The Adventures of Jack Lime

by James Leck

  “No way!” she said, stamping her foot. “What you have to say to Ronny, you can say to me.”

  “Ronny,” I said, ignoring Sandra, “I’d rather talk to you alone.”

  Ronny shook his head.

  “It would be better if we spoke man to man, Ronny.”

  Ronny shook his head again.

  “All right,” I said, stepping away from the two of them, “but remember, I tried to speak with you alone.”

  “What’s this all about, Jack?” Sandra demanded.

  “Follow me,” I said, and led them to the front of the house.

  There, leaning up against the white picket fence, was Ronny’s old bike: banana seat, streamers and one silver bell.

  “You found it! You found it!” Sandra squealed, jumping up and down, clapping her hands. Ronny walked to the bike and rang the bell. It emitted a squelching ring.

  “I’m afraid it’s still a little soggy, Ron, but it should be as good as new by tomorrow.”

  “Soggy?” Sandra said. “Where did you find it?”

  “At the bottom of the Iona River,” I said.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Sandra said.

  “Afraid not,” I said. “It meant calling in three favors and borrowing half a dozen underwater masks, a fishing net and a U.S. Navy metal detector from a nut job who thinks he’s in the Marines, but hang the expense! So long as Ronny here has his precious bike back for his birthday.”

  “How did you know?” Ronny asked. His face had gone from very pale to extremely pale.

  “I’m glad you asked me that, Ron. You’ll have to bear with me for a few minutes while I explain. You see, the first clue was the lock, or the fact that there was no lock. I wondered why anyone would break your lock and then take it with them. Why would anyone want a broken lock? Then I started to wonder who would be interested in your bike, but Sandra didn’t think there was anyone interested in this particular bike —” I turned to Sandra, “— because it had certain special … qualities. Ronny suggested the Riverside Boys took it and were planning to sell it at the Flea Market. I have to admit, that seemed like a long shot, but it was the only clue I had, so I followed it. That’s how I ended up getting into a rather sticky situation with Missy King. But just before things got messy with Missy, she said something very interesting. She said she had tried to return the bike, but the owner already had a new one.”

  “What?” Sandra said. “Ronny doesn’t have a new bike.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “That’s what confused me. So I chalked it up to one of Missy’s outrageous lies to throw me off the trail. But clearly there was a bike that had been stolen, and it was going to be sold at the Flea Market. I didn’t have any other clues to go on, so I decided to check it out just in case it was Ronny’s. Turns out, the bike Missy was talking about was a brand-new twenty-one-speed mountain bike. I found out this morning it belonged to a kid named Tommy Delane. His bike was stolen about a week ago and he was all broken up about it. But his Dad has got some serious cabbage to spread around, so he went out and bought him a new one. Tommy just happens to be in Missy’s class, and it didn’t take a whole lot of digging to find out that she’s got a major crush on the poor guy. So that’s why she decided to return the bike and risk getting her knees broken by her big bro, Bucky. But, like I said, Tommy already had a new bike, so Missy took the old one back before Bucky had a chance to find out it was even missing. I didn’t find out the bike Bucky had wasn’t Ronny’s until I was getting better acquainted with Bucky’s hairy knuckles.” I resisted giving Sandra one of my patented icy glares. “But, like his sister, Bucky said something very interesting just before we had to say good-bye. He said, ‘Throw him in the river with the rest of the trash.’ At the time, I wasn’t in any condition to reflect on what he meant. However, today, when I came to tell you I was off the case, I noticed Ronny’s muddy sneakers, and it all came together like one of my grandmother’s patchwork quilts. And that’s how I found your bike.”

  “What?” Sandra said. “That’s it? I don’t understand. What do Ronny’s muddy sneakers have to do with anything?”

  I looked over at Ronny, who was still standing beside the bike, but he didn’t look back. “Good question, Sandra. Normally, a pair of muddy sneakers isn’t a big deal. Heck, there’re a lot of kids in Iona walking around in muddy sneakers right now. But you’ve got to ask yourself, how did they get muddy?”

  “There’re lots of places they can get muddy,” Ronny said in a low growl.

  “That’s right, Ron. There are a lot of places they can get muddy, but your sneakers are so covered in mud that you’ve been wearing your dress shoes around. You’re wearing them right now.” I pointed to Ronny’s feet. “I’d bet dollars to doughnuts he’s been wearing those dress shoes since Friday morning.”

  “That’s right!” Sandra said. “Mummy won’t let him wear his sneakers until he cleans them up. They got in a big fight about it.”

  “So, how’d they get so dirty? Well, we’ve been getting so much rain that anyone who’s been down by the river would get their shoes covered in mud.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sandra said, her eyes growing wide. “You don’t mean …” She couldn’t finish. She just stared at her brother.

  “That’s right,” I said. “There’s no need to break the lock if you’ve already got the key.”

  “Oh, all right,” Ronny said. “I did it! I took my stupid bike down to the river, and I rolled it in! I hate that bike! I hate it! I don’t care if you all think it’s great and how I’ve had it forever and ever and how Dad fixed it all up for me, just like I wanted it! It’s stupid and it’s slow and the other kids make fun of me for it! If I just got rid of it, I thought I’d get a new bike! And I would have, if it wasn’t for this stupid face!” Ronny was crying and pointing one pale little finger right at me.

  “Oh, Ronny,” Sandra said, running to him and giving him a hug. Ronny buried his face in her shoulder and sobbed.

  I risked my neck for this kid, and he’s the one getting the hug. Typical.

  “What’s the matter, big guy?” Mr. Kutcher asked, coming around the corner of the house.

  “It’s nothing, Daddy,” Sandra said.

  “Is this your old bike?” Mr. Kutcher asked, walking over to the fence. “I thought it was stolen.”

  “Not exactly,” I said. Sandra and Ronny turned and glared at me. I could finally see the family resemblance.

  “Well,” Mr. Kutcher said, pulling a garage door opener from his pants pocket. “I guess you won’t be wanting this, then.” The garage door opened, revealing a brand-new twenty-one-speed mountain bike.

  “Golly!” Ronny said, running to the bike.

  “A new bike! A new bike!” Sandra was jumping up and down again, clapping her hands.

  “And just in time for summer,” Mr. Kutcher added.

  Saturday, May 24, 7:57 p.m.

  29A Main Street, The Diner

  It was a dark and stormy night. Good weather never seems to last very long around here. Every other kid in Iona was down the street at The Bijou catching a flick, or sucking down a mocha cappuccino at Monty’s Cafe, or maybe locked in their room getting ready for final exams, but I wasn’t. I was inside, tucked into the rear booth of The Diner, nursing a root beer float and trying not to think about Sandra Kutcher. The place was empty except for the owner, Moses, who was behind the counter sipping a hot cup of joe and listening to the Cubs game on his beat-up transistor radio. Empty wasn’t unusual for The Diner, a place with no real name. Empty suited me just fine. I needed a little peace and quiet.

  THE CASE OF THE DAILY TELEGRAPH

  Monday, June 2, 8:26 a.m.

  2 Pluto Court, Iona High

  Gregory Pepperton, my client, was getting a wedgie. Not just an ordinary wedgie. He was getting an atomic wedgie. A bruno named Malone was yanking the poor sap’s underwear up
to his armpits. Gregory glanced in the direction of the bushes I was hiding behind. His face was contorted in pain. Malone gave one last yank, and Gregory’s tighty-whitey’s finally ripped off. Gregory crumpled to the ground, writhing, and Malone did a victory lap around the back lot waving Gregory’s underwear in the air like a flag. I pressed the stop button on my camera. I had the whole nasty scene saved on digital, and pretty soon Principal Snit would have it, too. My client was hoping it would get Malone tossed out of Iona High for good. I had my doubts that a wedgie, no matter how heinous, would get anyone kicked out of school for more than a week, but my job wasn’t giving advice. I was a P.I., and my job was doing what my clients wanted, no questions asked. I was just starting to stand up when someone jumped behind the bushes I’d been using as cover.

  “What’s the deal?” I asked, worried this guy might be one of Malone’s goons.

  “Stay down,” he said, grabbing my shoulder and shoving me close to the ground. He was a big guy, but no taller than six foot six, and no more than three hundred pounds. His hand was about the size of my head, and it felt like he might break my shoulder if he didn’t let go soon.

  “Easy there, boss,” I groaned. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Huh?” he said, not looking at me. He was peering over the bush, but I couldn’t see what he was looking at.

  “Could you ease up on my shoulder, brother? I won’t blow your cover. I promise.”

  He was wearing a black jacket with the hood up and a ball cap pulled low underneath, so I couldn’t get a good look at his face. “Oh, sorry,” he said, releasing his grip. “Just stay down.”

  “I’ll hold tight, but can you tell me what we’re supposed to be looking at?”

  “Across the field,” he said in a whisper. “The can.”

  “The garbage can?” I asked, following his gaze to the far side of the football field. “The one next to the bleachers?”

  “I just made the drop,” he whispered. “They’ll be here soon.”

  The two of us squatted there, watching the garbage can, but no one came to pick anything up. The first bell rang, and my oversized friend glanced at his watch. Four or five kids who were finishing their cigarettes flicked butts on the ground and filed into the school.

  “They’ve got to come. They’ve got to,” he whispered again. We both sat and watched the can in silence. The back lot was completely empty.

  “What’s in the can?” I asked. He didn’t answer.

  I was supposed to be slipping the disk of Gregory’s assault under Snit’s door. I was supposed to be in chemistry class. I was supposed to be minding my own business. So, of course, I stuck around. “Hey! Wise guy!” I said, trying to get his attention. “What’s in the can?”

  “Shh! Be quiet!” he whispered.

  “I’ll be quiet when you let me know what’s in the garbage can, friend.”

  “Would you be quiet!” he hissed. “Who are you, anyway?” he asked, finally turning to face me.

  “Easy, guy, you’re the one who invited me to stay for this party, remember? I’m just wondering what the surprise is going to be.”

  He glared at me for a second, then glanced at his watch again. “Why aren’t they coming to get it?”

  I was beginning to think this guy was loony tunes, and I didn’t like the idea of spending my morning hiding in the bushes with a goofy galoot. “Look, pal, I don’t know what game you’re playing at, but if you don’t bring me into the loop PDQ, then I’m getting up and going inside.”

  “It’s an essay, all right?” he said. “Now be quiet.”

  “Why did you put an essay in a garbage can?”

  “I put it in the can because someone’s got Carver. That’s why. Because they have Carver,” he said, punching the ground with one giant fist.

  “Who’s Carver?”

  “Here,” he said, pulling a folded piece of paper out of his jacket and tossing it to me. It was a picture of a hamster standing in front of a newspaper. There was a message scrawled in red letters across the bottom: “Write the essay, or the rodent dies.”

  “Carver’s a hamster,” I said.

  He turned to me seriously. “Yeah, Carver’s a hamster. He’s my hamster.”

  “So, whoever has Carver made you write this essay for them, or Carver gets to meet his maker?”

  “That’s right,” he said, turning to me. “Say, you put that together pretty quick. Are you in on this?”

  He looked suspicious, and I didn’t like the idea of a guy that big (and possibly nutso) getting suspicious. “I don’t know thing one about your essay, and I definitely don’t know anything about Carver the hamster. I do know a little something about blackmail. I know too much about it. See, I solve problems, and blackmail seems to be a problem that’s going around Iona High in spades.”

  “You solve problems? What are you, like a detective or something?”

  “Detective, private eye, gumshoe, last resort — you can call me whatever you like.”

  “Well,” he said, staring over the bush, “I wish you could solve this problem.”

  “That can be arranged,” I said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Like I said, I solve problems for people. I could solve this one for you. But before you put me on the case, you should know there’s a price. There’s always a price.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “What’s that?”

  “If I solve this problem for you, then sometime down the line, I’ll pay you a visit, and I’ll need a favor. That’s the price; nothing too outrageous, just a small favor.” I held up my hands to show him this wasn’t a con job.

  “Man, if you can find Carver, you can ask me for whatever you want.”

  “Then it looks like I’m on the case,” I said, holding out my hand. “Name’s Jack Lime.”

  “Tyrone Jonson,” he said, shaking my hand. I was afraid he might break it. The late bell rang, and he checked his watch again. “I’m going to be late for pre-cal.”

  “That’s why you hire a peeper like me, Tyrone. So you can drift off to class and I’ll make sure nobody walks away with your essay.”

  “All right,” he said, getting up and heading for the door. He stopped halfway, turned around and came back. “What were you doing hiding in the bushes in the first place?”

  “I solve problems, Tyrone. Sometimes that means hiding behind bushes.”

  He looked at me sideways, sizing me up. “If that essay’s gone, I’m going to come looking for you.”

  “That’s fair,” I said, and he turned to go. “Hey, Tyrone,” I called, and I was about to ask him if he’d slip Gregory’s disk under Snit’s door. Then I remembered Rule One for any detective worth his salt: don’t trust anyone. That’s a lesson I learned the hard way, thanks to a dame named Jennifer O’Rourke. Her case involved a trivia contest, a fake bookcase and a few incriminating photos, but that’s another story.

  “What do you want?” he asked while I reconsidered.

  “After first period, could you bring me a root beer?” I said, trying to cover up.

  “Does that count as the favor?”

  “No,” I said. “But it’s fixing to be a scorcher, and I don’t want to melt in this heat.”

  Monday, June 2, 2:02 p.m.

  Iona High, The Back Lot

  I’d just spent an entire day staking out a garbage can instead of going to classes. Normally, that would make me edgy, but I was too hot to be edgy. Good thing Tyrone was bringing me my fourth bottle of water that day. (Selling soda in school had been nixed by the powers that be, so root beer was out of the question.) I thought the jacket he’d been wearing when I first met him might have bulked him up, but he wasn’t wearing his jacket this time, and he was just as big as I remembered. He’d be easy to find in a hurry. Besides being a giant, he sported dreadlocks that shot out fro
m his head like a water fountain, and he wore thick, black-rimmed glasses. I had to wonder why I’d never noticed him before. Maybe I was slipping.

  “Bad news,” I said, as he squatted down beside me. “No one’s even glanced at that can all day. Not even a whiff of interest.”

  “I can’t figure it out,” he said, already sweating a little. “Why would someone make me write an essay and then not come to pick it up?”

  “Maybe they’re patient,” I said.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “They might be back after school or maybe even tonight. But I have to level with you, Tyrone; I can’t stick around here forever. I’ll stay until five, then I have to head home. When my grandmother finds out I cut classes today, I’ll fry, but if I’m late for supper, she’ll have the fuzz scouring the town for me again. That will mean a month under glass, and then I won’t be any good to you. Tomorrow we’ll try this thing from a different angle, but it’s too hot for all this chitchat right now. Here’s my card,” I said, pulling out my wallet. I passed a card to Tyrone. “My number’s on it. Meet me in the cafe-teria tomorrow morning at eight. Call if you can’t make it.”

  Tyrone stuffed the card into his pants pocket and headed back inside as the bell rang for last period. I hunkered down with my water and prayed for the kind of action that would make a day in this heat worthwhile.

  Tuesday, June 3, 8:09 a.m.

  Iona High, The Cafeteria

  I was sitting at the back of the cafeteria, eating a bacon and egg sandwich and sipping on a frosty root beer that I had picked up on the way to school when Tyrone blew in through the main doors.

  “Did they pick it up?” he asked as soon as he reached me.

  “Nope,” I said. “I stuck around until five, but the place was a ghost town. By then, even the teachers had gone home.”

  “I don’t understand it,” he said, sitting down next to me. “I just don’t understand it.”

  “Tyrone, if I’m going to help you, I’m going to need some info. Why don’t you tell me how this crazy dance got started. From the beginning this time.”