by James Leck
“You know how I got involved in this mess,” I said.
“For the benefit of my readers,” she said with a wink, “just pretend I don’t know anything.”
“That shouldn’t be hard,” I said.
“Hardee-har-har. Now quit wasting time and get started.”
Wednesday, October 30, 8:19 a.m.
Iona High, My Locker
It all started on Wednesday morning when a scrawny kid with hair so blond that it was almost white walked up to my locker.
“Are you Jack Lime?” he asked. He had big blue eyes that kept darting around, up and down the hall.
“Who’s asking?” I said.
“My name’s Jake Clim,” he said, “and I need help.”
“Join the club,” I said. “What’s the trouble, kid?”
“I’m new around here and a couple of guys, big guys, have been bothering me,” he said, his voice trembling a little. “They told me to meet them at the train station at lunch. They said to bring fifty dollars or they’d beat me up.”
“And you want me to make them back off?” I said. This kid was small, and I wondered what sort of no-good dirty bum would put the screws to such a helpless sap.
“No,” he said, pulling out a small camcorder, “I just want you to come down to the train station today at lunch and record them pushing me around. Then I’ll show it to Principal Snit.”
“Look,” I said, “I’ve been through this recording bit before, and it doesn’t always go down smoothly. Why don’t I just have a chat with them, man to thugs?”
“Just take the camera,” he said, thrusting it into my hand. “And get them off my back!”
“You’ll owe me a favor for this, kid!” I called, but he was already scurrying away. I grabbed my books from my locker and headed to the cafeteria. I had this figured for just another run-of-the-mill case where an innocent rube gets hustled by some oversized goons, and then yours truly steps in and saves the day. Unfortunately nothing about this case was going to be run-of-the-mill.
Wednesday, October 30, 12:15 p.m.
2 Main Street, The Train Station
It was raining buckets of cats and pails of dogs as I hustled down to the train station. I was soaked when I arrived and slipped into an out-of-the-way corner where I stood dripping and waiting for the goons to show up. I milled around for ten minutes, holding Jake’s camera and keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of a shakedown, but nobody showed. I was about to take a stroll around the station to see if I was missing something when Jake came through the front doors. He was wearing a yellow raincoat and holding an umbrella with a duck-shaped handle. No wonder the poor kid was getting hassled.
I waved, and he marched over with short, quick steps, using his umbrella like a cane.
“Give me the camera,” he said. “The case is closed.”
“What do you mean?” I said. “Did they already get to you?”
“No,” he said, grabbing the camera, turning and marching away.
“You still owe me a favor, kid,” I called, but he just kept on going. He didn’t even look back when he stepped through the doors.
Wednesday, October 30, 12:22 p.m.
Iona High, The Main Foyer
When I got back to school, I was so waterlogged that my fingers had gone wrinkly. I just wanted to dry off and grab something hot to eat in the cafeteria. So I didn’t notice the gaggle of guys and dolls standing around in the main foyer, pointing in my direction.
“That’s him,” someone said.
A kid with black hair almost shaved off and a five o’clock shadow broke out of the crowd. “You Jack Lime?” he barked, stepping up to me.
The kid was built like a pit bull, short and thick, and his beady black eyes were giving me bad vibes.
“That’s right,” I said.
“Where’ve you been?” he asked.
“What’s it to you, friend?”
“I’ll tell you what it is to me,” he spat. “My Captain Marvel #146 just got stolen!”
“Your what?”
“My Captain Marvel #146. A very valuable comic book. My very valuable comic book.”
“And somebody took it?”
“You got something wrong with your brain, punchy? That’s what I just said! Now, what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m guessing you want me to find it,” I said.
“You got it right, punchy. So what’s it going to be?”
“Who are you, anyway?” I asked.
“Tyler Butt,” he said. He looked like he was expecting me to crack a joke, and I have to admit, I had a few snappy comments on the tip of my tongue.
“Give me the facts while I grab some lunch.”
“No time for lunch, punchy. Just follow me.”
My gut was telling me to walk away from this mooyuk, but I’m a sucker for a good case. So, against my better judgment, I put my lunch plans on hold and started my tragic search for Tyler’s missing comic.
“Tragic, Jack?” KC said, looking up from her notepad.
“It was tragic,” I said, holding up my hands. “Tragic for me.”
“Enough with the dramatics. Just stick with the story, okay?”
Wednesday, October 30, 12:27 p.m.
Iona High, The Gym
Tyler led me to the gym, which was buzzing with students. Tables had been set up along the walls where kids were displaying stacks of comic books. There were even a few people dressed up as their favorite hero. A giant banner was hanging across the stage that read “Welcome to the 1st Annual Iona High Comic-Con.” That’s when you came up to me, Stone, and said something like, ‘Oh, my hero! Thank goodness you’re here! I don’t know what we’d do without you!’”
“Lime,” KC said, looking up again, “if you’re not going to take this seriously, I’m out of here and you can deal with the fallout all by yourself.”
“Okay, but you have to admit you were happy I showed up.”
“Well, I thought you should definitely be involved with this case.”
“If getting duped and double-crossed is something I should be involved with, then you were right on the money,” I said. “But I’m getting off track. Where was I?”
“You just walked into the gym.”
Right, so I suggested we start with the crime scene, and Tyler took me over to his display table. He grabbed a heavy-duty aluminum briefcase, unlocked it with a small key and took out about a dozen old-looking comic books sealed in plastic bags.
“These are all your comics?” I asked, reaching out.
“Don’t touch,” Tyler barked, stepping between me and his comics. “This is just a small portion of my Captain Marvel collection.”
“But only one of them got stolen?” I asked.
Tyler nodded. “The Captain Marvel #146, my most valuable one. The little turd knew what he was doing.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened,” I said.
“My comic got stolen,” Tyler said, his eyes getting wild. “What more do you need to know, punchy?”
I was about to tell Tyler where he could stick his precious Captain Marvel comic when you cut in.
“Tyler, why don’t I explain everything to Jack?”
“Fine,” he grumbled, “but be quick about it.”
We moved to the side, and you explained that the Comic-Con was an event where comic book aficionados could show off their collections and buy and trade with one another. You said you got there at about five to twelve while people were setting up, and that at exactly 12:05 (you knew because you checked your watch), Mariam Singh, the Student Council president, got up on stage to say a few words. That’s when the lights went out. About ten seconds later, the lights came on and Tyler pointed at the gym doors and shouted, “There he goes!” You turned and spotted someone dressed in black going out t
he gym doors. That’s when Tyler freaked and tried to go after the crook, only some poor sap got in his way and they both went down in a heap. By the time Tyler got outside, it must’ve been too late, because he came back empty-handed.
“Is that about right, KC?”
“That’s exactly right, Lime. Very impressive.”
“Impressive is what I do best,” I said.
“Yes, Jack,” KC said, “I’m always impressed that you get anything done.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but we can talk about me later. It wasn’t long before Snit arrived and conducted a very thorough investigation that involved asking Tyler questions for about five seconds. Am I missing anything?”
“Just the part about Darla,” she said.
“Right, Darla, the newspaper’s photographer,” I said. “She was short with pink hair and a nose ring. After you finished explaining things, she stepped over to us and told us her version of events.”
“I arrived, um, a little after twelve,” Darla started, “and was just about to take some photos of Mariam when the lights went out. There was, like, some screaming and stuff, and then the lights came back on. I heard Tyler say, ‘That’s him!’ or ‘Get him!’ or something, and saw him pointing at the gym door, so I just turned and, like, snapped a photo.”
“May I see it?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“The picture,” I said, pointing at the large camera she was holding in her hands.
“Oh, this isn’t a digital camera,” she said. “I develop my own photographs, Jack. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
“You don’t use a digital camera?” I asked.
“I’m an old-fashioned kind of girl,” she said.
“I can appreciate that,” I said. “Just let me know when it’s ready.”
That’s when Tyler burst in on our conversation. “I don’t suppose you’re going to bother finding my Captain Marvel #146, Lime!”
“Just tracking down a few clues,” I said.
“Chatting up chicks don’t count, punchy. I thought you’d be trying to find out which way the little snot went.”
“That’s a great idea, Tyler,” I said. “Why don’t you lead the way?”
Tyler stomped out of the gym and I followed along behind him. At that point I was feeling pretty good about my chances of solving the case. I had a room full of eyewitnesses; it’d been less than half an hour since the crime had been committed, and Darla might be able to show me a picture of the crook within twenty-four hours. The problem was I didn’t know where the clues were going to lead me. If I did, I would’ve dropped the case faster than a burning match in a dynamite factory.
“Dropping a burning match in a dynamite factory would be a terrible idea, Jack,” KC said.
“Exactly,” I said.
“Sometimes you surprise me.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said.
Wednesday, October 30, 12:44 p.m.
Iona High, The Back Lot
I asked a few people if they’d seen anyone dressed in black sprint by with a runaway comic book. They all pointed us in the direction of the rear doors. We followed the perp’s trail outside and into the back lot. There were a few kids huddled under a tree, trying to stay out of the rain, and we stepped over to them.
“Yeah, sure I saw him,” a tall, lanky kid said. “The dude was dressed in black and wearing a ski mask. He came out and ran into the woods over there.”
I started toward the spot he was pointing at, but Tyler grabbed the poor sucker by the scruff of the neck and yanked him close.
“Why didn’t you stop him?” he snapped. “Are you chicken or something?”
The kid, who was at least a foot taller than Tyler, looked around frantically for some help.
“I … I … I … don’t …” the kid stammered.
“You, you, you, don’t what?” Tyler said, pulling back his fist.
“Let him go, Tyler!” I yelled. “We don’t have time for a shakedown. For all we know, the crook who swiped your comic is squatting in the trees right now.”
Tyler looked disappointed, but he let the kid go and hustled past me into the woods.
I shrugged an apology to Tall and Lanky. He ignored me and ran back into the school. I guess he didn’t want to deal with Tyler anymore. Who could blame him? I was beginning to feel the same way.
Wednesday, October 30, 12:49 p.m.
Iona High, The Back Woods
“Over here, punchy,” Tyler yelled. “Quick!”
He was squatting beside a muddy trail that cut through the trees and was pointing at four fresh footprints in the mud along the path. I searched the area for any other prints, but the perp must’ve veered off the trail.
“That could be our man,” I said, taking a close look at the nearest print. “Then again, who knows? It could belong to anyone.”
“What are you saying? We give up?”
“No, Tyler,” I said, “it just means we can’t go jumping to any conclusions, but it would make sense for the crook to cut through here. These woods are only about fifty yards thick, and then they open up onto a street on the other side. Whoever took your comic could run through here, hightail it to the street, stash the comic somewhere, lose the ski mask and then stroll back to the front of the school like nothing happened.”
“So what now?” Tyler asked.
“Let’s have a look around,” I said. “Maybe something will turn up.”
Before we had a chance to start, the bell rang.
“It’ll have to wait,” I said. “I’ve got to get to class.”
“What d’you mean?” Tyler said, stalking behind me. “We just got started!”
“What I mean is that I just wiggled my way out of a serious situation with Snit. If I step out of line, and I mean just a little, he’s going to toss me out of school so fast it’ll make my head spin.”
“Yeah, well, we all got our problems with Snit! So what?”
“I’ll tell you so what, Tyler. If I get kicked out of school, I won’t be able to help you find your precious comic book, now will I?”
“Big deal. You haven’t found anything anyway, punchy!” he said.
“You’re wrong about that. I know the perp has feet that are about the same size as mine.”
“How do you know that?”
“That footprint in the mud is about the same size as my boot,” I said, pointing to my black boots. “So if those prints belong to our perp, we’re looking for someone who wears size elevens, or thereabouts, and who’s wearing black boots that are probably still muddy.”
“How do you know they’re black?”
“Everyone we’ve talked to said our crook was dressed in black. If the shoes were some other color, they would’ve stood out and someone would have mentioned it.”
“That’s not a lot to go on,” Tyler grumbled.
“It’s something to start with,” I said. “So you can stay out here and look for clues all afternoon, Tyler. In fact, I hope you find your comic and we won’t have to talk to each other again. But me, I’m going to class, and I’ll keep my eyes peeled for someone wearing black boots, about size eleven, and muddy.”
“You do that, punchy,” Tyler said, “and I’ll find you later.”
“I hope not,” I said, but he didn’t hear me. He was already heading back into the woods.
Wednesday, October 30, 3:14 p.m.
Iona High, My Locker
I did a little asking around that afternoon and found out that Tyler Butt was a thug with a habit of doing some seriously bad things. He’d been kicked out of every school in the city before arriving at Iona High three weeks ago, and he’d already had a few run-ins with some of the local toughs in the Riverside Boys. Besides that, he’d managed to get on just about everyone’s nerves in
the school, which meant that I had a list of suspects a mile long. I was thinking I’d made a big mistake getting involved with this case when he stepped up to my locker at the end of the day.
“You see any of those black boots, punchy?” he asked.
“Afraid not,” I said.
“Me neither, and I don’t like the way things are shaping up,” he said, poking my chest with one hard little finger.
“Did you find anything in the woods out back?”
“Nothing,” he grumbled. “The footprints disappeared.”
“Let me ask you something, Tyler,” I said. “Do you have any idea who would want to steal that comic?”
Tyler thought for a moment. I could hear the wheels turning in his head and they sounded rusty. “Nope,” he said.
“What about somebody who’s into comics? Someone who knew you’d have it here today and who would want to add it to his collection? Or someone who might want to sell it?”
“Say, you’re on to something there,” he said, poking my chest again. “The little turd probably wants to hock it. Well, they’re not going to get away with that, punchy! There’s only one place in Iona that deals with used comics, and that’s Pop’s. You get down there and make sure nobody sells that Captain Marvel #146. You got that?”
“Sure,” I said, “but what are you going to do, Tyler?”
“I’m going to take the train into the city and pay a visit to a couple of comic book shops. I want them to be real clear that if they even dream about buying my comic book off some gutless wonder, they’re going to have me to deal with.”
“You think that’s a good idea?” I said.
“Just do what I tell you, punchy,” he said. “I’ll meet you at Pop’s at five. Got it?”
“I got it,” I said.
Based on what I’d heard about Tyler, I figured our perp would be just as likely to run that comic through a shredder for kicks and giggles as try to sell it for a pile of cabbage. But it wasn’t my job to think too much. Sometimes I just had to do what my clients wanted me to do, so I headed for Pop’s.
Wednesday, October 30, 4:21 p.m.
54 Main Street, Pop’s Soda Bar and Comic Book Shop
Pop’s Soda Bar and Comic Book Shop is owned by Luxemcorp Incorporated. The suits at Luxemcorp want us to think that some nice old man named Pop runs the place. They want us all to pretend the joint’s been around since the time when you could buy a soda and a comic book for a dime and while away the hours listening to the hit parade on the jukebox. Well, I knew there wasn’t anybody named Pop and I wasn’t a big fan of their fake 1950s shtick, but duty called, so I shambled in and milled around in the comic book section at the back of the store. There were only four other kids flipping through the racks, and none of them were blabbing about a stolen Captain Marvel comic. After I’d spent an hour wandering around, absentmindedly scanning the comics, a portly man with a thick white mustache shuffled over.