by James Leck
Mike was taking cash and scribbling down names in his little black book while Bucky stood around looking tough and making sure people waited their turn.
“What’s going on?” Betty whispered, crouching close to me. I could smell the faint scent of watermelon bubblegum on her breath and I forgot all about the case, and being a detective, and my busted schnoz. I forgot about Bucky King and Mike the Bookie, but most of all I forgot about Lance Munroe. I forgot about everything except for Betty and the smell of watermelon bubblegum, and for a second there, dear reader, all my troubles were gone, kaput, vanished.
“Jack, are you okay?” Betty asked, breaking the spell.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, and the world came flooding back into focus.
“What’s going on?” she asked again.
“After hours of fun for thugs and rubes,” I said, shaking my head to clear it out, “dodgeball was banned by Principal Snit last year when a bunch of kids went home with mysterious bruises, busted lips and empty wallets. Parents started asking questions and found out their not-so-innocent offspring were losing their allowance betting on dodgeball games. The whole thing was organized by Bucky King and his gang of thugs. I hate to tell you this, Betty, but it looks like Lance is running out on you because he’s connected to the Riverside Boys.”
“I can’t believe that, Jack,” Betty mumbled. “He’d never be part of a gang.”
Before I could say anything else, Bucky told the crowd to back off. Apparently the time for betting was done and everyone’s attention turned back to the court. Lance was firing laser-beam shots at the Last of the Pip-squeaks, and the crowd oohed and aahed every time the little guy managed to get out of the way. It looked like it was only a matter of time before Lance finished him off when the pip-squeak heaved a ball in Lance’s direction. Lance was sidestepping out of the way when he tripped and fell. The ball bounced once and then glanced off his shoulder. Team Pip-squeak ran onto the court and gave one another high-fives while the gawkers on the outside of the fence stood around with their jaws open.
“The fix is in,” I mumbled.
“What?” Betty asked.
I was about to explain that Lance had obviously lost the game on purpose when we were rudely interrupted.
“Sorry to break up your little snuggle session,” a deep voice said from behind us, “but this is a private party.”
Betty grabbed my arm and screamed. I spun around with my dukes up, ready for a shakedown. That’s when Ronny Kutcher stepped out of the shadows. Ronny is a doughy little kid I had as a client not that long ago. He was the type of guy who couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag, so I relaxed a little.
“Ronny, what’s the big idea —” I started, but he cut me off.
“They’re down here, boss!”
I grabbed Betty’s hand and tried to clear out of there, but we only managed to cover a few feet before Bucky stepped in front of us, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Heavy and Malone came lumbering up behind him like two trained monkeys.
“What’s the rush, Lime?” Bucky asked.
“No rush,” I said. “It’s just that the stink of sleaze around here was starting to make me sick.”
Bucky frowned, strolled over to Ronny and gave him a pat on the back. “Ronny’s our lookout. He called me as soon as you arrived.”
“Great job, Ronny,” I said, “but you should probably run along. A kid your size needs his rest.”
Ronny got all hot under the collar and tried to make a run at me, but Bucky grabbed his shirt and held him back.
“What are you doing here?” Bucky asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, “just watching you run a crooked gambling racket.”
“Gambling?” Bucky said with a smile. “I didn’t see any gambling? Did you see any gambling, Lance?”
I spun around again. Lance, Mike the Bookie and the rest of the slack jaws from the audience were standing behind us.
“I didn’t see any gambling,” Lance said.
“What’s going on?” Betty cried, running to Lance. “Jack says you’re involved with a gang?”
“He’s got it all wrong, Betty,” Lance said, pulling her away.
“Don’t listen to him, Betty!” I said. “He’s mixed up in this dirty mess tighter than a guinea pig at a boa constrictor party!”
“Mind your own business, Lime,” Lance growled.
I tried to go after her, but Bucky must’ve let Ronny go because the little guy was suddenly pummeling me with his tiny fists. It was like having a Chihuahua bite at your heels, and by the time I pushed him away, Betty was gone.
“You should get a leash for your puppy,” I said to Bucky. “Or he might get into some real trouble one of these days.”
“You’re the only one who’s going to get into trouble around here, Lime,” Ronny yapped. “You and your antique bike.”
“Gee, I’d love to stick around and chat about bicycles, Ronny. I know it’s one of your favorite topics, but I have to talk to a girl about her no-good dirty boyfriend.”
“You’re not going to talk to anyone,” Bucky said, grabbing my wrist.
“What’s it going to be this time, Bucky? Are you going to toss me in the river again?”
“Nah, I think we’ve done enough damage for one night. Don’t you, Ronny?” he said with a sneer.
“Sure,” Ronny said, chuckling, “we’ve done plenty of damage.”
“Plus,” Bucky added, handing me over to Heavy and Malone, “we’ve still got dodgeball to play. Have a good walk home, Limey.”
Bucky and his lemmings headed back to the tennis courts while Heavy and Malone carried me back to the far side of the field and dumped me in the grass.
“You think I ought to bust his nose again, Heavy?” Malone asked, cracking his knuckles.
“Nah, he’s too ugly already.”
“Looks like it’s your lucky day, Lime,” Malone said, standing over me. “And if you know what’s good for you, don’t come crawling back.”
“I know what’s good for me, all right,” I called, as they started back across the field. “And it has nothing to do with watching two washed-up scumbags pretending to play dodgeball!”
They ignored me and I staggered into the trees. I found my bike and suddenly understood what Bucky and Ronny had been chuckling about. Damage had been done, serious damage. My bike looked like it’d been attacked by a man-eating tiger; the seat was ripped, the tires were slashed, the spokes were bent and broken, the handlebar was turned around and the chain was off. It was a dirty move. It was rotten, despicable, underhanded and crooked. It was everything that was wrong with this little town, and I was tired of it. I was tired of bullies and goons pushing kids around. I was tired of golden boys like Lance Munroe pretending to be squeaky clean. Most of all I was tired of getting my nose busted and my bicycle broken, all in the name of solving a case. Well, this wasn’t just about solving a case anymore. This was personal, and it was time for some payback.
Saturday, October 5, 12:12 p.m.
Main Street, The Diner
I tossed and turned all night, trying to think up a few different ways to get Bucky to pay for my broken bicycle, but there were no easy answers when it came to Bucky King. Sure, I could put the screws to Ronny Kutcher and get him to cough up the cash, but I didn’t feel much like pushing around a little kid like him, even if he was working with the Riverside Boys. Nothing clever was coming to mind, so by noon on Saturday I decided to head to The Diner and drown my sorrows in a few dozen root beer floats.
I threw back my first one, grabbed a napkin and jotted down everything I knew about the case so far.
1.Lance was getting text messages from someone named Red at 555-3333.
2.Thanks to his last-minute comeback against Eastern High, more than a few kids had lost a tidy chunk of change to Bucky and Mike the Bookie.
3.Lance got a text last night and ran out on Betty to go play dodgeball in Riverside Park.
4.Lance was clearly working with the Riverside Boys to rig dodgeball games.
5.Somebody, probably Ronny Kutcher, had sunk his dirty claws into my innocent bike and ripped it to shreds.
I’d just finished making my list when KC Stone strolled in.
“How did you find me?” I asked.
“I’m a journalist, Jack. I have my ways.”
“Well, take a hike,” I said. “I’m busy.”
“Right, you’re obviously trying to come up with some kind of crazy scheme,” she said, sliding into the booth across from me, “but Betty asked me to pass along a message. She’s taking you off the case.”
“Technically speaking, Stone, I’m not on that case anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Betty hired me to find out where Lance was going after he got those text messages. I showed her last night.”
“You mean that stuff about being in a gang?”
“That’s right. I thought Lance was just busy making sweet with a girl on the side, but it turns out he’s helping Bucky King rig underground dodgeball games. I’m also pretty sure he’s a key part in fixing it so football games at this school start out one way and end another.”
“Those are some pretty wild accusations, Jack. Do you have any proof?”
“I’ll get some,” I said. “You should sharpen your pencils and buy a few extra notepads, Stone, because this is going to be a doozy of a story when the poop hits the fan.”
“Good luck with that, Jack,” she said, sliding out of the booth. “By the way, Lance told Betty he was just helping out a few friends last night, and he’s kind of angry about you saying he’s in a gang. I’d stay away from him for a few years if I were you.”
“Thanks for the tip, doll.”
“No problem,” she said. “And, Jack, if you call me doll again, you’re going to have more than Lance to worry about.”
KC walked out before I had a chance to hit her with a snappy comeback, but as much as I hated to admit it, she was right about Lance. If he saw me snooping around, he’d punch first and ask questions later. Then where would I be? Probably back in the hospital listening to Old Doc Potter tell me how I should take a break from the detective game, which is exactly what I was trying to do before KC Stone dragged me into this mess. Now all I wanted was to scrape up enough money to fix my bike, but even doing that was complicated. Ronny and Lance were out of the question, and only a fool would go after Bucky, so who was left? I stared into my float. The last glob of vanilla ice cream was clinging to the side of the mug. I pushed it down with my spoon, stirred it around and looked over my notes again. That phone number, 555-3333, was staring back at me. Somebody was on the other end of that number. Somebody who was connected to Bucky’s operation. Somebody who knew times and places. Somebody with information about the betting that was going on in this town. As far as I knew, there was only one person at Iona High who fit that bill perfectly, and I was pretty sure I knew how to get him to help out with this investigation, whether he wanted to or not. But to do that, I needed to come up with a plan. And to do that, I needed another root beer float.
Sunday, October 6, 2:21 p.m.
76 Triton Court, The Putz Residence
I spent the rest of the weekend working out my plan. First I made a call to an old client named Gregory Pepperton, who still owed me a favor. Then I tracked down Tall and Pimply, the rube from the bathroom who’d lost a wad of dough betting against Lance and the Warriors. His actual name is Stanley Putz, and I decided to pay him a visit on Sunday afternoon. His mom answered the door and invited me in for some milk and cookies. I was just sitting down at the kitchen table when Stanley walked in.
“What do you want, Lime?” he asked.
“Stanley,” his mother snapped, “that’s no way to talk to a guest.”
“It’s all right, ma’am,” I said. “Stanley’s probably still upset about something I said on Friday. I wanted to come over and apologize.”
“Well, then,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron, “I’ll just let you two boys work it out. I’ll be in the den if you need anything, Stanley.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked, snatching the cookie off my plate and taking a big bite.
“Lance’s comeback the other day was something else, wasn’t it?”
“Sure,” he said, “but what’s it to you?”
“I’ll tell you what it is to me, friend. I think it’s all too convenient. It’s too convenient for Mike, and it’s too convenient for Lance Munroe. The only person it’s not convenient for is you and your short friend.”
“Ollie?”
“What if I told you I know a surefire way for you and Ollie to get your money back.”
“I’d say you were nuts, Lime.”
“Hear me out, and if you still think I’m loony tunes at the end of my speech, then I’ll leave you and your cookies alone forevermore. What do you say?”
“This better be good,” he said, sitting down.
“It’s better than good,” I said, and explained my plan.
Monday, October 7, 12:10 p.m.
Iona High, The Cafeteria
Stanley Putz didn’t think my plan was nuts. In fact, he liked it enough that he convinced his friend Ollie to help us out. I called Pepperton on Sunday night to confirm that the operation was a go, and by lunch on Monday, the trap was set.
At precisely ten minutes after twelve, I watched Stan and Ollie walk into the cafeteria from my position in a nearby stairwell. Five minutes later they came out with Mike the Bookie. Unfortunately Heavy stomped out behind them. I’d been afraid that my visit to the dodgeball game the other night might’ve spooked him. I figured he might have a little extra protection today, so I’d arranged for a diversion. That’s where Gregory Pepperton fit into this plan.
Mike and the rubes filed into the boys’ bathroom while Heavy guarded the door and looked mean. Pepperton was standing at the end of the hall. I gave him a nod, and he came my way carrying four large boxes.
“What you got there?” Heavy asked as Pepperton walked by.
“Doughnuts,” Pepperton said with a smile. “I’m giving them away in the cafeteria!”
“I have a better idea, Poindexter,” Heavy said, stepping forward. “Why don’t you give them to me and save yourself a lot of trouble.”
“But … I’m supposed to …” Pepperton stammered, then he decided it’d be a whole lot easier to just make a break for the cafeteria. Heavy clomped after him while I darted across the hall and slipped into the boys’ bathroom. The two rubes were about to place their bets when I arrived.
“Are you sure you want to bet that much?” Mike asked. “Do you guys even have that much money?”
“We’re good for it,” Stanley said, flashing a thick roll of banknotes.
Mike took out his little black book and scribbled down the bets.
“You know,” I said, strolling toward Mike, “I wouldn’t mind betting a few bones on the Warriors.”
“Get lost, Lime!” Mike barked.
“What? Can’t I bet on the game, too?”
“Sanders! Get in here!” Mike hollered.
“Heavy is busy chasing doughnuts,” I said. “So you may as well put a lid on it.”
Mike tried to tuck his notebook into his pocket, but Stanley snatched it away and handed it over.
“What’s the deal!” Mike yelled.
“This little black book of yours has a lot of incriminating evidence in it,” I said, flipping through the pages. “There are a lot of names with a lot of numbers, which means there are going to be a lot of kids in big trouble when I hand this over to Principal Snit.”
“You wouldn’t,” Mike said.
“You bet I would, bus
ter,” I said. “I’d be happy to nail a small-time flimflam artist like you, Mike. And when Snit gets a load of this book, he’s going to expel you faster than you can say GED.”
“You’re bluffing,” Mike said.
“No, I’m not,” I said. “But there might be a way for you to squirm out of this mess.”
“You’re both going to be in a heap of trouble when I walk out of here,” Mike said, staring down the two rubes.
I heard one of them gulp and knew I needed to finish this fast.
“You’re not going to touch a single hair on their sweet little heads, Mikey. If you do, I’m going straight to Snit, and you’re going to be the fall guy for this nasty gambling operation. But you can end it all right here. All you have to do is three very simple things. First, you give these two unlucky saps their fifty bucks back. Second, you pay me one hundred and twenty-five bones. That’s what it’s going to cost to fix my bike. And last but not least, you’re going to send Lance Munroe a text tonight at eight o’clock. Just like the messages you’ve been sending him all along.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lime,” Mike said.