“How are they going to get away, Sammy? Get real!”
“But what if they make it home and stash the loot before the police catch them?”
“The police'll get a search warrant!”
“But what if Andy and the Old Lady hide it?”
“Sammy! The police are here — just let them do their job!”
Appliance Andy and the Old Lady are huffing and puffing along, looking over their shoulders, not quite believing they haven't been stopped yet. And the closer they get, the more I feel like I can't just stand there on the fence. I've got to do something!
Marissa was right, though—getting in their path wouldn't help. They'd just bowl me over. Plus, what if Squeaky Cheeks started shooting?
If only there was some way to trip them up.
So I look around, and when I spot Mrs. Stone's shovel sticking out of the far side of her compost heap, I climb over the dividing fence, scramble across her pile of plant manure, and yank out the shovel. And before Mrs. Stone can finish saying, “What are you doing?” I've half scaled her back fence and have speared the shovel blade over the fence so it's wedged in the V of a tree where a big branch grows out from the trunk. Then I hold on to the handle tight and check to my left for Appliance Andy.
Okay. I admit it was a pretty lame barricade. I mean, what was to stop them from going around it? Or under it? But Andy and the Old Lady were looking over their shoulders so much that they didn't see the shovel sticking out. And when they did see it, well, Andy's eyes got wide, he cried, “Aarrrghh!” and at the last minute he tried to limbo under it.
Well, good luck there. He lost his balance, and then the Old Lady plowed right into him and they both crashed to the ground like giant hairy bowling pins.
A few seconds later Squeaky and the Chick were upon them, shouting, “Freeze!” and “You have the right to remain silent” and all that jazz. So I yanked the shovel out of the tree and jabbed it back into the compost heap. And while the Chick sniffed the air and said, “Eeew. These perps need a bath!” I climbed back into Mrs. Willawago's yard.
Now, Marissa and Mrs. Stone were so busy looking over the back fence at the cops cuffing Andy and the Old Lady that they hadn't noticed Patch, digging away like mad in the corner of the yard next to where I'd poured the cement.
“Patch, no!” I said, yanking him back by the collar.
Mrs. Stone's head snapped to look, but all of a sudden Mrs. Willawago was there asking, “Did they catch them?”
“Yes, they did,” Mrs. Stone said, but her eye was on Patch. Then she chuckled and pointed to the hole. “Looks like we'll be needing some more of that EZ-CRETE.”
I peeked over the back fence, and since I could tell it wouldn't be long before Squeaky and the Chick decided to detain me for questioning, I tapped Marissa and whispered, “Ready?”
She hesitated, then said, “You bet.”
So I went over to Mrs. Willawago and said, “Uh, we're gonna get going.”
“Now?”
I nodded. “And do me a favor. Don't tell the police who we are.”
“But—”
“Please? I don't want to spend the night answering a bunch of questions when they have all the facts right there.”
She didn't seem real comfortable with that but said, “I suppose …”
Then I remembered. “Hey! Have you heard anything from Hudson?”
“Not yet.” She checked her watch. “I'll call him as soon as this is over because we're running out of time. The council meeting convenes at seven, and I would love to present proof that Coralee is trying to feather her own nest.”
So Marissa and I grabbed our stuff and jetted out of there. And the funny thing is, Marissa didn't even bring up the dance. She was more into talking about Squeaky and the Chick and Appliance Andy and how every time you turn around in this town you find some new wacko that you can't believe actually lives here.
And you know what? Something about that made me kind of swell up inside about Marissa. Not like I was proud of her. More that I was just so glad she was my friend.
So when we got to the corner of Cook and Miller and it was time for us to go different directions, I gave her a hug—which is something I hardly ever do—and said, “Thanks.”
“Thanks?”
I laughed. “Yeah. It's been some day.”
Her eyes got wide, and I could see her remembering everything that had happened at school just a few hours before. “Oh, right—it has!” Her light changed, so she pushed off the curb, saying, “Well, you're free tonight, right? So recuperate 'cause tomorrow we discuss the dance!”
“I've got homework!” I called with a laugh.
She scowled over her shoulder.
“Really! I do! Math and English!”
“You'd better not be chickening out …!”
“Me? Chicken?”
“Brawk-brawk-brawk!” she crowed from across the street, which made me laugh again because I knew she was right. I mean, maybe I can strike down big ol' hairy bowling pins without really trying, but when it comes to boys, I'm one big wobbly gutter ball.
“There you are!” Grams said when I snuck through the door. “I've been worried all day about how it went at school. Did you tell her? Is everything okay? I tried calling Annie's but there was no answer….”
I put down my backpack and skateboard and gave Grams a big hug, too. Then I told her every detail of everything that had happened, from confessing to Mrs. Ambler, to her reaction, to her getting a new bird… everything. And when I got to the part about Mrs. Ambler not telling Heather until the Farewell Dance that she was on to her, Grams wiggled in her seat and said, “Oh! That is perfect!” Then she asked, “You're planning to go to the dance, aren't you? You've just got to!”
So I laughed and said, “As a matter of fact …” Then I told her how I'd been invited to join a group of kids who were going to the dance in a stretch Hummer.
“Really?” she said, but it was a pretty wary really.
So I figured what-the-heck and told her everything about that. And you know what? As soon as she knew the whole truth, her attitude totally changed. She went from Uh, really? to Way cool!
Or as close to that as a grandmother can get anyway.
And then I said, “But that's not all. Marissa and I went to Mrs. Willawago's today and—”
“Oh! That reminds me—Hudson called. He said to tell you no luck yet with …” She made her way over to the counter, peeled a page off the phone pad, and returned to the table, saying, “Earl Clooney.” She handed me the paper and said, “He invited me to go to the council meeting tonight, but they are so terribly dull.”
“But Hudson's not,” I said with a little grin.
“Never mind. You were telling me about what happened today at Annie's, remember?”
“Oh, right!” So I caught her up on the railroad office and the hairy bowling pins and all of that, so by then it was dinnertime and I hadn't even started on my homework.
“You go ahead and work on that, dear,” Grams said when I moaned about it. “I'll fix dinner.”
So I got busy on the math puzzles. And I was actually making pretty good progress — like I'd figured out that if CXV is six and CMLMI is seven, then LMXI is equal to “vein” and that if ABCD times nine is equal to DCBA, then ABCD is equal to 1089 — when the phone rang.
Grams answered it, and the minute I heard her say, “Why, hello again, Hudson,” I sat up straight and said, “I want to talk to him!”
She made me wait through an endless exchange of niceties, then finally said, “Yes, and she's eager to talk to you. Just a moment.”
I didn't even say hello. I figured Grams had covered enough greeting ground for both of us. I just jumped in with, “Did you find something out?”
“No,” he said. “There were problems with sealed documents and stonewalling. He's convinced that there's something fishy about this Earl Clooney character, but we're out of luck for tonight's meeting.”
“Rats.”
/>
“But I was wondering if you were interested in coming along with me to the meeting tonight.”
I looked at the clock. “Uh … maybe. But it starts in half an hour, and we haven't even eaten dinner yet. And I've got to do an extra credit assignment for English 'cause I'm borderline.” What I didn't tell him was that even though I actually cared about what they were discussing, I'd seen glimpses of city council meetings on TV, and talk about boring—man!
He said, “Well, your grades come first, but if you find you do have time, why don't you just meet me at city hall?”
“Okay.” I eyed Grams. “Meanwhile, I'll work on sending my envoy.”
He chuckled. “That would be nice, but I won't hold my breath.”
I laughed and said, “Well, if we don't see you there, call when you get home, okay?”
“Will do,” he said, and got off the phone.
So I finished my math during dinner, then got busy on my English while Grams fussed around the apartment tidying things up. And I was on a roll, boy. I'd found dozens of words inside William Shakespeare's name. Some really stupid ones like ape and are and am and pee, but also some really great ones like spasm and washer and miser and simile. Simile! Miss Pilson would love that one. Maybe she'd give me bonus bonus points for it!
And I'd just realized that you can't get one single word of the phrase “to be or not to be” out of William Shake-speare's name—not one—when I noticed that Grams had changed her clothes and put on lipstick.
“You're going?” I asked her.
“Would you mind?” she asked back.
“Of course not—I want you to go!”
“Well, then …” She gave a worried look at the clock. “I've already missed the first part of it.”
I snorted. “Lucky you.” And I bit my tongue before actually saying, Besides, that's not why you're going!
“It's only a few short blocks …,” she was saying, “and it is still light out …”
She obviously needed a push out the door, so I said, “Go! And call me if you're going out afterward.” I grinned at her. “I don't want to sit around here worrying.”
She fluttered a little, then kissed me on the forehead and said, “Okay then!” Then she pointed to my list and said, “Shale. Did you get the word shale?”
“No!” I wrote it down. “Thank you!”
So off she went while I started jotting down a whole new slew of words inspired by shale: shall and shake and shape and shark and shirk and shrill and shriek. And then I saw sphere! What kind of great word was that to find?
Man, I was having a blast.
So I kept at it, sort of going through phases of finding a whole bunch of new words and then no words for a while. A group of new words, then no words. But then it got harder and harder to find words, and finally I just hit a wall.
So I counted my list: 126 words—not bad!
I got up, got a glass of juice, sat back down, and just sort of stared at the paper for a while. But my eyes must've drifted, 'cause I found myself looking at what Grams had written on the phone-pad paper that was still sitting on the table.
Earl Clooney.
Ear. Early. Loony. Coo. Cool. Coal. Core. Clone … My mind was making words out of Earl Clooney.
But then I pieced something together. Something I couldn't quite believe. “Holy smokes!” I whispered.
I checked it again.
“Holy smokes!”
I stood up and spun around twice, trying to decide what to do.
Then I grabbed my skateboard and tore out of there.
SIXTEEN
When I got to the steps of city hall, I jumped off my board and tore up to the door. I yanked it open and found the main corridor full of people milling around, looking very calm.
“Is the meeting over?” I asked a man by the drinking fountain. I was panting like crazy.
He sort of laughed at the state I was in, then said, “They're still in there.” He checked his watch. “But it shouldn't be long.”
“Where is it?” I asked. “Where's the meeting?”
He pointed down the corridor. “Council chambers are right down there. Past the lady in red.”
It's a little embarrassing to burst into a room full of properly dressed adults when you're wearing what Grams calls rags and your hair's all wild from having ridden your skateboard a hundred miles an hour, but that's exactly what I did.
And I discovered something very surprising—the auditorium was packed. Not only was it standing room only in the back, but way down the center aisle there were reporters and camera crews. They were crouched around the edge of the speaking arena, where Leland Hawking was at a heavy oak podium, addressing the council through a microphone.
And even though I'd seen little snippets of council meetings on TV, being there felt nothing like seeing it from the apartment couch. It was much bigger. Much warmer. And in a very surreal way, much more real.
Anyway, there's Coralee and the other council members sitting like high-court judges behind a massive curved bench that's raised so that they're totally lording over everybody else in the room. And after I blast in, the sound inside the meeting room kind of grinds to a halt. It's like someone's slowing down the speed on an old vinyl record. And while the sound's winding down, waves of faces turn my way until it's completely quiet, and everyone—the council members, the people in the audience, Leland Hawking at the podium, the camera guys and reporters—everyone has turned to stare at me.
And I can tell what they're thinking: Who is this petri-fied girl with the wild hair and skateboard? Did she take a wrong turn, or what?
Coralee Lyon gives me a withering look over the top of her blue rectangular reading glasses, but she doesn't say a word to me. Instead, she turns back to Leland Hawking, and, like dropping the needle back on the record, she says, “Your point is well taken, Mr. Hawking, but if you have nothing additional to contribute, I think it's time we put this to a vote.”
“Wait!” I cry, my feet moving me forward. It feels like I'm in a dream. A dream where you see yourself doing something and want to go in a different direction but can't. Then a familiar voice floats through the crowd. “Sammy?”
I turn and see shiny hair.
Swimmer hair.
Brandon.
And there's a shiny blond girl next to him.
And a man wearing a polo shirt with COACH on it.
My feet keep moving, my voice saying, “You can't vote yet!”
From her perch at the center of the bench, Coralee Lyon sighs and sort of rolls her eyes. Then she takes off her reading glasses and says, “Young lady. You do not just burst into a meeting late, then disrupt the proceedings with presumptuous demands. The hearing portion of the meeting is over.” Then, in an effort to dismiss me, she turns to the other council members. “I believe we are ready to vote. Can I have a motion?”
A man on the council says, “I move to adopt a resolution of necessity—”
“Wait!” I shout at the council. “I have something really important to say!”
Coralee Lyon turns slowly to face me. “You,” she seethes, snatching up a gavel and pointing at me, “are out of order.”
“And you,” I say, pointing my finger at her, “are doing something illegal!”
“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she says, putting down the gavel and waving me off. “It is not illegal. Have your history teacher explain it to you. Now—”
“I'm not talking about eminent domain! I'm talking about how you bought four properties on Hopper Street at rock-bottom prices and are in cahoots with Leland Hawking to sue for more money so you can make a big profit on them. That's what I'm calling illegal.”
In her eyes I can finally see it dawn on her who I am.
I can also tell that she's worried.
But she snorts and says, “That's the most preposterous accusation I've ever heard! Would somebody remove this girl? She's friends with Annie Willawago, who is obviously stooping to new lows to hold on to her Train Hous
e.”
I take a step closer. “If it's preposterous, then why don't you tell us who owns Earl Clooney Management Systems?”
She gives a sarcastic scowl. “How should I know?”
“You should know because you own it.”
Other council members are starting to look at her like, Uh…Coralee? Is that true? And people in the audience are starting to buzz.
“Order!” Coralee calls, and she actually pounds the table with the gavel. “Of course that's not true!” Then she snarls down at me, saying, “Expect to be sued for slander.”
This was a lot like dealing with Heather. And since I've got a lot of experience with that, it's like second nature for me to snarl right back at Coralee and say, “Yeah? Well, expect to be kicked off the council, lady, 'cause you're in some deep, deep doo-doo.” I hurry over to a big easeled whiteboard, and while I'm erasing what's written on it and scrawling EARL CLOONEY across the top, I'm saying, “Earl Clooney Management Systems has bought four properties on Hopper Street over the past three years. Four slummy properties that they've done nothing with.”
“Where's our security?” Coralee cries.
“Yes!” one of the other council members says. “We can't allow this girl to disrupt our meeting! We have a procedure. We have rules. We have decorum. She is completely and wholly out of order.”
I sort of laugh to myself. I mean, please. What did they expect?
I'm in junior high!
But I've got no time to lose, so I get busy writing CORALEE LYON directly under EARL CLOONEY, which makes Coralee's bonny blue butt shoot right out of her chair. “This sort of disruption will set a precedent for future meetings,” she shouts. “Somebody get her OUT of here! NOW!”
But it's too late, baby. By the time she's done with that little spiel, I've drawn lines that connect the letters of one name to the letters of the other.
They match exactly.
“Coincidence?” I call out to the audience. “I don't think so! And once someone cuts through the red tape that she's wrapped around the ownership documents, you'll see that Coralee Lyon wants this deal to go through not because it's good for Santa Martina but because it's good for her. She's planning to make a bundle of money on it!”
Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway Page 13