The Quick Fix (2 page)

She reached into the waistband of her skirt, pulled out a five, and handed it to me. “Is this enough to start?”

I nodded. I meant to say, “I haven't said yes yet,” but nothing came out. She was handing me a five-dollar bill that had just been pressed against her stomach. There was no
way
I could speak.

“There's something else,” she said. The worry was back on her face. “He dropped by my house yesterday and gave me something to hold. He said he was watching it for a friend and felt that it would be safer with me.”

“Why would it be safer with you?”

“He tends to lose things.”

“I'll take your word for it. What'd he give you?”

She thought about it for a moment and then said, “I can't tell you.”

“We're not off to a great start here.”

“He made me promise. It's not his. He's holding it for a friend, and … well, he was afraid that if word got around, someone might think it's pretty valuable and try to take it.”

“So he gave it to you to hold?” I asked. “Nice guy, setting his girlfriend up to get mugged.”

“He said nobody knew he had it, so they'd have no idea that he gave it to me. He also said I was the only one he could trust.”

And there it was: the trump card. After that, he could've asked her to walk through walls and she would've been banging into them all day. Now she was hiring me to join her.

“Can you at least give me a hint?” I asked. “Is it something illegal?”

“No, nothing like that! It's just— It's … a piece of wood. That's all. No big deal.”

“A piece of wood?”

“Yeah, like a decorative—” She stopped herself. “I've already said too much. I'm afraid he's gotten himself involved in something that's way over his head, and this was his way of asking for help.”

“I thought you said it was just a piece of wood, that it wasn't a big deal.”

“I—I'm not sure what to think anymore,” she replied. “That's why I'm hiring you. I used to be friends with Nicole Finnegan, you know. Back in fifth grade. Before she worked for Vinny Biggs … I heard what you did for her.”

“Which part?” I said. “The part where I inadvertently distracted her so she could get popped with a water cannon, or the part where I did nothing to help her escape the Outs?”

“The part where you solved her case when no one else cared. The part where, despite the fact that she used to be a ruthless criminal, you found justice for her.”

If she was aiming for my bull's-eye, she had just hit it, dead-on. “So what would you be hiring me to do?” I asked after a moment's pause. “Follow him or protect you? Because if he
is
in trouble and that piece of wood is in the middle of it, you're the one in the hot seat now.”

“I don't care about me. I only care about Will.”

“Great. That should make my job easier,” I said, and then added, “I need to see it.”

“See what?”

“Whatever it is you don't want me to see.”

She tensed up, then shifted the backpack on her shoulder. “I … uh … I don't have it.”

“Yes, you do. It's in your bag. No point paying me if you're not going to trust me.”

She smiled. Her teeth were perfect, of course. “Okay.” She started to pull her backpack around to the front.

I stopped her. “Whoa. Not now. We're starting to draw enough attention as it is. Meet me in the alcove off the gym after lunch.”

“I can't. We have a last-minute practice before the game today.”

“Okay. Then when?”

“After the game,” she said.

“Fine. And bring a friend if you still don't trust me.”

“I trust you.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “And it's making me nervous.”

you were taking a bunch of tests to determine whether you felt jealousy or not, tailing Will “Captain of the Basketball Team” Atkins would be the final exam. He was handsome, six inches taller than almost every other kid in school (but not in an awkward, gawky way), and full of the kind of confidence that comes when you're constantly being reminded of how amazing you are. Everyone wanted to be his friend, including the principal and most of the teachers. He was a straight-A student, but I wouldn't fault him if he kept flunking eighth grade on purpose, just so he could stay at the Frank forever.

He was wearing a pair of jeans—the expensive kind that puts its brand name all over the pockets so that you're never at the wrong angle to show people how much you spent on them. The light blue of his official Franklin Middle School basketball jersey (number 4) was the exact same shade as his eyes, making it seem like fate that he was our school's basketball savior.

Today was a game day, so class attendance for Will was encouraged but not really enforced. I could only watch him between classes, as my teachers weren't offering me the same deal. But it didn't matter. Tailing him was as challenging as tailing a school bus on a weekday morning. He couldn't walk two steps without someone coming up to wish him good luck or talk to him about his “plan of attack” for the game that afternoon.

I was looking for any strange or suspicious behavior, but since I had never really watched Will that closely, I had no idea what was strange for him. I was hoping for something obvious, like a sudden screaming fit, but no such luck.

For a kid who could get away with whatever he wanted, Will was modest and approachable. He talked to
everyone
, regardless of their social status. In fact, he seemed to enjoy his conversations with geeks and nerds
the most. He looked everyone in the eye as they spoke to him. He nodded and smiled, but in a way that indicated that he wasn't just glad-handing; he was actually listening. His laugh was easy and genuine. And you could tell when someone paid him a compliment, because he'd turn bright red and look at his shoes. It appeared that the only person who didn't buy into the hype of “Will the Legend” was Will himself.

That's not to say he didn't have his share of quirky habits. As soon as he'd start walking, he'd start whistling, as if there was no way to do one without doing the other. It was always the same tune, something that sounded like a cross between “Happy Birthday” and “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Sometimes, when he was standing around, he'd hum it to himself, like a pep talk or a quiet prayer. He tapped his teeth when he was thinking, and snapped his fingers when he was restless … which was a lot of the time. Before he opened his locker, he'd knock on the door four times—the same number that was on the back of his jersey.

None of this seemed suspicious to me. Quirky and superstitious, perhaps, but not suspicious. I've met a lot of athletes in my time, and all of them were superstitious in one way or another. I once played baseball with a kid
who would tap the plate the same number of times as his jersey number. A couple of years ago, he wore the number 48. After a few twenty-minute at-bats, the coach made him switch to number 3. Everyone agreed it was the right thing to do.

When lunch finally came, the only things I'd discovered about Will was that he was apparently one of the nicest kids in school and also that he was a pretty decent whistler. I also realized that I should've started watching him last year. It might've inspired me to play basketball, which seemed to drastically change the whole middle school experience. He definitely looked like he was having more fun than I was.

By the time I entered the caf, lunch was already in full swing. I used some of my advance to buy whatever they were substituting for food that day, then found a seat two tables over from Melissa Scott.

She and her friends were at their regular table, the top of which was covered with more makeup than food. She was trying to act casual, but I sensed that her responses to her friends were forced, and her laughs were a few seconds late. She scanned the cafeteria. When she finally found me, she shot a clear “Well, what did you find out?” look my
way. I returned it with a half-smile and a noncommittal headshake as if to say, “Not much.” Before she could volley back, a hulking eighth grader stepped into my sight line. I looked up at him and smiled. He smiled back. Another huge kid came up beside me and put a hand the size of a bear paw on my shoulder. “Mr. Biggs wants to talk to you,” he said in a surprisingly high, clear voice.

“I'm honored,” I said. “What are the topics today? Renewable energy sources? The European economy? My favorite kind of pie?”

The kid in front of me grabbed my tray. “You finished with this?” he asked as he slid it off the end of the table. It landed with a crash, spraying ground beef and mystery sauce all over the floor.

“You know,” I said, “I get the feeling you didn't actually care whether I was finished or not.”

The kid behind me lifted me out of my seat. “Time to go.”

“Well, now you're just being rude,” I told him.

He carried me through the cafeteria like a bag of garbage he was lugging to the sidewalk. No one looked over; they just kept going about their business.

Vincent Biggio, a.k.a. Vinny Biggs, was the seventh-grade head of a criminal operation that controlled most
of the illegal activities here in the Frank. He was sitting at a table in the corner with his back to the wall. You'd need a sledgehammer to sneak up on him. He was eating a plate of spaghetti so delicious-looking, I didn't even need to check the cafeteria menu to know that he hadn't gotten it there.

The kid who was carrying me placed me back onto the floor, more gently than I expected. The other kid pulled the chair that was opposite Vinny out from under the table. He made an elegant gesture for me to sit down. I did. Vinny ignored me and brought a forkful of perfectly wound spaghetti up to his pudgy face. He chewed slowly, looking out over the caf as if he couldn't see me sitting in front of him, like a farsighted king looking out over a courtyard full of subjects. He dabbed the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin.

Sitting to Vinny's left was his right-hand man, Kevin Carling. Kevin's roast beef sandwich sat in front of him, untouched. He was watching me with an expression I couldn't read, which was unusual. Before he got tangled up with Vinny, Kevin was my best friend. I thought I had all of his expressions memorized and cataloged.

A few weeks ago, Kevin had made it clear to me that he was going to try to leave Vinny's organization. Yet here
he was, still performing the duties of a loyal second in command. If he
was
going to leave, he sure was taking the scenic route.

I leaned back in the chair and folded my arms. I stared at Vinny, my jaw tight, my expression blank but with a hint of contempt. “You owe me two bucks for the lunch your meatheads trashed,” I said.

“If you bought it here, they did you a favor.”

“Probably … but I had almost figured out what it was. Now the suspense is going to kill me.”

Vinny snapped his fingers. Two dollar bills appeared on the table in front of me. I picked them up, folded them, and put them in my shirt pocket. “Thanks,” I said. I started to stand up, but a giant hand on my shoulder guided me back down, gently but firmly. I sighed.

“I am about to offer you a job,” Vinny said.

“Let me save us both a little time,” I replied. “No.”

“You should hear the offer first.”

“What's to hear? You're going to tell me that you'll pay me a ridiculous amount of money to do some ‘easy' job that we both know isn't really easy. Do you think I forgot what happened two weeks ago?”

Vinny smiled. “No. I just assumed you raised your
rates.” He gave a quick look to the kid standing over my right shoulder, and a second later, a stack of five-dollar bills appeared on the table. I looked down at the money for a moment, then back at Vinny.

“You won't even touch them,” he said, laughing. “I would be insulted, except this is the very reason I'm hiring you.” He reached over and pulled the stack closer to the middle of the table, then fanned the bills out. There were eight of them. I counted them four times to make sure.