The Malted Falcon

by Bruce Hale

  I picked up the pace. “Dunno. I spotted them yesterday after class, and now here they are again.”

  “Maybe it’s your animal magnetism,” she said.

  “Very funny.”

  I began skipping. Natalie looked at me like I was cracked.

  “Are they skipping?” I asked.

  She checked. “Uh-huh. But they might have spring fever.”

  I started to trot. The shaggy duo trotted behind.

  “Only one way left to be sure they’re tailing us,” I said.

  “What’s that?” Natalie flapped her wings to keep up.

  “Run!”

  So we ran, full tilt boogie. Behind us, footsteps echoed.

  Natalie and I shot down the hall and around a corner. Before our pursuers appeared, I pointed up. Natalie flapped to the roof. I scrambled after her.

  “What—” she started to say.

  “Shh.” I stopped her. Dropping to my belly, I peeked over the edge.

  Two fuzzy heads met my gaze.

  “Where’d they go?” said the frizzy-haired one.

  “Search me,” said the other, who had a head as round as a doughnut.

  “Mr. Big ain’t gonna like this,” said Frizzy. “You blew our cover.”

  Doughnut Head whined. “Me? You’re the one who kept staring at them like they was fresh cattail pie.”

  Still arguing, the pair stomped off down the hall.

  I sat back on my heels. “You know what that means, don’t you, when someone named Mr. Big is involved in a case?”

  “Big trouble?” said Natalie.

  “You can say that again.”

  “Big trouble?” she repeated.

  I winced. “On second thought, once was enough.”

  10

  Dustup with a Dunderhead

  We had just enough time to grill someone before class. Natalie and I wandered the playground, checking for classmates we’d missed.

  Then we hit the jackpot.

  Little Gino leaned on a tetherball pole. He was uglier than a year without summer vacation.

  “Hmm,” I said. “He’s big enough to be Big, and he could’ve stolen the ticket.”

  “Think you can make nice with him?” asked Natalie.

  “No problem,” I said. “I’m as mellow as Jell-O.”

  “Uh-huh. Jalapeño pepper Jell-O.”

  We stopped a few paces away from him.

  Gino eyed us. “You lookin’ for a knuckle sandwich?” he sneered.

  I forced a smile. “No, thanks, not hungry. Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start again. I’m Chet Gecko; welcome to our school.”

  “Hah! I’m Little Gino; mind your own bizzo if you don’t want a fat lip.”

  Natalie stepped in. “We just wanted to chat,” she said. “That’s all.”

  The tuatara rolled his shoulders. “Oh, yeah? What about?”

  “Oh, things,” she said.

  “What things?”

  “Things happening in your classroom,” I said.

  He frowned. “Keep your beak outta my room.”

  “Easy, big fella,” said Natalie. “It’s my room, too.

  I watched a fly circle above the tuatara’s head. “We just wondered if you saw anything odd yesterday, like someone where they shouldn’t be?”

  “Or something going missing?” Natalie added.

  “What?” said Little Gino. “You calling me a thief?”

  “Relax, Lumpy,” I said. “No one’s accused you of anything.”

  The tuatara noticed the fly. As he opened his mouth to slurp it up, I shot out my tongue and zapped it. That’d teach him to mess with Quick-Draw Gecko.

  Little Gino snarled. “You think you’re so hot.”

  “Only when it’s sunny,” I said.

  His knobby spines seemed to rise. “Gecko, you’ve rubbed me the wrong way ever since I met you.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Believe me, there’s no rub lost between us.”

  “That’s it!” he snapped. “One more wisecrack, mate . . .”

  Little Gino glared down at me. I glared back at him.

  R-r-rring!

  The bell kept him from having to finish his threat. (That, and a nearby teacher on yard duty.)

  “Aw, get knotted, you Froot Loop!” he said. The tuatara stomped off.

  Natalie raised her eyebrows. “Mellow as Jell-O, eh?”

  “Hey, he’s a touchy guy,” I said.

  We shuffled back to class. Sweaty kids tromped off the playground beside us. I paused at the corner of my building.

  “Do me a favor, Natalie?”

  “As long as it doesn’t involve loaning you snack money.”

  I nodded at her classroom. “Keep an eye on Little Gino,” I said. “He’s up to something.”

  “Stealing the Malted Falcon ticket?”

  “Dunno. But it’s not running for Mr. Congeniality.”

  Natalie saluted me with a wing feather. “Righty-o, Gecki-o.”

  I nodded. “Pip-pip, No-Lips.”

  11

  Out of the Frying Pan, into the Liar

  I won’t bother telling you about my classes before lunch (mostly because I can’t remember them). Let’s just say I came, I pretended to study, I left. And the whole time, I brooded on my cases.

  Questions chased each other like pond skaters around the frozen swamp of my brain. Who stole the Malted Falcon ticket? Why was the mysterious Mr. Big interested in us? Who was he?

  And, if aluminum foil is made of aluminum, what do they make foghorns out of?

  Hungry for answers, I settled for lunch. Natalie and I polished off our creamed chipped beetles on toast and ambled over to the scrofulous tree to plan. Although both of our clients wanted a lunch meeting, neither one had said where.

  As it happened, they came to us.

  I’d just settled against the tree trunk when the bushes rustled. A lean prairie dog crawled out.

  “Ah, Mr. Gecko and Ms. Attired,” said Freddie Nostrils. “So good of you to meet me.”

  “What’s on your mind, Freddie?” I asked.

  He paced on the grass. “Er, the case,” he said. “Have you made any progress in finding my, er, friend’s ticket?”

  “Not much,” I said. We brought him up-to-date.

  Freddie grimaced. “Can’t you speed things up? My friend needs the, er, ticket by tonight.”

  “More information might help,” I said. “For example, who is your friend?”

  The prairie dog’s eyes went wide. “Er, no. He wishes to stay anonymous.”

  “So he’s a mouse?” asked Natalie.

  “I didn’t say that,” Freddie said.

  I stood up. “Wait, I thought your friend was a she.”

  “Did I say that?” Freddie looked past me and flashed a bucktoothed smile. “Hurry up and find the ticket,” he said. “Time flies like an arrow.”

  “Yeah, and fruit flies like a banana,” I said. “Why can’t you—

  But before I could finish, Freddie Nostrils had popped out of sight.

  Natalie looked where he’d gone. “As the mama fish said when her husband was hooked, what’s gotten into him?”

  Just then, the bushes on the other side of the tree swayed. Lili Padd poked her froggy face around a clump of leaves.

  “What is this,” I said, “National Bush Creeping Day?”

  “Have you found my valentine?” she asked hopefully.

  “Not yet,” said Natalie.

  I scratched my chin. “Far as we know, Bert doesn’t have it. We’ll check on his girlfriend next.”

  Lili looked confused.

  “His other girlfriend,” said Natalie.

  “Ah,” said the frog.

  Leaves crunched again, and we all turned to look. Freddie Nostrils was brushing twigs from his fur, saying, “What I can tell you is—”

  He spotted Lili and stopped. Her mouth fell open.

  “You!” they said together.

  She hopped toward Freddie. He gla
nced at Natalie and me, then sidled up to the frog.

  “My, my,” he said. “It seems we are on the, er, same track.”

  “Could be,” said Lili.

  “Making any progress?” asked the prairie dog.

  “Possibly,” said Lili. She was cagier than the Three Blind Mice in a kitchen appliance store. But why?

  “Does he know what you’re doing?” asked Freddie.

  “He who?” said Lili.

  Natalie cocked her head and grinned. “He who lies down with dogs gets up with fleas!”

  Both of our clients just stared at her. Sometimes, I don’t get mockingbird humor, either.

  “You know who,” said Freddie. “Mr. Big.”

  Lili glared at the prairie dog. “Not in front of my detective,” she hissed.

  “He’s my detective,” said Freddie. “I hired him first.”

  “Nuh-uh, I did.”

  Strange—I was suddenly Mr. Popularity. If only my teachers felt this way.

  I stepped forward. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Who is Mr. Big? And why would he care about you getting your valentine back?”

  Freddie stared at Lili. “Valentine?” he said. “Then you have not told th—”

  “That’s enough!” said the frog. She shoved Freddie with both webbed feet.

  Whomp! He staggered back into the tree.

  I grabbed Lili’s arm. “Told us what?” I asked.

  “Nothing!” she said.

  Freddie grinned a crooked grin. “She is after the same thing I am: the Malted Falcon ticket.”

  His words sank in. I released Lili.

  Natalie gaped. “You—you lied to us again!?”

  Lili shrugged. “I’m not proud of it.”

  “Enough!” I said. “I don’t have to take this kind of abuse from a client; that’s why I’ve got a little sister.”

  I nodded to Freddie. “From now on, we’ve only got one client. Come on, Natalie.”

  We started to go.

  “But—” said the frog.

  “No froggy buts,” I said.

  Freddie smoothed his fur. “Perhaps we should discuss joining forces?”

  Lili’s wide mouth began to tremble, and her huge eyes glistened. She caught my sleeve.

  “Please, Chet. Just a word before you go?”

  A tear quivered on her lower eyelid.

  “All right,” I said. “What harm could one word do?”

  12

  Skip to My Loser

  Five minutes later, we’d made a deal. Natalie and I promised to give Lili one more chance, and she promised to work with Freddie. Lili paid us a bonus. And she gave us a tip—the Malted Falcon ticket was inside a valentine.

  But neither she nor Freddie would say anything more about Mr. Big.

  I didn’t worry; I had my own ideas about reaching him.

  Natalie and I left our clients and hustled off to find Bert’s girlfriend Sally Monella. If she didn’t have the envelope, we faced a lot more legwork.

  We hadn’t gone far when I got a tingly feeling. (No, not gas.) A casual look around revealed the two muskrats who had shadowed us earlier.

  Natalie had spotted them, too. “We’ve got company,” she said.

  “Darn, and I forgot to wash the good china.”

  “Shall we lose ’em?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  I whispered it, then quickened my step. The muskrats stuck close behind.

  “This way!” I said.

  Natalie and I ducked behind a portable building. We turned a corner. But rather than trying to lose them, we doubled straight back—into our pursuers.

  The look on their faces was priceless.

  “Oh! Uh,” said Doughnut Head, “nice day for a stroll, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Frizzy seconded. “Fancy meeting you guys here.”

  I planted my hands on my hips. “Cut the comedy,” I said. “We know why you fuzzballs are following us.”

  Frizzy looked like he’d been caught with a fist in the fudge tray. His brows furrowed. “Umm . . .”

  “Try ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’” Natalie prompted.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Doughnut Head punched his buddy’s arm. “Come on, man. They know.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “And we want to meet Mr. Big.”

  The muskrats looked blankly at each other. Obviously, their henchman training hadn’t included independent thinking.

  “I dunno,” said Doughnut Head.

  “Don’t you think Big will want to meet someone who’s got what he wants?”

  “Yeah, but—” said Frizzy.

  “Then tell him: four o’clock sharp, behind the library.”

  Natalie and I left the muskrats behind, scratching their heads.

  “Do we really have what he’s looking for?” she asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you like living dangerously,” said Natalie.

  “Danger is my middle name,” I said.

  Natalie smirked. “I thought it was Humperdink.”

  “Shh.”

  During my brief stint on the football team (don’t ask), I got to know the cheerleaders better than any gecko should. Sal Monella, the kangaroo rat, was a cheerleader’s cheerleader. Odds were, she’d be at the gym with the rest of them.

  I never get tired of being right.

  In the shadow of the gymnasium, two cheerleaders swung a pair of jump ropes. Two others skipped in and out and over in a pattern as complicated as a butterfly’s bloomers. One of them was Sally.

  They were singing as we approached.

  “Hip, hop, skiddley widdley wop

  Girls are genius, come from Venus

  Boys are stupider, come from Jupiter”

  The scene was as full of cooties as a truant is full of lies. I would have to tread very, very carefully.

  “You go first,” I muttered.

  “Bawk, bawk,” said Natalie, in a pretty fair imitation of a chicken. She strolled up to the girls while I hung back.

  “Hiya, ladies,” she said.

  They greeted Natalie with friendly twitters.

  “Wanna jump?” asked Sal, her powerful hind legs pistoning.

  “No, thanks,” said Natalie. “Just wanted to ask a few questions.”

  Hopping lightly over the spinning ropes, the kangaroo rat flicked her eyes at my partner. “Okay. You want answers, you skip.”

  Her fellow jumper headed for the sidelines.

  Natalie shrugged, then started skipping. “How well do you know Bert Umber?”

  The rat tittered. “Oh, pretty well,” she said. “Hello? He’s my boyfriend.”

  Her pals giggled.

  “We’re trying to find something that he, um, borrowed from our client.”

  “Borrowed?” said Sal.

  I stuck my two cents in. “Yeah,” I said, “as in stole.”

  “Who’s your friend?” Sal asked my partner. “He looks familiar.”

  “Chet Gecko,” said Natalie.

  “Reeeally?” The rat tossed me a flirty look while her mighty hind legs kept jumping. She called out, “Well, Chet Gecko. If you wanna ask a question, you hafta skip, too.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Ah-ah-ah,” said Sal. “Skip first.”

  Yuck. I hoped my cootie shields would hold.

  Skipping didn’t look too hard. I stagger-stepped, then joined them.

  “Okay, Sal, we’re—oop—after something Bert had in a valentine envelope. Seen anything—yike—like that?” I asked, narrowly avoiding the ropes.

  The kangaroo rat took her tail in one hand and swung it in a counter rhythm to the jump ropes. Show-off.

  “I might have,” she said coolly.

  “Well, did you or didn’t you?” said Natalie. “We—watch it, Chet!”

  I twitched my tail out of Natalie’s face. My feet barely cleared the rope. My breath was com
ing hard.

  “The valentine came from his other girlfriend,” I said.

  Bad move.

  Sal’s eyes flashed red. “Double-time!” she snarled at the rope twirlers.

  Skip-skip.

  Skip-skip.

  “You heard wrong!” she snapped, her feet a blur. “He doesn’t have another girlfriend. Hello? Bert’s nuts about me.”

  I was beginning to wonder exactly who was nuts. The cheerleaders spun the rope like a runaway top, faster and faster.

  Skip-skip skip-skip.

  Skip-skip skip-skip.

  I was boinging like a pogo stick to keep up while Natalie flapped her wings, hovering in the air. “Cheater!” I hissed.

  She stuck out her tongue. “Come on, Sal,” said Natalie, “did you see the envelope or not?”

  “I did.” She pouted. “And later, I talked to Bert about being a one-gal guy.”

  I remembered Bert’s black eye and puffy face. Sal was one persuasive talker.

  “Did you open the envelope?” I asked.

  Skip-skip skip-skip.

  Skip-skip skip-skip.

  “Yeah,” said Sal. “I wanted to see what she had to say to my Bert.”

  “Where’s the envelope now?”

  Sal turned up her nose. “The valentine was blank. I tore it up and threw it away.”

  I started to say, “And what else was—”

  Skip-skip.

  Skip-WHAP!

  The rope caught on my tail. “Whoa!”

  It neatly swung me in a loop, tootsies over hat. I admired the world from upside down, then—whump!—landed hard on a pile of rope skippers, bird, and rat.

  The world hit the PAUSE button.

  Someone stirred beneath me. With a groan, I rolled onto my side. I opened my eyes to find Sal Monella’s smoochy lips just inches from my own.

  Yikes! Cootie alert!

  My reflexes took over. I jumped up. “Uh, it’s been . . . something,” I said. “See ya later.”

  “But . . . ,” said Natalie.

  “But . . . ,” said Sal.

  “But nothing,” I said. “And if you’ll excuse the crack, I’m butting out.”

  13