the safe, closed it, then replaced the picture of that ugly bulldog in front of it. He pointed from the professor to the manager. “There are some things in life that are sacred, gentlemen. And Mickey Mantle is one of those things. A little bit of respect is all I ask.”
“I certainly meant no disrespect, sir,” said the manager. “Tom Hanks is a great actor and Mickey Mantle was a great athlete—no doubt about it.”
Wilfred felt his blood pressure surge. He didn’t care. “Don’t you mention those two in the same sentence ever again, buddy. I’m not too old to slug you, you hear me?”
“There’s absolutely no reason to slug me, sir,” said the manager, starting to look uncomfortable. “And I do apologize for any aggravation I may have caused.”
Wilfred sobered, took his Yankees baseball cap from his head and scratched his scalp. He suddenly felt a bit sheepish. “Anyhoo. I just wanted to thank you—especially you, Professor Tom Kelly. Do you really think I can sell that card for a million smackeroos?”
“If you play it smart you certainly could,” said the professor.
He nodded his thanks, and stole a quick look at the manager. “Look, Tom Hanks is a great actor. In fact he’s one of my favorites. So I’m sorry if I flew off the handle just then. I know you meant no disrespect, sir. It’s just—what with my wife dying and all—and having to fly out here for this meeting with that douchebag that just died…” His voice trailed off and he suddenly felt distinctly weak-kneed.
The professor streaked forward and helped him to the chair and he sank down on it. He pointed to the bulldog portrait. “Tell me something—is that dog yours?”
The manager looked up at the portrait with a look of reverence. “Yes, she was. Lady was the greatest dog I ever had the honor of crossing paths with. She actually belonged to my wife.”
“She died, did she?”
“Yes, she did. Both my wife and Lady passed away last year.”
Wilfred grunted. “Looks like we’ve got something in common, you and I. We both lost our loved ones last year.”
“It never gets any easier, does it?”
“No, sir, it does not.”
“I actually started a dog shelter in Lady’s honor. Hope to do some good in her name.”
Wilfred patted the table. “You know what? If you help me sell that card to the highest bidder I’ll give a nice fat donation to that animal shelter of yours.”
“You would do that?” asked the manager, visibly touched.
“Yes, sir, I would. You really helped me out here, so now it’s my turn to do you a good turn. And since Cecily and I were never blessed with kids, and my time here on God’s green earth is running out, I figure I might as well do some good while I still can.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dobosh,” said the manager, clasping Wilfred’s hands and shaking them heartily. “Thank you so much!”
“You’re very welcome.” He stared off into space for a moment, his mind far away. “Cecily loved dogs. She’ll be smiling down at us right now, proud of her stubborn old hubby.” Then he thought of something. “Did you ever catch this hot gangster’s associate?”
Both men looked up, stunned. “What associate?”
“This Donny character wasn’t in this by his lonesome. He was bringing an associate to the party. To determine the quality and to see if my card wasn’t a fake.” When the men didn’t respond, he added, “Why, this partner may very well be the killer you boys are looking for!”
Chapter 19
Scott was alone in the room and frankly he was bored. In fact it wasn’t too much to say he was bored stiff. He’d played all the video games imaginable. He’d chatted with his best bud Derek and told him the whole story about the murder and Derek was appropriately awed until he wasn’t. And then he’d watched a few YouTube videos of a guy playing video games and making whacky comments while he played them and now he was bored.
He was lying on the bed wondering what he could do next when suddenly Ralph produced a plaintive howling sound. The dog had his paws up on the bed and was nudging Scott’s side with his snout, then howled some more.
Scott scrabbled him behind the ears. “I’m sorry, Ralphie but we can’t go out. There’s a blizzard if you hadn’t noticed. We’d be blown away if we went out now.”
But when dogs have to go, they have to go, blizzard or no blizzard, and Ralph just kept on howling softly, and nudging Scott.
“Oh, now don’t look at me like that,” said Scott when Ralph gave him that sad dog look. The look that is capable of melting hearts and racking up Facebook likes and shares. “You know I’d take you out in a heartbeat but I can’t. Mom told me not to set foot out of the motel cause if I do she’ll kill me. If the blizzard doesn’t kill me first, that is.”
Ooooooooowhoooooo!
“Look, you’re gonna get me in trouble here, Ralphie.”
Ooooooooowhooo!
“I know. I know.”
He scratched the dog behind the ears some more. And then he got an idea. One of those big, bright ideas he often got. The ones that did so much to enrich the lives of those around him—or turn them into a living hell, depending on how you looked at it.
First he needed to take stock: where were all the usual suspects? Maya had stepped out of the room to try and wrangle something from the vending machine downstairs in the lobby. Mom had taken Baby Jacob for a little walk up and down the hallways of the mot
el. Dad was probably still doing whatever he was doing with that funny little manager with the Danny DeVito face. So the coast was clear!
He jumped from the bed, eliciting an excited woof from Ralph, who pressed his snout into Scott’s butt for good measure, trying to ease him along, then he slipped into his thick winter coat, put on his hat and gloves, and moved to the door.
The dog couldn’t believe his good fortune. He stared at Scott for a moment, tongue lolling and disbelief etched on his canine features.
“Woof?” he barked.
“Yes, we’re going. Come on, boy.”
“Woof!” the dog barked, a happy bark this time. And then he was turning circles on the carpet, chasing his own tail, then jumped up against Scott, yapping happily.
“Quiet!” Scott admonished him. “We don’t want anyone to know we’re going out, buddy.” He pressed his hands on Ralph’s fluffy head and looked deeply into those trusty brown eyes. “You understand? This is a secret mission, buddy boy. We have to be all stealthy and stuff, all right? So you be good and pad along nice and quiet, like.”
Ralph must have sensed what his master expected, for he immediately turned quiet, sank down on his haunches and watched, ears pricked up as Scott carefully opened the door and peered out.
“The coast is clear,” he announced a moment later, and then they were on their way, boy and dog moving along the hallway with measured speed, then down the stairs, through the lobby and in the direction of the dining room.
Scott was holding Ralph on his leash but he didn’t even need to, as the Goldendoodle pranced happily along, staying by his side like the faithful canine companion he was. If Ralph was wondering why they didn’t simply walk out the front door, like the last time they went out for a wee, he didn’t give any indication.
Into the dining room they went, now wonderfully deserted, and then into the kitchen, where activities had likewise been suspended for the time being, the chef and his assistants on a well-deserved break.
Scott looked left—he looked right—and then he yanked open that freezer and stepped in.
“Yes, we’re going on an adventure, Ralph,” he said when the dog cocked his head and gave him a curious look.
It had been a while since Scott had last seen Hot Gangster in all his glory and he wasn’t really looking forward to making the dead dude’s acquaintance once again. But he was a member of the Kelly family, after all, and sleuthing was in his blood—or at least that’s what he told himself.
So he made a beeline for the tarped-up dead gangster, drew back the cover and took a good long look at the corpse.
“So we meet again, Hot Gangster,” he said under his breath, then took out his phone and took those snaps he’d meant to take last time but didn’t have a chance to. After all, hadn’t Derek expressed doubt about some aspects of Scott’s story? These pics would set the record straight. And they would cement Scott’s reputation as Penhurst High’s coolest dude.
“Now it’s your turn, buddy,” he told Ralph. The dog looked up at him with his trusty eyes and Scott crouched down next to him. “Look, Ralph. There’s a knife missing, all right? Someone took it. Most probably the killer. So we find the knife—we find the killer. Now use your nose to find the killer and I’ll take you out into that freaky blizzard for as long as you want. That’s the deal. Got it?”
It could have been Scott’s imagination but he had the distinct impression the dog was smiling. At the very least he looked pretty excited about the prospect of finally going out there into that wintry landscape again. He gave a short woof and then put his paws up on the table and sniffed all over the dead guy. And then he was off—on a trot!
Scott grabbed hold of the leash and then he was following along, Ralph holding his nose to the ground as he smelled his way out of the freezer, through the kitchen and into the dining room.
They passed through the lobby, which was pretty much deserted except for a couple of old folks staring through the front door at the raging storm outside and shaking their heads, then it was up the stairs again, Ralph clearly on a roll—following some kind of trail.
Scott was afraid to speak—afraid to distract Ralph when he was obviously onto something. So he simply jogged along as fast as he could. They’d arrived on the second floor but still Ralph was going strong—now taking the second set of stairs and moving to the third floor, where the staff rooms were located, Scott knew.
The wallpaper was peeling here, and the wall sconces hung crooked and were made of cheap plastic instead of glass. The carpet was threadbare and worn out and when finally Ralph came to a full stop in front of a door, Scott’s heart was hammering in his chest—not because of the frantic few minutes of action but from the sheer excitement of the chase.
“Is this it?” he asked, and Ralph gave a curt bark.
Scott swallowed, then applied his knuckles to the door and rapped it vigorously.
Moments later, the door opened and a fat man dressed in a wife beater appeared, his eyes half-lidded and his dark hair mussed. “Whaddya want?” he muttered, clearly not happy at being woken up by a kid with a dog.
But Ralph wasn’t constrained by the niceties of social norms: he simply moved inside the room, dragging Scott along, and cut a straight path for a large wardrobe located next to the bed.
“Hey! What’s the big idea?!” the guy cried.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” said Scott. “But my dog is onto something here.”
“You can’t come barging in here like this! Who are you?”
“My name is Scott Kelly and this is Ralph,” said Scott politely.
“Well… get lost, Scott Kelly,” said the guy, scratching under his armpit.
The room was a mess: clothes strewn all over the place, and there was even a copy of a dirty magazine half hidden under the bed. “Is this your room?” asked Scott.
“It’s just a spare room,” said the guy. “For when members of staff are required to stay the night.”
“You work in the kitchen, right?” asked Scott. He winced a little at the strange odor that seemed to permeate the room, a mixture of sweat, bad breath, stinky feet and general lack of oxygen.
“That’s right. I wash the dishes. What’s it to you?” said the guy, watching Ralph with rising annoyance.
The dog was scrabbling at the wardrobe now.
“What’s in there?” asked Scott.
“Nothing,” said the guy, suddenly a little defensive.
“Can I take a look?” asked Scott, and stepped forward.
The guy cut him off, though. “I think you better get lost, kid. You and that dog of yours.”
But Ralph wasn’t taking no for an answer. His frantic scrabbling had managed to kick back the wardrobe door, which now swung open on the rebound and displayed a mess of clothes stuffed onto shelves and hanging from clothes hangers and a mirror attached to the inside of the door, an old picture of Pamela Anderson in Baywatch red taped up in a corner.
“Hey!” the guy cried, turning to look.
Ralph, the final obstacle removed, dove right into the wardrobe, and when he came back out, was holding a plastic bag between his teeth, then proudly trotted over to Scott and shoved the baggie into Scott’s waiting hands. It was one of those Ziploc freezer bags.
Scott laughed when he saw what the baggie contained: a carving knife, blood caked to its blade.
“You stole this,” he said, swinging the baggie in the guy’s face. “You took this from the dead body in the freezer, didn’t you?”
“That’s mine,” said the guy between gritted teeth, and tried to grab the knife from Scott’s hands. “Give that back, you annoying little punk!”
“I’m a guest at this motel, so you better show me some respect,” said Scott, keeping the knife out of the man’s reach.
“Give it back!” the guy yelled and gave Scott a shove in the shoulder.
But Ralph wasn’t going to stand idly by while his master was being manhandled. The moment Scott tumbled back the dog was on his hind
legs, bearing his teeth and producing a menacing snarl, his front paws on the man’s chest, and then he was barking furiously.
The guy held up his hands, clearly terrified. “Get him off me! Come on, man! Get him off!”
“Ralph, it’s all right,” said Scott. “I’m fine.”
Ralph looked back to check and finally relented, dropping back down on all fours. He was still keeping an eye on the guy, though, ready to launch himself at him if Scott told him to.
“Good boy,” said Scott. Then, to the guy: “Did you kill Hot Gangster?”
“Of course I didn’t kill Hot Gangster!” said the dishwasher. He raked his fingers through his scraggly mane. “I just…” He shook his head. “Don’t tell anyone, all right? I’ll lose my job if you do. It’s just that… they don’t pay me very much in this dump. Chump change. And then that asshole chef—he’s crazy. Keeps yelling at people. He’s a terror to work for. So when I heard about Hot Gangster I figured I might take a couple pictures. Sell them to TMZ or the National Enquirer. But when I was snapping those shots I saw the knife and got a better idea.”
“You were going to sell it,” said Scott, who now saw the whole picture.
“Yeah.” He deflated completely now, and sank down onto the bed. “I got a wife, kid, and a kid of my own on the way. You don’t know how it is to have to scrape by like this. It’s humiliating. So I thought if I took the knife I could sell it on eBay or something, you know. Make a few bucks. ‘The knife that killed Hot Gangster’ or something. People pay a lot of money for that stuff. And it’s not as if he’s going to miss it, you know. He’s already dead.”
“Yeah, but the police are going to miss some grade-A evidence,” said Scott. “This knife is probably full of fingerprints of the killer and his DNA and stuff.”
“Yeah, right,” scoffed the dishwasher. “Who’s stupid enough to leave their fingerprints and DNA on the murder weapon in this day and age? Hasn’t everyone seen CSI by now? Or any of those cop shows? I’ll bet whoever killed Hot Gangster used gloves.”
“You still shouldn’t have taken it,” said Scott, gesturing with the knife. “It’s evidence of a crime and stealing evidence is also a crime.”