Sammy Keyes and the Power of Justice Jack

  I grin at him. “Dawdle? Is that what deuces do?”

  “That’s what they can’t do. I’m serious. I’ve got to get home before my dad!” And he does seem a bit panicked, but he puts that aside long enough to eye me and say, “You’re just jealous because the Deuce is such a better name than Umbrella Girl.”

  I laugh. “Oh, right. That’s it.”

  “Look,” Casey says, “just go. My mom’ll be long gone by the time you hit the main road, and even if they see you, what are they going to do?”

  “Run me over?” Billy says.

  Casey and I both laugh, because his forehead’s all wrinkly with worry. “Well, besides that,” Casey says, “you’ll be fine.”

  So Billy grabs his bike, and says, “What about you guys?”

  Casey nods. “I’m thinking maybe we’ll go up to the end of the road and see if there’s a shortcut out of here.”

  I grin at him. “A shortcut?”

  He grins back. “Got something against shortcuts?”

  “You are such a bad influence.”

  “Me?”

  And I guess we were being kind of googly-eyed because Billy hops on his bike and says, “I’d be ready to puke right now, only I’ve joined the Justice Force and have better things going than looooove.” He pushes off and calls, “Like ridin’ the Rushin’ Roulette!” then tears out of there.

  “The Rushin’ Roulette,” Casey says with a little snort. Then he grabs my hand. “Come on. Let’s see if there’s another way out of here.”

  And off we go, in search of a shortcut.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Sandydale continued for another hundred yards or so, then stopped at a long metal guardrail attached to wide wooden posts. There was an official yellow road sign with big black letters that said END bolted to the middle of the guardrail, so it was pretty clear that we were supposed to stop and turn around.

  The thing about shortcuts is, there’s never a sign that says RIGHT THIS WAY! According to Marissa, shortcut is code for dark, scary, or dangerous … usually all three. And even though I always tell her she’s just being a scaredy-cat, I have to admit that shortcutting usually involves at least a little heart thumping. I mean, even if where you’re going isn’t marked NO TRESPASSING, it’s a shortcut, not an “alternate route” or something, you know, official, so chances are you will be trespassing. And even if no one cares that you’re cutting through a blocked-off alley, or climbing a fence, or diagonaling across a construction site, it always feels like you’re about to get busted, or mugged, or, you know, killed.

  Anyway, a shortcut isn’t so scary after the first time you’ve taken it, or if you know other people have taken it. You’re not on the shortcut frontier anymore. It’s been scouted. Broken in. Survived.

  So even though the sign on the guardrail said END, and even though it looked like if we went past it, we’d get lost in a shadowy eucalyptus forest that for sure sheltered wolves and snakes and bloodsucking bugs, I saw something that told me we were actually not on a shortcut frontier.

  Tire tracks.

  Fat ones.

  “Hey, check it out,” I tell Casey, and we follow the tracks around the guardrail until they disappear onto a bed of eucalyptus leaves. And after we’ve crunched along the leaves for a while, Casey says, “You look like a bloodhound.”

  I stop and stare at him. “A bloodhound?”

  “Yeah, with the way your head’s down and going back and forth.… What are you doing?”

  “Following the broken leaves.”

  He notices that, yeah, there’s a wide trail of crushed leaves. “Oh.” He laughs. “Sorry.”

  “Bloodhound,” I grumble.

  “I said sorry!” So he starts looking, too, and every once in a while we come to a section of dirt where we can see actual tire tracks. It’s like finding small islands in a river of leaves where we can sort of mentally catch our breath and go, Okay, I’m not imagining things.

  “Those look like dually tracks,” Casey says.

  “Dually tracks? What’s a dually?”

  “Double tires, usually in back, singles up front.” He shrugs. “That’s what it looks like to me.”

  It doesn’t take long for us to wander out of sight of the guardrail. I try to keep my bearings straight, and I think we’re heading east, but it’s pretty late in the afternoon and with all the trees it’s not easy to tell from the sun which direction we’re going. And I’m starting to worry that this is one of those shortcuts—you know, the kind that makes you later than you would have been if you’d taken the long way home? But then the broken leaves make a hard right, and after a few more tire-track islands, we find ourselves looking at a chain-link fence with razor wire along the top. There are no trees whatsoever on the other side of it. Just acres of old cars.

  “So we’re at the junkyard,” I say, looking around. “But why would someone drive out here when there’s no gate?”

  “Sometimes people dump stuff out in the boonies, but I don’t see anything like that around here, either.”

  I laugh. “Maybe they were trying to take a shortcut and ran into a dead end!”

  Casey laughs, too. “Maybe!”

  Then I notice something on the ground near the fence. It’s about the size of a glove, and it’s sort of reddish brown with big black specks on it. “What is that?”

  When we move in closer, the big black specks levitate.

  I go, “Ew!” because I’ve seen flies on dead stuff before, and let me tell you, it’s gross.

  “It’s just an old piece of meat,” Casey tells me.

  So, okay, maybe it’s not a carcass, but it’s still giving me the heebie-jeebies. And since it’s already getting dark, I just want to go. So I look to the left and right, but there’s fencing and eucalyptus trees as far as I can see in both directions. And I’m about to ask Casey if he wants to follow the fence to the left or the right or just go back the way we’d come when he says, “Hey, check this out.”

  He’s over by what looks like a long scar running straight up two rows of chain link, and when I get closer, I see that there’s a long twisty metal thing holding the rows together.

  Which is odd enough, but there are also weird markings in the dirt. There’s a wide gouge with what look like half hoofprints running along either side of it. Like a dying horse had dragged itself along going, Water! Water!

  Or, you know, Neigh! Neigh!

  Or something.

  Anyway, what’s extra-strange is that the markings start on our side of the fence and go right under it and into the junkyard without stopping.

  “This is weird,” Casey says after we’ve studied it for a minute. He puts down his skateboard. “Unless this opens up.” He grabs the long twisty metal thing between his fingertips and turns. And in just a few twists, the rows of chain link begin to separate at the bottom like stage curtains at a play. He grins at me. “Shortcut!”

  Now, it’s not like me to stop and, you know, think in the middle of taking a shortcut, but going through the junkyard seems like a bad idea. So I ask him, “Why are we shortcutting through the junkyard?”

  Casey looks at me. “Uh … to avoid my mother?”

  “But what if there’s no little twisty thing to let us out the other side? What if we get stuck?”

  Casey thinks a minute, then says, “What time is it?”

  I look at my watch. “Almost five.”

  “You’re right. Let’s just follow the fence around.” And I can tell he’s worried now because he’s supposed to be home by five.

  So we twist the sections back together as fast as we can and hurry along the fence until it finally turns a corner at the dead end of a narrow alleyway.

  And even though the alley is shadowy and dirty and has a junkyard on one side and the back side of slummy apartments on the other, both of us are hugely relieved. “Let’s go!” Casey says, grabbing my hand.

  The alley’s just gravel and dirt, so we have to run instead of ride, but when we get to the firs
t real side street, we toss down our boards and take off. And since it’s pretty obvious from the graffiti and the people hanging around that we’re in gang territory, we ride fast.

  Finally I recognize where we are. “I think that’s Broadway!” I call up to him, and when I’m sure it is, I tell him, “I better turn off! Pay-phone me tomorrow!”

  He comes skidding to a halt and stops me before I can cross the street. “You,” he says, giving me a kiss, “are amazing.”

  He takes off and I call, “So are you!” then watch him until he turns and rides out of sight.

  Now, I was way more worried about Casey getting home late than I was about being late myself.

  Grams is someone I can explain things to.

  Candi is someone who just explodes.

  That doesn’t mean I take it easy as I’m riding toward the Senior Highrise. I’m pushing so hard that the bottom of my shoe feels like it’s smoking. And with all the rush-hour traffic and people out Christmas shopping, I’m having to really focus on where I’m going.

  Still, there are some things that will break your concentration no matter how focused you are.

  Like a walrus on wheels.

  I actually fall off my skateboard when I see her. And even though she’s in a wheelchair, there’s no mistaking the Whopping Wedge.

  Especially since she’s being pushed toward the front door of the Senior Highrise.

  By Justice Jack.

  “He found her?” I choke out. Then I grab my skateboard and tear across the street shouting, “Mrs. Wedgewood! Mrs. Wedgewood!” and manage to catch up to them right before they reach the door.

  “Samantha!” she says when she realizes it’s me, and gives me the sweetest, gentlest smile you’ve ever seen on a blackmailer.

  I look at Justice Jack. “Where did you find her?”

  “I circulated her picture to my contacts,” he booms, “and one of them spotted her at the bus station!”

  “Hey,” I tell him between my teeth, “it’s just me. You don’t have to announce everything.”

  “And what are you doing here, young citizen?” he booms. “Isn’t this facility for seniors only?”

  Well, I’m not about to stumble through explaining that, so I just tell him, “I volunteer here.” Then I turn to Mrs. Wedgewood and say, “People are going to be really happy to see you!”

  “What day is it?” she asks.

  “Tuesday.”

  “Oh my. Well, yes. I suppose I did get carried away. And waylaid.”

  “Look, I can take it from here,” I tell Justice Jack, but he puffs himself up a little and announces, “The fellowship of this fine community tasked me with finding her, and it’s my duty to see the mission to completion!” Then he adds in a regular voice, “But it would be nice if you opened the door.”

  So I pull the door open and let him push Mrs. Wedgewood through. Then I swoop in after them and call out, “Mr. Garnucci!”

  Mr. G looks up from his computer. “Samantha? What’s—” Then he stands up. “Rose?” He rushes over. “Where have you been?” And before she can answer, he looks at Justice Jack. “How did you find her?”

  Justice Jack crosses his arms and inflates his chest. “All in a day’s work, good sir!” Then he punches his fists onto his waist like he should have a cape billowing in the wind. “And now that she’s in good hands, I’ll be on my way!”

  Now, since he has no cape and there’s no wind blowing inside the Senior Highrise—well, not that kind of blowing wind anyway—he’s forced to walk like a mortal out the front door. But still. Something about the way he whooshes out of a building makes you believe that he could fly if someone would just give him a cape.

  Anyway, Mr. Garnucci is studying Mrs. Wedgewood, going, “Are you all right, Rose? You seem … pale.” And while he’s worried about her color, I just want to straighten out her wig, because the big black curls are all crooked and kind of sideways.

  “I’m fine, Vinnie.”

  “Well, you gave us all a good scare.”

  She snickers. “Especially Sally and Fran, I’m guessing. Probably think I ran off with their money.”

  I snort. “ ‘Skipped town’ is what they said.”

  “Skipped? Me?” She gives a little laugh. “That’s a good one.”

  “Well, where have you been?” Mr. G asks her. “How did Justice Jack find you?”

  “Is that that fellow’s name? Well, I have no idea. When he first appeared at the bus station, I thought they were shooting a movie. Then he gets me in this wheelchair and whisks me away like I’m the president.”

  “He’s been on the news a lot,” Mr. Garnucci tells her. “So your neighbors asked him if he could find you.”

  She eyes him. “Did they offer a reward?”

  “No … At least I don’t think so.”

  “Figures,” she grumbles. Then she takes a deep breath and says, “Can you assemble them?”

  “Who?”

  “The lot of ’em.”

  “The whole building?”

  “No!”

  Now, her wheelchair looks like an extra-wide model, but it’s still not nearly big enough for her. She is wedged in tight, and what the chair can’t contain is spilling over like a seismic eruption of muumuu. And somewhere inside all those flowery folds she’s stashed something, because she’s lifting up whole sections, looking for who knows what.

  “Here!” she finally says, and out pops a big black purse. And I want to ask, What else do you have stashed in there? because all of a sudden the possibilities seem endless.

  She roots through her purse and pulls out a notebook, then licks a finger and goes thwip, thwip, thwip through a bunch of pages until she gets to the one she’s looking for. “Here’s the list,” she says, holding it out to Mr. Garnucci. “Get them down here.”

  This is how the Wedge works. She tells you what to do, and if you don’t, watch out. I actually like it better when she’s bossy than when she sweet-talks, because at least I know what I’m dealing with. When she starts spreading the sugar, I start to worry. Like, Okay, when are you going to throw spice in my eyes?

  Anyway, Mr. Garnucci makes a few phone calls, and before you know it, the lobby’s swarming with old people barking stuff like, “Where have you been?” and “Where’s my money?” and “Why didn’t you call?”

  And it’s starting to feel like a mob, so I finally say, “Hey! Hey, calm down! It’s okay! She’s here!”

  They look at me like a bunch of angry owls. “Who is she?” Bun-Top asks, pointing at me.

  “She helped Justice Jack bring Rose home,” Mr. Garnucci says, and I toss him a look that says thanks, ’cause the last thing I want is a gang of ticked-off old biddies coming after me.

  “Justice Jack!” the Prune Posse cries. “He’s the one who found you?”

  “I told you he was a fine young man!” Bun-Top squeals. “You have me to thank for this, you know!”

  “So now what?” Screwdriver Sally snarls. “We need some actual justice!”

  “Yeah!” the mob cries. “What did you do with our money?”

  Now, I don’t like how everyone’s ganging up on the Big W when they haven’t even heard what she has to say. It’s feeling a lot like being in the principal’s office, which, believe me, is not a good place to be. So I step forward again and say, “Maybe we can let her explain?”

  Bun-Top’s eyes narrow down on me. “What’s this ‘we’ business? Who are you? Why is any of this your business?”

  “Knock it off, Cynthia,” Mrs. Wedgewood tells her. “She’s just trying to help.” She starts fishing through her bag again. “And listening would be a good idea.”

  Then her big, meaty hand pulls something out of her bag, and all at once the room goes quiet.

  Except for the sound of dropping jaws.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Prune Posse stands there with their eyes popped and their jaws dropped, looking at the Wedginator like she’s just pulled a gun on them. But what she’s taken
out of her bag is really a big, bursting envelope of cash.

  She thumps it onto her lap. “Vinnie,” she says, holding out one hand, “the list.”

  Mr. Garnucci returns the notebook without a word.

  “And get me a pencil,” she commands as she rifles through her purse and comes up with a calculator.

  Mr. G scurries off while everyone else stares, and believe me, they’re not looking at her awful, crooked wig.

  Mrs. Wedgewood snorts. “Yes, it’s real, and, yes, you’ve all made a bundle.” She accepts the pencil from Mr. Garnucci and mutters, “I just have to calculate my rake.”

  Now, I don’t know what a rake is, and apparently neither does anyone else. But as she goes down the list, I edge in from behind. She’s smelling pretty ripe, so it’d be more natural to back away, but I get as close as I dare to and try to figure out what she’s doing.

  In her notebook there’s a list of names and two columns of numbers, and what she does is punch in the amount that’s in the second column of numbers and multiply it by 0.75 Then she writes down that amount in a third column, counts out the calculated money, calls the person’s name, and hands over a stack of cash.

  It doesn’t take long for me to catch on that the first column is the amount the person gave her, the second column is the amount they won, and the third column is the amount she’s paying out.

  Which means she’s skimming twenty-five percent right off the top.

  She doesn’t seem to realize that I’m hovering behind her, because she barks at anyone else who gets close. “Get back, Sally, I need to concentrate!” “Fran, what did I just tell Sally?” “Ted, you’ll get yours. Back off!”

  When she’s finally done distributing the money, I step away as she eyes Mr. Garnucci and says, “Bet you wish you’d believed me.”

  Mr. G nods like, No kidding, while the rest of the mob counts through their money, not quite believing their eyes.

  Finally the Ted guy says, “But how’d you do it?”

  The Wedge shrugs as she stuffs away her notebook and what’s left of the money. “Told you. I got a tip.”

  “But what tip?” Bun-Top asks. “And where’d you go?”