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Authors: James Leck

Tags: #Mystery, #Young Adult, #Adventure, #Contemporary, #Humour, #Childrens, #Children's Fiction

The Adventures of Jack Lime (2 page)

BOOK: The Adventures of Jack Lime
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Friday, May 23, 4:27 p.m.
2 Ganymede Court, Iona Elementary

Missy King is Bucky King's little sister. Bucky is the Grand Poo-bah of the Riverside Boys. He's as big as an ox and twice as strong. He's the only kid in Iona who drives to school on a Harley, the only student who's taller than all of the teachers at Iona High and the only person I've ever seen who can smoke a cigarette and dunk a basketball at the same time. I couldn't just wander over to Bucky and ask him about stealing Ronny's dinky little bike without risking my life, but I could ask Missy. She owed me one.

FYI — Here's how my P.I. business works; you come to me with a problem like, “I think my boyfriend, the quarterback of the football team and the King of the Prom, is cheating on me. Can you follow him around and find out?” So I follow him around for three days, hiding in garbage cans and sneaking around in locker rooms until I find out he is cheating on you, and then you owe me one favor. I steer clear of cash because I learned the hard way that things can get very messy when you're dealing with dough. So I charge by the favor instead. For instance, the Queen of the Prom now owes me one favor, and it's going to be a doozy, because her boyfriend, or should I say ex-boyfriend, is the reason I'll be seeing the world out of one eye for a few days.

Missy owes me a favor, too. I helped her out of a tight jam about a month ago. Ms. Crenshaw accused her of stealing the marking sheet for a big math test. She was just about to get tossed out of school when I saved her bacon by proving it was Ben Snider all along. It had to do with some missing lunch money and a pair of dirty socks, but that's another story.

“Hi, Missy,” I said, approaching the playground. Missy is built like an Olympic gymnast; short, but rippling with hidden power. She was hanging upside down on the monkey bars, her pigtails pointing at the ground like a couple of horns.

“Lime,” she said, flipping off the bars and stamping toward me.

“I'm calling in my favor,” I said, stopping her in her tracks.

She didn't answer. She just looked me up and down and smacked her gum a little harder.

“I'm looking for a bike.”

“I didn't have nothing to do with it.”

“So, you know something about a bike that's been swiped?”

“I didn't have nothing to do with it. Bucky took it. I tried to take it back.”

“Don't make it hard on yourself,” I said. “Just tell me where the bike's at.”

“You calling me a liar?” she asked, jutting out her chin.

“I don't have time for your cat-and-mouse games, Missy. Tell me where I can find that bike.”

“I tried to bring it back, but the stupid kid had a new one.”

I ignored this. Missy is like the devil; she'll mix her lies with the truth. “Where's the bike?” I demanded again.

Without warning, she sprang across the few feet that separated us and kicked me, kung fu–style, in the stomach. I crumpled to my knees, winded. Tiny black dots floated in front of me, and the world tilted. Through a haze, I saw her bolt across the playground.

I was having the second-worst day of my life; I'd been called a liar (even though I have the pictures to prove everything), I'd been beaten up by the quarterback of the football team and now I'd been flattened by a little girl. I figured it might be best just to lie on the ground and flop around like a fish out of water. But since when did I do what was best for me?

I heaved myself up, staggered across the playground and caught a glimpse of Missy's pigtails bobbing up and down on the other side of a fence as she raced across someone's backyard. Unfortunately, just as I was pulling myself onto the fence, my condition kicked in.

FYI — My condition makes me fall asleep at the worst times. I can't help it. The doctors say it's neurological, which means there's something wrong with my brain. The shrinks say it's all in my head, but not in my brain. The shrinks say it's because I haven't come to terms with my parents dying. I say I've come to terms with it all right — as much as a kid can come to terms with a thing like that — but I still can't help falling asleep. They tell me to meditate, to exercise, to try and stay relaxed. But when you just got your butt kicked and you're jumping over a fence trying to catch the prime suspect in a robbery investigation, it's hard to stay relaxed. So my condition kicked in, and I fell asleep.

I dreamed I was lying on the bottom of the river. A purple grizzly bear rode up to me on a bicycle. He rang a bell on the handlebars, but it didn't make any noise. Instead, a school of little fish, with sharp little teeth, came out of the bell and attacked me like piranha on the prowl. I tried to fight them off. I tried to bat them away, but I was tired, so tired. And that's when the bear got off the bike, waddled over and sat on my face.

I woke up gasping for air, but all I got was a mouthful of fur — cat fur, to be exact. A fat orange and white cat had decided to take a nap on my face while I was passed out. I swatted it away, sat up and checked my watch. Ten minutes had passed. Missy was long gone. I plucked cat hair out of my mouth and decided to head back to the Kutchers'.

Friday, May 23, 5:35 p.m.
14 Mercury Lane, The Kutcher Place

Standing on the Kutcher front stoop, I replayed what Missy had said. A bike had been snatched; there was no doubt about that. I didn't know where she was going with the whole “I tried to bring it back, but the stupid kid had a new one” spiel, but I had a hunch it was a smoke screen to keep her out of trouble. One thing I was pretty sure about — if the Riverside Boys had a hot bike, they'd be bringing it to the Flea Market tonight.

“Oh my God, Jack!” Sandra gasped, opening the door and breaking my train of thought. “What happened to your face?”

“Huh?” I said. I leaned to the side and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window beside the door. I was covered in tiny scratches. The killer fish in my dream suddenly made sense; that cat must have been playing with my handsome mug before he decided to use my face as a bed. “Oh that. It's nothing,” I said. The last thing I needed was for word to get out that the local P.I. fell asleep when the going got tough. “You got a minute?”

“Well, we're just starting supper,” Sandra said, peering back into the house. “You can come in, but it'll have to be quick.” She had changed out of her skirt and was wearing a pair of old gray sweatpants. It didn't matter; she was still out of this world.

“Is Ronny around?” I asked, slipping into the foyer. Somewhere in the house forks and knives tapped against plates.

“Just a sec,” she said, gliding up the stairs and disappearing into a side room.

When she returned, she had a wet cloth and Ronny. He was still in his Oreo outfit (minus the dress shoes), which was made even more priceless by the white napkin tucked into his shirt collar.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the cloth and wiping my face. “I've got some news about the bike.”

“You found it,” Sandra chirped, rising up on her toes and clapping her hands. This was very cute stuff.

“Not exactly,” I said. “But I did find out that Bucky King and his merry band of hooligans are probably unloading a bike tonight at the Flea Market.”

“What does that mean?” Sandra asked.

“It means that yours truly will be crashing the Riverside Boys' party tonight, and I'll find out if it's Ronny's bike.”

“Won't that be dangerous?” Sandra asked.

“Yes, it will,” I said, not mincing words. “It's going to be incredibly dangerous, but you're my client, and I'm willing to take that chance.”

Sandra took my hand and looked deep into my eyes. “Be careful, Jack.” We were having one of those moments between two people where the world stops and a classic love song kicks in, and you just melt into each other like two hot sticks of butter.

“Yeah, be careful!” Ronny boomed from the stairs, totally interrupting our romantic interlude.

“Find his bike, Jack,” Sandra said, squeezing my hand, and then she went up the stairs and gave her brother a hug. “Don't worry, Ronny. Jack will get your bike back.”

I let myself out.

Friday, May 23, 6:28 p.m.
A street with no name, Grandma's House

I had a plan. I was going to stake out the Flea Market, go undercover and infiltrate the Riverside Boys. This would be cloak-and-dagger stuff, and like any good snooper, I had a stash of top-secret paraphernalia that would get me into places that I wasn't supposed to get into. So I headed home to get my disguise together, check in with Grandma and grab a bite to eat.

Grandma was sitting in her rocking chair, knitting something red and watching
Jeopardy
when I slunk in through the front door.

“Sorry I'm late,” I said, sitting on the couch. “I got caught up in a case.” I made sure I had my black eye turned away from her. Grandma wasn't a spring chicken anymore, but she was as sharp as a tack. On top of that, she was a big lady. Not fat, just big. She was tall, with thick arms and wide shoulders. But what stood out the most were her hands; they were large and calloused from working in the garden (which was really more like a farm). In short, she wasn't someone you wanted to fuss with.

“What is the Ganges River,” she said. On TV, a short man wearing a bow tie answered “the Nile” and got it wrong.

“People today don't know their geography,” she said, shaking her head. “Now what were you saying, Jack?”

“Sorry I'm late,” I said again.

“Off solving some great mystery, I suppose?”

“I don't know if I'd call it great,” I said. “Just trying to find some kid's bike.”

“Oh, they're all great mysteries, Jack. Even the small ones,” she said without looking at me. “What is the Colorado River.” This time the man with the bow tie agreed with my grandma and he got five hundred dollars richer.

“Anyway,” I said, standing up and keeping my black eye out of sight, “I'll just grab something quick for dinner. I've still got a few loose ends to tie up tonight.”

“There's meatloaf, potatoes and carrots on a plate in the oven, and a lemon meringue pie in the fridge.”

“Thanks, Grandma,” I said, moving toward the kitchen.

“Oh, and Jack,” she called, without taking her eyes off the TV, “what's wrong with your eye?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, and kept walking.

“Halt!” she barked when I had one foot in the kitchen. She grabbed the remote control and pressed “Mute”; that's when I knew she was serious about having this conversation. I stopped and turned around.

“It's nothing, Grandma,” I said. “I missed a fly ball in gym class.”

“And all the scratches?”

“Looking for a foul ball in the woods behind the school,” I said with a shrug.

Grandma frowned. We both knew this was a load of horse manure. She could smell it on me, but she couldn't prove it. Not that lying to my grandma was something I took pride in, but I'd heard plenty of stories about her rebellious younger years. I got the sense that she'd only be disappointed if I crumbled mid-bluff, so I held my ground under the gaze of her shrewd blue eyes.

“Gym class,” she grunted.

“Gym class,” I nodded.

“Curfew,” she barked, “is ten o'clock sharp. You got that, young man?”

“I got it, Grandma,” I said. Then the sound came back on the TV, and I slipped into the kitchen before she decided to call my gym teacher and check my alibi.

After I wolfed down some chow, I headed upstairs and got into character. I put on my disguise, which consisted of a blond wig, an old Cubs baseball cap and a black Nike hoodie. I managed to transform myself from the tall, dark and handsome Jack Lime you all know and love to my scruffy alter ego for the evening, Roger Daltry. I topped off my new look with a pair of glasses that I'd found up in the attic. They were a little retro (in a Buddy Holly kind of way), and the prescription made things kind of blurry, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle. Plus, I hoped they'd cover up my black eye a little, just in case Missy had let her brother know what I looked like. Now I was ready to get down to some serious business.

BOOK: The Adventures of Jack Lime
11.84Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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