The Adventures of Jack Lime (4 page)

“Not … about … the goggles,” I said, coughing the words out.

“You know, soldier, I'm tired of all these good-for-nothing bums taking everyone's stuff and nobody doing anything about it,” he said.

“It wasn't about … goggles,” I mumbled, starting to get my wits about me again.

“What's that, soldier?” he asked.

I sat up and finally got a good look at who I was dealing with. He was short and thin, with a wispy mustache growing behind the green paint covering his face. His helmet was gone, replaced by a short crew cut that still stood at attention even though it was soaking wet. He couldn't have been more than thirteen.

“You can relax,” I said. “He didn't go ballistic about your goggles. It was over a bike.”

“I told you to ask about the goggles, noncom,” he said, getting a little testy.

“Yeah, well,” I said, standing up and getting a little testy myself, “I'm in the middle of a case, so you'll have to do your own asking.”

“What d'you mean, ‘case'?”

“Case, assignment, investigation; call it whatever you want. But I've got a client who's counting on me to find a ridiculous bike, and you're barking at me about night vision goggles. Well, sorry, Sergeant Camouflage, but you're going to have to learn to do your own recon.”

“What're you, like a detective or something?”

“That's right, smart guy.”

“Say,” he started, “we should work together. You could use someone like me. I got the drop on you on the path, after all, and I saved your bacon in the river. Plus, my dad's got loads of top-notch gear for undercover missions. What d'you say?”

“I say I'm done with this dirty gig, Major Pain, so you can have it all to yourself. Sayonara and good luck,” I said, stumbling away.

“The name's Max,” he called. “Max Thorn. Just give me a call the next time you need someone to save your butt, soldier!”

Friday, May 23, 11:38 p.m.
A street with no name, Grandma's House

My hat, my wig and my glasses had fallen off in the river. I'd been beaten up three times today, and worst of all, I'd just found out that Sandra had had a sordid fling with Bucky King. And what did I have to show for it? Nothing. I didn't even have a few coins to rub together. The way I figured, it was time to take down my shingle and take a permanent vacation from the P.I. business.

That's what I was thinking as I staggered home, so I didn't notice my grandma sitting on the porch as I stepped onto the front walk. I'd also forgotten about the ten o'clock curfew, and the fact that I was half-covered in mud.

“Burglar!” she yelled, grabbing the broom she used to sweep our porch. Unfortunately, Grandma didn't recognize the ragged stranger stumbling up her front walk, so she charged at me, waving the broom above her head like a helicopter warming up. Like I said, my grandma's not a small lady. So, I did the only thing I could think of; I ran. She would have woken up the whole neighborhood if we'd had any neighbors to wake up. As it is, my grandma lives on a deserted, dead-end dirt road without streetlights or even a name. She used to have neighbors until Luxemcorp bought up the town. My grandma and Moses (he owns The Diner) were the only two people who didn't sell out. Luxemcorp just built around them. So there I was, being chased down a deserted road in the middle of the night by my own grandmother. It was the perfect end to the perfect day.

“Grandma! It's me!” I yelled, but she didn't have her hearing aid in. We were halfway down the street when she clocked me in the head with the broom and knocked me to the ground. “It's me! Jack!” I yelled, rolling onto my back. She had the broom raised above her head, ready to drop the hammer on my noggin when she realized who I was.

“Jack,” she growled, “you're late!” Then she turned, and without another word, marched back to the house.

While I grabbed a hot shower, got into a clean pair of pajamas and wrapped myself up in a dressing gown, Grandma warmed up some chicken soup. My eye was a stunning shade of purple and completely sealed shut, and my stomach felt like someone had driven over me with a truck.

“Jack,” Grandma said, as I stepped into the kitchen, “I raised your father to have an inquisitive mind, and it served him well. But I'm a little worried about this detective agency you're running. Being late for dinner all the time or losing a few gadgets to some juvenile delinquents is one thing. Coming home in the middle of the night, soaked to the bone and covered in mud is another thing altogether.”

“Technically,” I said, sitting down at the kitchen table, “the middle of the night isn't until two or three in the morning.”

“Cut the sass, Jack,” she said, putting a steaming bowl of chicken soup in front of me and sitting down on the other side of the table. “When you got here in January, I knew I had to give you some space. Lord knows, you've had a rough go of it. And it can't be easy living out here with me, when everyone thinks I'm some kind of crazy old witch. But there's got to be a better way for you to make friends.”

Make friends? If I hadn't been so tired and beaten down, I would have laughed in my soup. “Don't worry, Grandma. I've decided to quit the detective game for good.”

“Smart boy,” she said. “Why don't I call Moses on Monday and get you a proper job at The Diner?”

I started to agree, but she held up her hand. “No arguments. It's my way or the highway from now on, dear boy. Now, unless Your Majesty needs anything else, I'm going to hit the hay, and don't wake me up in the morning. I'm sleeping in.”

Lying in bed that night, I decided to take myself off this case first thing in the morning. I'd been beaten up by a little girl, by Bucky and his buffoons and then by my own grandmother, all for a weird kid who dressed like an Oreo cookie and a dame. A dame who had a thing for Bucky King. The image of Sandra making out with Bucky burned in my mind. I won't lie, it hurt. It hurt bad.

Saturday, May 24, 9:26 a.m.
14 Mercury Lane, The Kutcher Place

Standing on the Kutcher front stoop, I promised myself I wouldn't mention Bucky. That was Sandra's private business, and as a professional, I wouldn't get involved in the private life of one of my clients. If Sandra wanted to make out with every lowbrow hood in Iona, who was I to stop her? Heck, if she wanted to go steady with every liar, cheat and dirty crook this side of Tokyo, be my guest. Far be it from me to stand in the way of true love. If she wanted to —

“Jack,” Sandra said, opening the door and breaking my train of thought. “You don't look so good.”

“It's nothing,” I said, playing it cool, “nothing at all. Getting beaten up is just part of the job. I hardly notice it. It certainly didn't bother me last night. Not in the least. Even when Bucky was using my gut for boxing practice. You remember Bucky, don't you, Sandra? Bucky King?” To hell with professionalism and privacy; this was personal. “I believe you had a torrid love affair with him not so long ago!”

“Well —” she started, but I wasn't going to give her a word in edgewise. I was just getting warmed up.

“Bucky King! The guy who runs the Riverside Boys. The guy who was the chief suspect in your burglary investigation. The guy who broke up with you! That Bucky King. Is this ringing any bells?” I was being cruel. I couldn't help it.

“Gosh, Jack,” she said, “calm down. We went out for, like, two weeks in grade eight. I wouldn't exactly call it a love affair.”

“Yeah,” I said, “well …” I was hoping for some yelling, some slamming doors, some passion, not, “Gosh Jack, calm down.”

“So you don't have the bike?” she asked, trying to change the topic.

“Well … but … Bucky!”

“Do you think you'll find it before two? Ronny's really counting on you, Jack.”

She was being so businesslike, so coldhearted. Well, if that's how she wanted to play it, I could play it that way, too. “That's why I'm here, Miss Kutcher,” I said, staring her down with my one good eye. “I'm dropping the case.”

“What?”

“I think you heard me loud and clear, toots. I'm out, finished, finito benito. I'm done with this gig for good. Next time you see me, I'll be just another sap washing dishes for a living.”

“So you're, like, giving up?”

“That's right,” I said. Our eyes met, and she knew no amount of eyelash batting or hand squeezing was going to change my mind.

“Well, you wait right here, Jack Lime, because you're breaking this to Ronny, not me.” She darted up the stairs and turned down a side hallway, leaving the front door open.

What was with this dame? She just couldn't let it go. I was done like dinner, and she was practically begging me to stay on the case. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of her flip-flops lying just inside the door. Those were the ones she had worn when she drifted into my life. It seemed like only yesterday. I could remember how she looked, how she smelled, the way she smiled; it was making me weak. I had to stay strong, keep focused. I forced my eyes to the left and noticed Ronny's shiny black dress shoes. Beside his shoes was a pair of little sneakers caked in mud. They must've been Ronny's, too (unless Mr. Kutcher had extremely small feet). What kind of kid walks around in dress shoes instead of sneakers, even filthy sneakers? My own sneakers were covered in the thick black mud that lined the river, and you didn't see me gallivanting around town wearing my Sunday best. Heck, thanks to all the rain we'd been getting, every kid who'd been down to the river in the past two weeks had sneakers covered in that exact same black mud.

And that's when it hit me like a diamond bullet shot right through the middle of my forehead. I didn't wait for Sandra. I was back on the case.

Saturday, May 24, 9:44 a.m.
2 Ganymede Court, Iona Elementary

There were three things that had been bothering me about this case. One, why did the perp take the broken lock? Two, who in their right mind would want to steal Ronny's bike anyway? And three, what did Missy mean when she said she tried to return the bike, but the kid she was returning it to already had a new one? Obviously, the new bike she was talking about was the slick mountain bike that had been wheeled out last night just before Bucky laid into me, but who owned that bike? I had to pay Missy King another visit.

Missy was a creature of habit. I found her back at Iona Elementary, hanging upside down from the monkey bars.

“Missy,” I called, standing back a bit from the playground equipment.

“What d'you want, Lime?” she said, hopping down. “More abuse?”

“I just need you to answer a question for me,” I said.

“I don't owe you nothing anymore,” she said, taking a few steps toward me.

“You're right,” I said, taking a few steps back, “but I wonder how your brother would feel if he knew you'd tried to take some of his merchandise back to its rightful owner?”

“He wouldn't listen to a word you said,” she said with a smirk.