The Adventures of Jack Lime

by James Leck

  “Do you …” I said, sucking in air, “have … the … bike?”

  “What bike, Lime?” Bucky said.

  “Streamers … banana seat … little bell,” I said, just starting to get my breath back. “Ronny … Kutcher’s.”

  “Kutcher? Sandra Kutcher’s little brother?” he said. “Man, doesn’t that kid still ride around on a tricycle?” The crowd laughed again. “Let me tell you something, Lime. Nobody’s in the market for that kid’s bike. That’s small time. Real small time, and Bucky King ain’t small time. And, Sandra, she ain’t small time, either. She’s a real sweet girl,” he said, giving me a wink.

  I stamped on Big Head’s toes. He yelped, and I tried to slip out of his grip, but he was too strong.

  “Don’t like that, Lime?” Bucky said, stepping close to me. “Well, you really ain’t going to like this news flash, big man: me and Sandra used to hook up.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said.

  “It’s true.” Bucky grinned. “She couldn’t get enough of me, but I had to break it off. She got kind of boring, a little needy. But I’ll tell you, Lime,” Bucky said, squeezing my cheeks into the kind of pucker my crazy Aunt April used to force on me when I was a little kid, “she was one hell of a kisser.”

  “I don’t buy it, Bucky,” I slurred through the pucker. “You’re too ugly.”

  Bucky’s eyes blazed, and he chomped down on his cigarette. I was sure another punch was on its way, but at the last moment, he stopped himself and stepped back. “Toss him in the river with the rest of the trash,” he said, flicking the butt of his cigarette into the darkness. I watched the orange tip fly away and then sizzle in the black water of the Iona River. Big Head grabbed me around my chest, and Sneer grabbed my feet.

  I kicked. I thrashed. I fought the good fight, and I wish I could tell you I escaped, but that would be a lie. They started swinging me back and forth, building momentum. “One … two … three!” they hollered. For a moment, I was flying through the air, and then I hit the water.

  Bucky and his cronies thought this was all just fun and games. They’d toss me in the river, and I’d struggle out, soaking wet, with my tail between my legs, and never bother them again. Problem was they didn’t know I was prone to falling asleep at the worst times. So a simple dip in the Iona River suddenly got very serious when I felt my condition kicking in. Just before I drifted off to Never-Never Land, I saw someone diving in the water, then everything went black.

  I dreamed I was sitting on the bottom of the river. A purple grizzly bear rode by on Ronny’s bike — banana seat, streamers and all. As he drove past me, he yelled, “Find the bike, Jack.” I tried to say, “No thanks, bear,” but my mouth filled up with water. That’s when my dream took a turn for the worse. The purple bear was gone. Instead, I was staring into the face of a hideous green monster. It was descending on me, its mouth wide open, like it was going to bite my face off. I tried to scream, but choked instead.

  “Oh, thank God,” the monster said, leaning back. “I really didn’t want to give you mouth-to-mouth.”

  That’s when I realized this wasn’t a dream. I wasn’t under water; I was lying in the black mud on the banks of the river, with Colonel Crazy from the path kneeling beside me, apparently about to perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  “I owe you an apology, soldier,” he said. “I shouldn’t have forced you into being my mole. But I didn’t know that Bucky was going to go ballistic about a pair of night vision goggles. I mean, I know they’re not easy to get your hands on, but that whole situation was seriously snafu.”

  “Not … about … the goggles,” I said, coughing the words out.

  “You know, soldier, I’m tired of all these good-for-nothing bums taking everyone’s stuff and nobody doing anything about it,” he said.

  “It wasn’t about … goggles,” I mumbled, starting to get my wits about me again.

  “What’s that, soldier?” he asked.

  I sat up and finally got a good look at who I was dealing with. He was short and thin, with a wispy mustache growing behind the green paint covering his face. His helmet was gone, replaced by a short crew cut that still stood at attention even though it was soaking wet. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen.

  “You can relax,” I said. “He didn’t go ballistic about your goggles. It was over a bike.”

  “I told you to ask about the goggles, noncom,” he said, getting a little testy.

  “Yeah, well,” I said, standing up and getting a little testy myself, “I’m in the middle of a case, so you’ll have to do your own asking.”

  “What d’you mean, ‘case’?”

  “Case, assignment, investigation; call it whatever you want. But I’ve got a client who’s counting on me to find a ridiculous bike, and you’re barking at me about night vision goggles. Well, sorry, Sergeant Camouflage, but you’re going to have to learn to do your own recon.”

  “What’re you, like a detective or something?”

  “That’s right, smart guy.”

  “Say,” he started, “we should work together. You could use someone like me. I got the drop on you on the path, after all, and I saved your bacon in the river. Plus, my dad’s got loads of top-notch gear for undercover missions. What d’you say?”

  “I say I’m done with this dirty gig, Major Pain, so you can have it all to yourself. Sayonara and good luck,” I said, stumbling away.

  “The name’s Max,” he called. “Max Thorn. Just give me a call the next time you need someone to save your butt, soldier!”

  Friday, May 23, 11:38 p.m.

  A street with no name, Grandma’s House

  My hat, my wig and my glasses had fallen off in the river. I’d been beaten up three times today, and worst of all, I’d just found out that Sandra had had a sordid fling with Bucky King. And what did I have to show for it? Nothing. I didn’t even have a few coins to rub together. The way I figured, it was time to take down my shingle and take a permanent vacation from the P.I. business.

  That’s what I was thinking as I staggered home, so I didn’t notice my grandma sitting on the porch as I stepped onto the front walk. I’d also forgotten about the ten o’clock curfew, and the fact that I was half-covered in mud.

  “Burglar!” she yelled, grabbing the broom she used to sweep our porch. Unfortunately, Grandma didn’t recognize the ragged stranger stumbling up her front walk, so she charged at me, waving the broom above her head like a helicopter warming up. Like I said, my grandma’s not a small lady. So, I did the only thing I could think of; I ran. She would have woken up the whole neighborhood if we’d had any neighbors to wake up. As it is, my grandma lives on a deserted, dead-end dirt road without streetlights or even a name. She used to have neighbors until Luxemcorp bought up the town. My grandma and Moses (he owns The Diner) were the only two people who didn’t sell out. Luxemcorp just built around them. So there I was, being chased down a deserted road in the middle of the night by my own grandmother. It was the perfect end to the perfect day.

  “Grandma! It’s me!” I yelled, but she didn’t have her hearing aid in. We were halfway down the street when she clocked me in the head with the broom and knocked me to the ground. “It’s me! Jack!” I yelled, rolling onto my back. She had the broom raised above her head, ready to drop the hammer on my noggin when she realized who I was.

  “Jack,” she growled, “you’re late!” Then she turned, and without another word, marched back to the house.

  While I grabbed a hot shower, got into a clean pair of pajamas and wrapped myself up in a dressing gown, Grandma warmed up some chicken soup. My eye was a stunning shade of purple and completely sealed shut, and my stomach felt like someone had driven over me with a truck.

  “Jack,” Grandma said, as I stepped into the kitchen, “I raised your father to have an inquisitive mind, and it served him well. But I’m a little worried abou
t this detective agency you’re running. Being late for dinner all the time or losing a few gadgets to some juvenile delinquents is one thing. Coming home in the middle of the night, soaked to the bone and covered in mud is another thing altogether.”

  “Technically,” I said, sitting down at the kitchen table, “the middle of the night isn’t until two or three in the morning.”

  “Cut the sass, Jack,” she said, putting a steaming bowl of chicken soup in front of me and sitting down on the other side of the table. “When you got here in January, I knew I had to give you some space. Lord knows, you’ve had a rough go of it. And it can’t be easy living out here with me, when everyone thinks I’m some kind of crazy old witch. But there’s got to be a better way for you to make friends.”

  Make friends? If I hadn’t been so tired and beaten down, I would have laughed in my soup. “Don’t worry, Grandma. I’ve decided to quit the detective game for good.”

  “Smart boy,” she said. “Why don’t I call Moses on Monday and get you a proper job at The Diner?”

  I started to agree, but she held up her hand. “No arguments. It’s my way or the highway from now on, dear boy. Now, unless Your Majesty needs anything else, I’m going to hit the hay, and don’t wake me up in the morning. I’m sleeping in.”

  Lying in bed that night, I decided to take myself off this case first thing in the morning. I’d been beaten up by a little girl, by Bucky and his buffoons and then by my own grandmother, all for a weird kid who dressed like an Oreo cookie and a dame. A dame who had a thing for Bucky King. The image of Sandra making out with Bucky burned in my mind. I won’t lie, it hurt. It hurt bad.

  Saturday, May 24, 9:26 a.m.

  14 Mercury Lane, The Kutcher Place

  Standing on the Kutcher front stoop, I promised myself I wouldn’t mention Bucky. That was Sandra’s private business, and as a professional, I wouldn’t get involved in the private life of one of my clients. If Sandra wanted to make out with every lowbrow hood in Iona, who was I to stop her? Heck, if she wanted to go steady with every liar, cheat and dirty crook this side of Tokyo, be my guest. Far be it from me to stand in the way of true love. If she wanted to —

  “Jack,” Sandra said, opening the door and breaking my train of thought. “You don’t look so good.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, playing it cool, “nothing at all. Getting beaten up is just part of the job. I hardly notice it. It certainly didn’t bother me last night. Not in the least. Even when Bucky was using my gut for boxing practice. You remember Bucky, don’t you, Sandra? Bucky King?” To hell with professionalism and privacy; this was personal. “I believe you had a torrid love affair with him not so long ago!”

  “Well —” she started, but I wasn’t going to give her a word in edgewise. I was just getting warmed up.

  “Bucky King! The guy who runs the Riverside Boys. The guy who was the chief suspect in your burglary investigation. The guy who broke up with you! That Bucky King. Is this ringing any bells?” I was being cruel. I couldn’t help it.

  “Gosh, Jack,” she said, “calm down. We went out for, like, two weeks in grade eight. I wouldn’t exactly call it a love affair.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “well …” I was hoping for some yelling, some slamming doors, some passion, not, “Gosh Jack, calm down.”

  “So you don’t have the bike?” she asked, trying to change the topic.

  “Well … but … Bucky!”

  “Do you think you’ll find it before two? Ronny’s really counting on you, Jack.”

  She was being so businesslike, so coldhearted. Well, if that’s how she wanted to play it, I could play it that way, too. “That’s why I’m here, Miss Kutcher,” I said, staring her down with my one good eye. “I’m dropping the case.”

  “What?”

  “I think you heard me loud and clear, toots. I’m out, finished, finito benito. I’m done with this gig for good. Next time you see me, I’ll be just another sap washing dishes for a living.”

  “So you’re, like, giving up?”

  “That’s right,” I said. Our eyes met, and she knew no amount of eyelash batting or hand squeezing was going to change my mind.

  “Well, you wait right here, Jack Lime, because you’re breaking this to Ronny, not me.” She darted up the stairs and turned down a side hallway, leaving the front door open.

  What was with this dame? She just couldn’t let it go. I was done like dinner, and she was practically begging me to stay on the case. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of her flip-flops lying just inside the door. Those were the ones she had worn when she drifted into my life. It seemed like only yesterday. I could remember how she looked, how she smelled, the way she smiled; it was making me weak. I had to stay strong, keep focused. I forced my eyes to the left and noticed Ronny’s shiny black dress shoes. Beside his shoes was a pair of little sneakers caked in mud. They must’ve been Ronny’s, too (unless Mr. Kutcher had extremely small feet). What kind of kid walks around in dress shoes instead of sneakers, even filthy sneakers? My own sneakers were covered in the thick black mud that lined the river, and you didn’t see me gallivanting around town wearing my Sunday best. Heck, thanks to all the rain we’d been getting, every kid who’d been down to the river in the past two weeks had sneakers covered in that exact same black mud.

  And that’s when it hit me like a diamond bullet shot right through the middle of my forehead. I didn’t wait for Sandra. I was back on the case.

  Saturday, May 24, 9:44 a.m.

  2 Ganymede Court, Iona Elementary

  There were three things that had been bothering me about this case. One, why did the perp take the broken lock? Two, who in their right mind would want to steal Ronny’s bike anyway? And three, what did Missy mean when she said she tried to return the bike, but the kid she was returning it to already had a new one? Obviously, the new bike she was talking about was the slick mountain bike that had been wheeled out last night just before Bucky laid into me, but who owned that bike? I had to pay Missy King another visit.

  Missy was a creature of habit. I found her back at Iona Elementary, hanging upside down from the monkey bars.

  “Missy,” I called, standing back a bit from the playground equipment.

  “What d’you want, Lime?” she said, hopping down. “More abuse?”

  “I just need you to answer a question for me,” I said.

  “I don’t owe you nothing anymore,” she said, taking a few steps toward me.

  “You’re right,” I said, taking a few steps back, “but I wonder how your brother would feel if he knew you’d tried to take some of his merchandise back to its rightful owner?”

  “He wouldn’t listen to a word you said,” she said with a smirk.

  “Probably not,” I said. “But I don’t have to tell him myself. I’d just have to call in a few favors, get a few people to start talking about how they saw Missy King riding around town on a new yellow and black mountain bike with heavy duty wheels and shiny shocks.”

  “How d’you know what it looks like?” she hissed.

  I smiled. “I saw it last night. I might even get them to mention that the bike was stolen, and that it was up for sale at the Flea Market. Heck, I might even get someone to talk to Principal Snit about the whole messy affair.”

  “I’ll rip you apart, Lime,” she said, balling up her little fists and stamping toward me.

  “A name,” I said, holding my ground. “Just give me the name of the kid who owns the bike, and I’ll keep my trap shut.”

  “A name?” she said, hesitating.

  “That’s all I want,” I said, holding my hands up. “Then I’m out of your pigtails for good.”

  She frowned, then glanced around the empty playground. “Tommy Delane,” she said. And then Missy did something I’d never seen her do; she blushed. “Now am-scray or I’m going to pull your eyebrows out.�
��

  She didn’t have to ask me twice.

  Saturday, May 24, 1:54 p.m.

  14 Mercury Lane, The Kutcher Place

  When I rounded the corner of the Kutcher house, Ronny’s party was in full swing. Mr. and Mrs. Kutcher, Sandra, Ronny and a few of Ronny’s friends (and when I say a few, I mean two) were standing around a purple piñata in the shape of a bear riding a bike. They were all clapping in rhythm. Ronny was spinning one of his friends around like a top. The kid was blindfolded and gripping onto a short wooden bat. When Ronny was done, the poor sap stumbled forward, fell on his face, tried to get back up and then fell down again. Mrs. Kutcher ran over and hoisted him up, but before she could clear out, the kid whacked her in the back of the legs with the bat. Mrs. Kutcher stumbled to the ground. Mr. Kutcher tried to get her away from the kid with the bat, but he got socked in the stomach. Sandra was yelling, “Stop!” and Ronny was laughing so hard, he nearly fell over. I ran into the chaos, just about got clobbered, then ripped the blindfold off the dumb lug. He looked like he’d just woken up from a terrible nightmare.

  “What are you doing here, Jack?” Sandra demanded.

  “Can I talk to Ronny for a second?”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re, like, in the middle of a birthday party here.”

  “It’ll only take a second.”

  Sandra frowned and huffed. “It better be quick,” she said, squinting her eyes at me. “Come on, Ronny.”

  “What’s going on, Sandra?” Mrs. Kutcher called, leaning on Mr. Kutcher for support. “We still have to break the piñata.”

  “It’ll only take a second, Mummy,” Sandra said, and the three of us retreated around the corner of the house.

  “I thought you were off the case, Jack,” Sandra hissed, as soon as we were out of sight.

  “I need to speak with Ronny privately, Sandra,” I said.