The Further Adventures of Jack Lime (3 page)

In the future, when people talk about great athletic accomplishments at Iona High, the last quarter of that game is sure to come up. Not only did Lance play offense, he played defense, too. He ran around the field like a crazy squirrel in a nut factory. He intercepted passes, he ran through tackles, he threw two touchdowns and ran one in with three opposing players hanging off his back. When the final whistle blew and the fat lady sang, the Warriors were up by one and Lance was the toast of the town.

Most of the fans paraded out of the stands laughing and cheering, but there were a few who looked more than a little disappointed. Heck, they looked downright angry, and I had a sneaking suspicion they'd all just lost a bunch of dough betting that Eastern High was a sure thing to win. They were probably wondering why Lance waited until the last minute to play like a superhero. I was beginning to wonder that myself. I was beginning to wonder about a lot of things, and I figured the easiest way to get some of the answers was to catch up with Lance “The Miracle Man” Munroe.

Friday, October 4, 6:17 p.m.
17 Sea of Tranquility Lane, The Goodwin Place

A little after six, Lance came out the school's main doors with Betty and a crowd of kids who were still hooting about his incredible performance. They took off in a whirlwind of excitement, but gradually the groupies trailed away in different directions. By the time we arrived at a cozy white house with a picket fence around the front, it was just the two of them. The name on the mailbox said “The Goodwins,” and I watched the lovebirds go inside. Then I found a comfortable tree to lean against across the street and settled down to do some thinking. Unfortunately any thinking I was about to do was rudely interrupted when KC Stone stepped up beside me.

“What are you doing here, Lime?”

“KC,” I said, turning around. “Nice of you to drop by. You always make my other problems seem insignificant.”

“A detective of your stature must have serious problems — like hangnails and out-of-control nose hairs.”

“Are you here to groom me or just to bother me?”

“Actually I'm here to have dinner and interview Lance. He had an incredible game this afternoon.”

“Yeah,” I said, “a very convenient last-minute comeback.”

“Care to expand on that, Lime?”

“I don't think I can, not yet, but something doesn't smell right around here, and I'm planning on finding out what's baking in the oven.”

“I'm not sure what that means, but try to keep your head screwed on straight,” she said. “I wouldn't want you to end up looking like a fool.”

“I'm not going to make you any promises.”

“That's probably a good decision, Jack. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Call me if Lance does anything suspicious,” I said, handing her one of my cards.

“Like winning a football game?”

“Exactly,” I said.

KC rolled her eyes and headed across the street.

I decided I didn't want to lean against a tree for the rest of the night while Lance sat inside and ate a warm meal. Plus, I usually met my grandma for supper at The Diner on Friday nights, and I had about five minutes to get there before she thought I'd stood her up. On top of all that, I was willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that Lance wasn't going anywhere tonight, not after a game like that and not when he had Betty and KC gushing all over him.

Friday, October 4, 6:32 p.m.
29A Main Street, The Diner

I walked through the door at The Diner just as Moses was giving Grandma her dinner. I apologized for being tardy, ordered a bacon-and-cheese burger with fries on the side and a root beer float, and then strolled over to the pay phone in the back. I dialed 555-3333 and waited to see who would pick up.

The phone rang five times before an automated recording cut in and said, “Leave a message.” There was a beep. I hung up and went back to our booth. The number might be a dead end for now, but I had plenty of time to call again.

“Your nose is looking better,” Moses said, sliding my root beer float in front of me.

“Thanks,” I said, and was just about to take my first sip when the pay phone started to ring.

I bolted out of the booth and picked it up on the third ring.

“Hello,” I said.

“How did you get this number?” the person on the other end asked. The voice sounded robotic, as if it was being electronically altered.

“What do you mean, how'd I get this number?” I said, playing a hunch. “This is Lance. What's up?”

“You're not Lance.”

“What do you mean? I ought to know who I am, pal. This is Lance Munroe. Now you better tell me who you are before I come over there and twist you into a human pretzel.”

Unfortunately the yahoo on the other end wasn't buying what I was selling and hung up.

“What was that about, Jack?” Grandma asked, as I slid back into the booth. “I thought we agreed you were taking a break from being a detective.”

“It's an open-and-shut case,” I said. “There's nothing to it.”

“Nothing's simple,” Grandma said.

“You might be right.”

“Of course I'm right,” she said, grabbing some of my fries, “and I don't want to deal with any more visits to the hospital. Do we understand each other?”

“Sure, no more visits to the hospital,” I said, and took a long drink from my float.

Friday, October 4, 7:59 p.m.
Grandma's House, The Kitchen

I scarfed down my burger, stuffed my face with fries, gulped down my float and finished the whole thing off with an enormous piece of lemon meringue pie. Grandma stuck around at The Diner to listen to the end of the ball game, so I rolled home on my own. As I stepped onto the front porch, the kitchen phone started to ring and I rushed inside.

“Hello,” I gasped.

“Jack,” a voice said, in no more than a whisper, “I need your help.”

“Betty?”

“Lance got another one of those texts. He rushed out, but I followed him this time, just like you said.”

“Betty, I told you to find out which way he went, not to follow him. Where are you?”

“I'm in Riverside Park. At the big field with the tennis courts. Please, you've got to come down here.”

“I'll be there faster than you can say game, set and match.”

I got my bike and headed for Riverside Park. I'd found the bike over the summer, sitting in the back corner of the garage, covered in dust. It had belonged to my dad and needed a little work, so I spent July mowing lawns and used the money to spruce it up. Now it was as good as new and a handy way for me to get places quick, fast, in a hurry.

I made it to the park in no time flat and parked my bike under a tree. Then I crept along the path until I had a clear view of the tennis courts, which were on the far side of the field and illuminated by four towering outdoor lights. I was expecting to see Lance making out with a girl, but instead there was a heated game of dodgeball under way. A cluster of about a dozen yahoos was standing outside the fence that surrounded the courts, watching the action. I'd just taken a few steps toward the field when a dark figure sprang out of the shadows and grabbed my wrist.

I yanked my hand free and lunged. We toppled backward into the trees, rolled around and I came out on top. I was about to teach this mooyuk a lesson in manners when my condition kicked in and everything went black.

FYI — Thanks to my condition, I don't get to choose when I go to sleep. Old Doc Potter calls it narcolepsy; I call it a curse because it tends to kick in at the worst times. Like right now I'm in the middle of defending myself from an unknown assailant when my body decides it's time for a quick visit to Never-Never Land.

I dreamed I was in a room with blood-red carpets and walls to match. KC Stone was standing in front of me. Her hair was down, hanging in long red waves over her shoulders. She was wearing a big, poufy white dress that made it look like she was on her way to the prom.

“The fix is in, Jack.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“It's all a setup.”

“I don't believe you,” I said.

“The wheels are already in motion,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Wake up and smell the roses, Jack.”

“I don't understand,” I said, but now she was sinking into the carpet. She was already up to her knees, and her dress was soaking up the red like a paper towel.

“I don't understand,” I said, trying to pull her out.

“I know,” she said. “Now wake up!”

I tried to hold on to her hand but I was too weak and she slipped away, sinking down into the carpet, like it had changed into quicksand.

“Wake up,” a voice said. It sounded far away.

“I don't understand,” I mumbled.

“Wake up, Jack,” the voice said again, but now it was Betty's voice. I opened my eyes to see her kneeling beside me.

“Jack, are you okay?”

“I think so,” I said, sitting up. Betty was wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans and a black wool hat. Long story short, she looked like a million bucks.

“What happened?” I asked. “Where did you come from?”

“I was waiting for you in the trees,” she said. “I grabbed your hand when you walked by, but you attacked me. I guess you must've hit your head or something.”

“Sorry about that,” I said. “I can get as jittery as a chipmunk at a bloodhound convention when I'm on a case.”

“A bloodhound convention?” she said, looking confused.

“Forget about it,” I said, standing up. “What we need to focus on now is why Lance came down here tonight.”

“I just want to know why he's running away from me,” she said.

“You might not like what we find out.”

She nodded and we crept to the other side of the field, staying in the trees. I found a good vantage point behind a couple of evergreens about twenty feet from the action. Lance was playing on a team with two big oafs who could barely lumber their way around the court. One was Derek Sanders, a longtime member of the Riverside Boys, who most people call Heavy because he weighs about as much as a full-grown grizzly bear. The other one was Patrick Malone, the same bruno who busted my nose last Friday. The other team was made up of three pip-squeaks who looked like they'd just graduated from Iona Elementary. They were buzzing around the court like wasps in fast-forward, firing balls left, right and center. It didn't take them long to blast Heavy and Malone out of the game. Lance, however, was a whole lot quicker and harder to hit. He jumped over, ducked under and bent around everything the pip-squeaks sent his way. He evened things up when he sent two balls hurtling across the court like a couple of heat-seeking missiles and two of the pip-squeaks went down like sacks of wet cement. Now it was Lance “The Football Star” Munroe vs. a kid who might've weighed in at ninety pounds soaking wet. That's when the gawkers on the sidelines started waving their dough in the air and crowding around two crooks I knew all too well — Mike the Bookie and Bucky King.