The Further Adventures of Jack Lime

by James Leck

  “You have one hour to finish, Mr. Lime,” he said, slapping the test on my desk. “So you better stop wagging your tongue and start moving your pen.”

  I was just writing a witty answer to the last question when the end-of-day announcements came over the PA. Besides the usual gobbledygook about art contests and student fees, there was a reminder to come out and support the boys’ football team. Apparently they had an important game against Eastern High that afternoon. I dotted the last t and crossed the last i, handed in my test and headed for the football field. I might finally get a chance to look at those texts, after all.

  Friday, October 4, 4:27 p.m.

  Iona High, The Football Field

  It was a sunny fall afternoon, the perfect kind of day to watch a football game. The place was swarming with kids jostling for good seats and gossiping about the average, ordinary things that go on in their average, ordinary lives. I spotted Betty in the front row, looking anxious. KC was off to the side with a pen and a notepad, and I was sitting in the top row of the bleachers taking it all in. Lance led the Iona High Warriors onto the field, but when the whistle blew, he didn’t look like much of a star to me. Sure, he could fire a ball down the field like it’d been shot out of a cannon, and he could run faster than a cheetah with his tail on fire, but he fumbled the ball once and threw two interceptions, all in the first quarter. By the time the second quarter started, Iona was down by fourteen and the crowd was getting restless. That’s when I decided to make my move.

  I casually strolled out of the stands, wandered over to the school and slipped into the side door of the gymnasium. The boys’ change room was connected to the bathroom, giving me a perfectly plausible alibi for snooping around. Luckily the place was empty, and finding Lance’s jacket was a cinch, since his name was stitched on the sleeve.

  Sure enough, I found his cell in his pocket, and I was about to start typing in his password when Mr. Leoni, the school custodian, burst in.

  “What are you doing in here, kid? There’s a porta-potty outside for the fans.”

  “I have really bad toilets,” I said, jamming the phone in my pocket, “so I need to use the cramp, and fast.” Before he could say anything, I bolted into one of the bathroom stalls.

  “Just make sure you flush when you’re done,” he hollered, and stomped out.

  I pulled out the phone and typed in 0-3-1-4. Lance might’ve been paranoid about his phone, but he wasn’t paranoid enough to delete his call history from yesterday. He’d gotten 188 text messages, but only one had been sent right around the time that he’d run off on Betty. That one came in at 8:03, and it was sent from someone called Red. According to the contact info, Red’s number was 555-3333. I opened the message. This is all it said:

  R side P. Now.

  In the movies, detectives always seem to figure out secret messages lickety-split, but that can be hard to do when you’re standing in a bathroom stall and you know that Mr. Leoni is lurking around waiting for you to finish with your business. Plus, I didn’t have long to consider the possibilities because a couple of eggs came in and started yakking about the game. I peeked through the gap next to the stall door and spotted a tall drink of water with brown hair and bad acne. He was standing beside a short, plump kid sporting a crew cut.

  “Eastern’s going to win for sure,” Tall and Pimply said.

  “If Lance is off, we don’t have a chance,” Crew Cut added.

  “So what can I put you guys down for?” a familiar voice asked. I leaned a little to my left and saw Mike the Bookie holding a pencil and notepad.

  For those of you who haven’t been following my career as closely as you should, Mike the Bookie is a shifty grifter who was the numbers man for a criminal mastermind named Tobias Poe. Tobias worked a scam on yours truly that ended with me losing my laptop, my cell and a significant chunk of change. Tobias graduated last year and moved on to bigger and nastier places, but Mike was still prowling around Iona High with his little black book, taking money from every dumb mug that came his way.

  “Put me down for fifty that Eastern wins,” Tall and Pimply said.

  “Me too,” Crew Cut added.

  Mike scratched down the bets in his notebook, then headed for the door. That’s when Leoni stormed back in, flexing the muscles in his handlebar mustache.

  “How many times do I got to tell you kids there’s a toilet outside for the fans!”

  They all nodded and tried to scurry out, but Leoni stepped in front of the door.

  “Don’t forget your friend,” he said pointing in my direction.

  That was my cue to leave. I flushed the toilet, strolled out and acted casual. Mike’s jaw hit the floor and the two rubes stared at me like they’d seen a ghost.

  “I found this,” I said, handing Lance’s phone over to Leoni. “You should tell the owner to be more careful. There are a lot of thieves roaming around this school who have very sticky fingers, right, Mike?”

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

  “Sure he does,” I said, looking from one dumb mug to the other. “Sure he does.”

  “You don’t know squat about football,” Tall and Pimply said, smirking.

  “Yeah,” his friend chirped in, “stick to finding bicycles, Lime.”

  I was going to remind them that a rube and his money are soon parted when Leoni put an end to our little give and take.

  “Get outta here!” he yelled, curling his hands into fists. “The lot of ya!”

  He didn’t have to ask twice. Mike and the two knuckleheads bolted outside and went one way and I went the other. I got back to my seat just in time to watch Lance fumble the ball one more time. Lucky for Lance the ref blew the whistle for halftime before Eastern could put any more points on the board. The teams jogged off the field, and the average, ordinary kids in the stands went back to talking about their average, ordinary lives. Me, I got to thinking about calling Lance’s mystery friend, Red. But, like I said before, thanks to Tobias Poe I don’t have a cell anymore, so that call would have to wait until later. For now I’d have to be content with the Iona High marching band’s halftime show.

  Friday, October 4, 5:14 p.m.

  Iona High, The Football Field

  Lance started the second half by throwing another interception. Coach Shultz pulled him aside and yelled up one side of him and down the other. The two rubes from the bathroom weren’t too upset with Lance’s terrible performance, though. They were sitting a few rows down from me and low-fiving every time Eastern High got a little closer to the Warriors’ end zone. They got downright giddy when Eastern kicked a field goal at the end of the third quarter and went up by twenty points. When the fourth quarter started, people began to trickle out of the stands. Oddly, that’s when Bucky King decided to show up.

  FYI — Bucky King is a rather large and nasty galoot who runs a gang of hoodlums and tough guys known as the Riverside Boys. He’s the current kingpin of the criminal underworld at Iona High and has his gigantic, hairy fingers in everything from extortion to the sale of stolen goods.

  Bucky’s usually not the type of guy to stand around watching a football game, so when he took up position behind the fence on the far side of the field I got interested. I got even more interested when Mike the Bookie slithered up beside him. Mike whispered a few things in Bucky’s ear and then exited stage right. Bucky lit up a cigarette, puffed on it for a minute and then flicked it on the ground and left. Besides being responsible for a serious fire hazard, Bucky, I had a hunch, was up to no good. Something fishy was going on here, but I didn’t have much time to think about it because that’s when the crowd went wild. Lance Munroe had just thrown a seventy-five-yard pass downfield for a touchdown.

  In the future, when people talk about great athletic accomplishments at Iona High, the last quarter of that game is sure to come up. Not only did Lance play offense, he played defen
se, too. He ran around the field like a crazy squirrel in a nut factory. He intercepted passes, he ran through tackles, he threw two touchdowns and ran one in with three opposing players hanging off his back. When the final whistle blew and the fat lady sang, the Warriors were up by one and Lance was the toast of the town.

  Most of the fans paraded out of the stands laughing and cheering, but there were a few who looked more than a little disappointed. Heck, they looked downright angry, and I had a sneaking suspicion they’d all just lost a bunch of dough betting that Eastern High was a sure thing to win. They were probably wondering why Lance waited until the last minute to play like a superhero. I was beginning to wonder that myself. I was beginning to wonder about a lot of things, and I figured the easiest way to get some of the answers was to catch up with Lance “The Miracle Man” Munroe.

  Friday, October 4, 6:17 p.m.

  17 Sea of Tranquility Lane, The Goodwin Place

  A little after six, Lance came out the school’s main doors with Betty and a crowd of kids who were still hooting about his incredible performance. They took off in a whirlwind of excitement, but gradually the groupies trailed away in different directions. By the time we arrived at a cozy white house with a picket fence around the front, it was just the two of them. The name on the mailbox said “The Goodwins,” and I watched the lovebirds go inside. Then I found a comfortable tree to lean against across the street and settled down to do some thinking. Unfortunately any thinking I was about to do was rudely interrupted when KC Stone stepped up beside me.

  “What are you doing here, Lime?”

  “KC,” I said, turning around. “Nice of you to drop by. You always make my other problems seem insignificant.”

  “A detective of your stature must have serious problems — like hangnails and out-of-control nose hairs.”

  “Are you here to groom me or just to bother me?”

  “Actually I’m here to have dinner and interview Lance. He had an incredible game this afternoon.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “a very convenient last-minute comeback.”

  “Care to expand on that, Lime?”

  “I don’t think I can, not yet, but something doesn’t smell right around here, and I’m planning on finding out what’s baking in the oven.”

  “I’m not sure what that means, but try to keep your head screwed on straight,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to end up looking like a fool.”

  “I’m not going to make you any promises.”

  “That’s probably a good decision, Jack. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Call me if Lance does anything suspicious,” I said, handing her one of my cards.

  “Like winning a football game?”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  KC rolled her eyes and headed across the street.

  I decided I didn’t want to lean against a tree for the rest of the night while Lance sat inside and ate a warm meal. Plus, I usually met my grandma for supper at The Diner on Friday nights, and I had about five minutes to get there before she thought I’d stood her up. On top of all that, I was willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that Lance wasn’t going anywhere tonight, not after a game like that and not when he had Betty and KC gushing all over him.

  Friday, October 4, 6:32 p.m.

  29A Main Street, The Diner

  I walked through the door at The Diner just as Moses was giving Grandma her dinner. I apologized for being tardy, ordered a bacon-and-cheese burger with fries on the side and a root beer float, and then strolled over to the pay phone in the back. I dialed 555-3333 and waited to see who would pick up.

  The phone rang five times before an automated recording cut in and said, “Leave a message.” There was a beep. I hung up and went back to our booth. The number might be a dead end for now, but I had plenty of time to call again.

  “Your nose is looking better,” Moses said, sliding my root beer float in front of me.

  “Thanks,” I said, and was just about to take my first sip when the pay phone started to ring.

  I bolted out of the booth and picked it up on the third ring.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “How did you get this number?” the person on the other end asked. The voice sounded robotic, as if it was being electronically altered.

  “What do you mean, how’d I get this number?” I said, playing a hunch. “This is Lance. What’s up?”

  “You’re not Lance.”

  “What do you mean? I ought to know who I am, pal. This is Lance Munroe. Now you better tell me who you are before I come over there and twist you into a human pretzel.”

  Unfortunately the yahoo on the other end wasn’t buying what I was selling and hung up.

  “What was that about, Jack?” Grandma asked, as I slid back into the booth. “I thought we agreed you were taking a break from being a detective.”

  “It’s an open-and-shut case,” I said. “There’s nothing to it.”

  “Nothing’s simple,” Grandma said.

  “You might be right.”

  “Of course I’m right,” she said, grabbing some of my fries, “and I don’t want to deal with any more visits to the hospital. Do we understand each other?”

  “Sure, no more visits to the hospital,” I said, and took a long drink from my float.

  Friday, October 4, 7:59 p.m.

  Grandma’s House, The Kitchen

  I scarfed down my burger, stuffed my face with fries, gulped down my float and finished the whole thing off with an enormous piece of lemon meringue pie. Grandma stuck around at The Diner to listen to the end of the ball game, so I rolled home on my own. As I stepped onto the front porch, the kitchen phone started to ring and I rushed inside.

  “Hello,” I gasped.

  “Jack,” a voice said, in no more than a whisper, “I need your help.”

  “Betty?”

  “Lance got another one of those texts. He rushed out, but I followed him this time, just like you said.”

  “Betty, I told you to find out which way he went, not to follow him. Where are you?”

  “I’m in Riverside Park. At the big field with the tennis courts. Please, you’ve got to come down here.”

  “I’ll be there faster than you can say game, set and match.”

  I got my bike and headed for Riverside Park. I’d found the bike over the summer, sitting in the back corner of the garage, covered in dust. It had belonged to my dad and needed a little work, so I spent July mowing lawns and used the money to spruce it up. Now it was as good as new and a handy way for me to get places quick, fast, in a hurry.

  I made it to the park in no time flat and parked my bike under a tree. Then I crept along the path until I had a clear view of the tennis courts, which were on the far side of the field and illuminated by four towering outdoor lights. I was expecting to see Lance making out with a girl, but instead there was a heated game of dodgeball under way. A cluster of about a dozen yahoos was standing outside the fence that surrounded the courts, watching the action. I’d just taken a few steps toward the field when a dark figure sprang out of the shadows and grabbed my wrist.

  I yanked my hand free and lunged. We toppled backward into the trees, rolled around and I came out on top. I was about to teach this mooyuk a lesson in manners when my condition kicked in and everything went black.

  FYI — Thanks to my condition, I don’t get to choose when I go to sleep. Old Doc Potter calls it narcolepsy; I call it a curse because it tends to kick in at the worst times. Like right now I’m in the middle of defending myself from an unknown assailant when my body decides it’s time for a quick visit to Never-Never Land.

  I dreamed I was in a room with blood-red carpets and walls to match. KC Stone was standing in front of me. Her hair was down, hanging in long red waves over her shoulders. She was wearing a big, poufy white dress that made it look like she was o
n her way to the prom.

  “The fix is in, Jack.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “It’s all a setup.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said.

  “The wheels are already in motion,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wake up and smell the roses, Jack.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, but now she was sinking into the carpet. She was already up to her knees, and her dress was soaking up the red like a paper towel.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, trying to pull her out.

  “I know,” she said. “Now wake up!”

  I tried to hold on to her hand but I was too weak and she slipped away, sinking down into the carpet, like it had changed into quicksand.

  “Wake up,” a voice said. It sounded far away.

  “I don’t understand,” I mumbled.

  “Wake up, Jack,” the voice said again, but now it was Betty’s voice. I opened my eyes to see her kneeling beside me.

  “Jack, are you okay?”

  “I think so,” I said, sitting up. Betty was wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans and a black wool hat. Long story short, she looked like a million bucks.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Where did you come from?”

  “I was waiting for you in the trees,” she said. “I grabbed your hand when you walked by, but you attacked me. I guess you must’ve hit your head or something.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “I can get as jittery as a chipmunk at a bloodhound convention when I’m on a case.”

  “A bloodhound convention?” she said, looking confused.

  “Forget about it,” I said, standing up. “What we need to focus on now is why Lance came down here tonight.”

  “I just want to know why he’s running away from me,” she said.

  “You might not like what we find out.”

  She nodded and we crept to the other side of the field, staying in the trees. I found a good vantage point behind a couple of evergreens about twenty feet from the action. Lance was playing on a team with two big oafs who could barely lumber their way around the court. One was Derek Sanders, a longtime member of the Riverside Boys, who most people call Heavy because he weighs about as much as a full-grown grizzly bear. The other one was Patrick Malone, the same bruno who busted my nose last Friday. The other team was made up of three pip-squeaks who looked like they’d just graduated from Iona Elementary. They were buzzing around the court like wasps in fast-forward, firing balls left, right and center. It didn’t take them long to blast Heavy and Malone out of the game. Lance, however, was a whole lot quicker and harder to hit. He jumped over, ducked under and bent around everything the pip-squeaks sent his way. He evened things up when he sent two balls hurtling across the court like a couple of heat-seeking missiles and two of the pip-squeaks went down like sacks of wet cement. Now it was Lance “The Football Star” Munroe vs. a kid who might’ve weighed in at ninety pounds soaking wet. That’s when the gawkers on the sidelines started waving their dough in the air and crowding around two crooks I knew all too well — Mike the Bookie and Bucky King.