Sammy Keyes and the Power of Justice Jack (5 page)

Because they are.

But I also hate having to sneak around with Casey. It doesn’t make me feel clever or smart or superior.… I’d way rather have an aboveboard life where I’m
not
hiding things from other people. It would be so much more … carefree.

And on the drive back into town in Mr. DeVries’ truck, it hit me what a ridiculously sneaky life I live. I mean, besides having to hide my relationship with Casey from his mom and sister, there’s the whole business of living in a seniors-only building. I have to sneak up the fire escape, then sneak inside and make sure the coast is clear, then sneak down the hall to my apartment. And because it would be a huge mess if someone—say, the manager or a
neighbor or the
police
—stopped by unexpectedly and I got caught living there, everything I own has to be hidden away.

So believe me—I don’t own much.

And if someone
does
come by when I’m home, I’ve got to sneak into Grams’ bedroom and hide in the closet. And every morning when I leave for school, I’ve got to sneak back
out
of the building and down the fire escape.

Plus
, I’ve got the whole sneaky Mom Issue. The school thinks I’m living with my mom, so when something happens and they demand to see her, it’s always this huge juggle of lies because she’s nowhere near Santa Martina.

So yeah. My life is just sneaky, sneaky, sneaky. But what was churning my stomach on the drive home from Dot’s wasn’t just realizing how
good
I’d become at being sneaky, but also realizing that if I had to choose just one thing I hate about my mother—which, believe me, would be hard—it wouldn’t be that she dumped me in a building full of old people so that she could go to Hollywood and become a soap star. And it wouldn’t be that she decided she was in love with the only person on the planet I wouldn’t want her to be in love with—Casey’s dad.

It would be that she’s sneaky.

Incredibly and successfully sneaky.

And I was so busy getting nauseous over the fact that the thing I hate most about her is the thing we have in common that I didn’t even realize we’d pulled up to Holly’s place.

“You okay?” Casey asks, because Holly lives in an apartment across the street from the Senior Highrise and
I’m supposed to get out, too, but I’m just sitting there, spaced.

“Huh? Oh, right! Sorry!” I give Casey a quick hug, thank Mr. DeVries for letting us invade his celebration, grab my
stroopwafels
, and scoot out. Then I wait until Mr. DeVries’ truck is out of sight, because I can’t risk more people knowing where I live, which in this case includes Mr. DeVries and Billy.

When the truck is gone, I say bye to Holly, then hurry across the street and slip into the shadows of a hedge on the Senior Highrise property. And after I’m sure that the coast is clear, I make my way up the fire escape to the fifth-floor landing.

The only person who’s ever caught me sneaking in through the fire escape was our old neighbor Daisy Graybill. She was waiting for me in her dirty pink bathrobe, and when she saw the door inch open, she pounced and shrieked, “Ah-ha! I knew it! I knew it!” while she pointed a shaky finger at the bubble gum I’d crammed into the doorjamb to keep it from latching.

It was a close call, but I made up some excuse about taking the trash down for Grams, and since she couldn’t exactly
prove
anything, I squeaked out of that one.

Barely
.

Then she died and Mrs. Wedgewood moved in.

Mrs. Wedgewood.

Wow.

Imagine a tuskless walrus wearing a crooked wig and a muumuu and you’ll have a pretty good picture of Mrs. Wedgewood.

And although pouncing may not be part of the Big W’s repertoire, eavesdropping and blackmail sure are. Actually, what she does is more like
wall
dropping. The rest of her may be a wreck, but that woman has bionic hearing and isn’t afraid to use it.

So my worries with the Wedgie Woman are usually because of what happens
inside
the apartment, not
outside
, but this time when I peek down the hallway, I see a congregation of at least a dozen old people right outside Mrs. Wedgewood’s door.

Now, I
know
the building’s full of old people, all right? But it’s not like I ever see them. I mean, if
I
can see
them
, chances are
they
can see
me
. Besides, they mostly hole up in their apartments with their TVs blaring.

Well, unless it’s Monte Carlo night down in the rec room.

Anyway, the
point
is, witnessing a whole
mob
of them outside of Mrs. Wedgewood’s apartment—seeing all those walkers and canes, and hearing the clack of angry dentures—is surprising and kinda … 
scary
. So I pull back quick and crouch down, then take a deep breath and wrap an eyeball around the corner to try to figure out what’s going on.

Right away I notice two things: One, Mrs. Wedgewood is not in the crowd.

Believe me—there’s no hiding the Big W.

And two, Grams is.

Now, my grams stands out because she looks like a teenager compared to most of the rest of the mob. For one thing, she bothers to get dressed in the morning. And I’m not talking some stretch pants and Velcro shoes—I’m
talking a skirt, nylons,
pumps
.… Grams is a very classy dresser.

But she’s also the only person in the group who’s trying to calm things down. “Give him a chance,” she’s telling the clacking mob. “He said he’d be right out.”

“I don’t consider this to be right out!” one old lady snaps at her.

“I tell you, she’s skipped town!” another one says.

“How much did you
give
her?” Grams asks.

“Enough!” the first old lady huffs, and then the other one says, “She said she could double my money, maybe triple it!”

“So you just
gave
it to her?” Grams asks.

“I live in this dump, don’t I? What have I got to lose?”

Grams blinks at her. “The money you gave her?”

“Stop it, Rita,” an old guy barks. “You’re not making us feel any better.” He bangs on the door with the handle of his cane and shouts, “Garnucci! Get out here! We want to know what’s going on!”

Mr. Garnucci is the building manager, so whatever’s going on, they’ve called in the building’s only big gun to solve it. And obviously they’re not happy with how long he’s taking, because they
all
start banging, either on the door with their canes or on the wall with their walkers and fists.

And it
is
scary.

It’s like the Attack of the Osteo Army!

And just as I’m thinking that there’s no way I ever want an angry mob of old people after
me
, Mr. Garnucci opens the door.

“Calm down, all of you!” he barks at them.

“Maybe if you’d tell us what you found, we would!” an old guy barks back.

Mr. Garnucci steps out and locks Mrs. Wedgewood’s door. “Well, it does
not
look like she’s skipped town.”

Now, I’m thinking, Skipped?
Skipped?
Who would ever use that word to describe Rose Wedgewood? Maybe she
lumbered
out of town, or
quaked
out of town, but … 
skipped
?

And then one of the old ladies warbles, “All you need to skip town is money!”

“Yeah!” another one cries. “And she took plenty of that from us!”

Mr. Garnucci looks around at the crowd. “You people are all supposed to be broke! How much did you
give
her?”

There’s a moment of complete silence, because what Mr. Garnucci said is true—only people who qualify financially are allowed to live in the Senior Highrise. But then they all start talking at once. “She took everything in my mattress!” “I pinched pennies for years!” “She told me not to tell anyone else!” “She said it was a once-in-a-lifetime tip!” “Yeah! She musta figured we don’t have that much lifetime left!”

Mr. Garnucci puts up both hands. “Did you get receipts?”

The Prune-Faced Posse goes quiet again.

Mr. G shakes his head. “Well. She’s not in there dead. Her things all look in order. And since you don’t even know how long she’s been gone, what do you expect me to do? She coulda gone across town for a burger!”

“More like the whole cow!” someone yells.

“Not nice, Mrs. Orren,” Mr. G scolds.

“But true!” she snaps.

“The point is, you don’t know where she is. Maybe she’s gone to a movie! Maybe—”

“Maybe she’s skipped town!”

Mr. Garnucci heaves a sigh. “The police are not going to do anything if this is all you’ve got.”

“So that’s it?” someone demands. “You’re not going to do
anything
?”

Before Mr. Garnucci’s even done shaking his head, a woman with her hair in a salt-and-pepper bun on the very top of her head steps forward and huffs, “Well,
I
know someone who will help us.”

The Polident Patrol turns to face her. “You do?”

“He’s a fine young man,” Bun-Top says as she opens her purse with shaky hands and produces a business card. She holds it out for the others to see, and one of the old ladies cries, “With a name like that, you know he’ll help us!”

“What’s his name?” Mr. Garnucci asks.

The mob turns to face him like they’re ready to take on the world.

“Justice Jack!”

When the hallway was finally completely clear, I slipped into our apartment with my
stroopwafels
and whispered, “Sounds like the Wedgie’s got a big scam going.”

“You heard all of that?”

I nod. “Did
you
give her any money?”

“Heavens no! Although she certainly tried to persuade me. She claimed to have a top-secret tip that could make me rich.”

“What kind of tip?”

“She was very mysterious about it, but she acted like handing her a bunch of money would be doing
me
a big favor. She even tried some baloney about you needing a college fund. A college fund! As if she cares.”

For an itsy-bitsy fraction of a second, I get the very strange urge to hug Mrs. Wedgewood. I mean, the counselors at school really talk up college, but my own mother has sure never mentioned it, and I’d bet my high-tops she’s never even
thought
of starting a fund.

But then I remind myself that Mrs. Wedgewood is a sweet-talking blackmailer and that Grams is right—what does she care?

Grams gives one of her classic
hrmph
s. “I can’t believe any of them lent her even a dime.”

“So do you think she left town?”

“Where would she go? People live here because they have no place else to go.”

“What about all the money they gave her?”

“How much could it be? Not enough to live on for any length of time, that’s for sure.”

“So where do you think she is?”

Grams shakes her head. “I have no idea, and frankly, I don’t care.”

I actually believed her, but the next morning I woke up to the sound of her making a phone call in the kitchen. She was trying to sneak it, but since the apartment’s about as big as a cracker box and I sleep on the couch, I heard anyway.

“Who are you calling at seven-thirty in the morning?” I groaned, moving my cat Dorito off the top of my head, where he’s been sleeping lately.

She turned her back quick to hide the wall phone—like somehow that would change what she was doing.

“Grams, it’s Saturday! Whoever it is is going to hate you!” And then it hits me. “You’re calling the Wedge?”

“Shhhh!” she says, turning to face me.

“She can’t hear me, Grams. She’s not home.”

Grams hangs up the phone. “So where is she, then?”

I laugh and flop back down. “I thought you didn’t care.”

“But it’s raining cats and dogs outside!”

“It is?”

“Yes! And I just cannot picture her managing in this weather.”

“What’s to manage if you’re holed up in a cushy hotel with room service?” Then I add, “Besides, whales love water.”

“Samantha! Be nice!”

I sit up a little. “Why do I have to be nice when she blackmails me into doing her chores and errands?”

Grams frowns, but what can she say, really? I’m right.

Anyway, around nine o’clock the Prune Patrol started calling
us
. And Grams had a little chat-fest with people I’d never even heard of, saying stuff like, “No, Teri, I’m sorry. There’s no sign of her yet.” “No, Eunice, no sign.… Sure, I’ll let you know.” “No, Gwenith, there hasn’t been a peep, but I’ll call you if she comes home.” Every fifteen minutes the phone would ring, which seemed to electrify Grams but annoyed the heck out of me.

“Can’t you set up a phone tree or something?” I finally asked.

“A phone tree?”

“You know, where you call two people with any news and then
they
call two people, and pretty soon everyone’s got the message?”

“That sounds so complicated. Who would set it up? And someone would surely drop the ball.”

So the phone kept ringing and Grams kept promising and I kept being annoyed.

And then Marissa called.

“It’s for you,” Grams says, sort of taken aback.

Right away I can tell Marissa’s desperate about something.
“Can you meet me at the mall?” she asks in a sort of panic-whisper.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Your parents?” I ask, because her family’s been in crisis mode for months now.

“No,” she whimpers.

“Then what?”

There’s a pause where I can tell she’s holding her breath, and finally she blurts out, “Danny called.”

Every cell in my body stops moving. There’s no oxygen being turned into CO
₂
. There’s no transfer of ions across cell walls. There’s no beating or breathing or blinking. I can’t even gasp.

See, Danny Urbanski is a smooth-talking liar and Marissa had had a crush on him for
years
. But when he was arrested for being a bona fide criminal, I was sure she was finally over him. Plus, Billy had stepped into the picture and she seemed to be happy with him.

“Please, Sammy?” she begs, and her voice is just a squeak. “I know it’s raining, but is there
any
way you can get to the mall?”