A Boy Called Duct Tape (5 page)

Kiki shrugged. “I’m not sure. Any ideas?”

“Write about the Outlaws Days Festival,” Pia suggested.

“Hmm …” Kiki gave it some thought. “That might be a little—”

I cut Kiki off. “Boring?”

“Yeah, boring,” Kiki confirmed.

“Oh,” Pia said.

Kiki turned back to the newspaper:

“‘The celebration began in 1939, the same year a Hollywood film company came to Jamesville to make the movie titled
The James Boys
. Four hundred locals, the total population of Jamesville at the time, were used as extras to portray their forefathers of 1879, the year James was shot and killed.’”

I enjoyed watching Kiki’s mouth move. I had never seen a girl’s mouth move with such perfection, and for a few minutes I did forget about being cheated out of the coin.

“
‘Bootlegger’s Cave, located near James Creek less than two miles from Jamesville, was used in the movie as the James Gang hideout. In reality, many caves in the Jamesville area were actually used by the gang when they were robbing and stealing. Jamesville residents have claimed for years that a fortune in gold and silver coins was stashed by the James Gang in one of those caves, and the legend of the Lost Treasure of Jesse James still lives.’”

Kiki looked over the top of the newspaper. She and I shared a telling glance, and then she continued reading:

“‘However, to this day no one has found the treasure, reported to be worth millions of dollars. The location of the treasure, no doubt, is locked forever in the rugged Ozark hills of southwest Missouri.’”

Kiki put the newspaper aside. Nobody spoke a word. Finally, Pia asked the question we were all thinking.

“Could that twenty-dollar gold coin be from the Jesse James treasure?”

A small gazebo formed the hub for the Outlaw Days Festival. An eight-piece brass band sat in the gazebo playing Civil War songs. Around the gazebo, in a huge circle, were dozens of craft booths, food stands, and open-air tents reflecting 19th century life in Jamesville, Missouri. The festival hadn’t changed much over the years.

Many of the merchants and artists wore Civil War costumes, the men in Confederate uniforms, and the women in dresses from that era. Others were dressed up as outlaws or as lawmen. The sweet smell of apple cider lay thick in the air, and the laughter of children could be heard.

The brass band had just finished its version of “Dixie” when we arrived on our dirt bikes. I chained the bikes to a telephone pole. We were headed for Uncle Ike’s Homemade Ice Cream booth when we were greeted by a man’s shout: “Kids! Over here!”

The fat man was standing inside a cubicle located between a funnel cake booth and a pole-tent where Original Ozarks Folk Art was being sold. He stood behind a long table stacked with novelties. A blue banner hung from the table:

JESSE JAMES SOUVENIRS

“Step a little closer, children,” the fat man said. “Allow me to show you my exquisite merchandise.”

We went over to the booth.

“My name is Clarence Conboy,” the man said with a big grin. The loose, reddish skin hanging beneath his jaw reminded me of a turkey beard. “Welcome to the celebration.” Clarence was dressed up as a Brigadier General. There was a single star on each shoulder of his gray Confederate uniform. “Where you kids from?” His turkey beard jiggled as he spoke.

“I’m Pia Perez. I live here,” Pia said. “This is my brother Pablo and my cousin Kiki. She’s from St. Louis.”

Kiki and I nodded at the man.

“How did you hurt your leg, Pia?” Clarence asked. Pia’s right leg was twisted slightly and she walked with a limp. “You the same Perez in that car wreck a ways back?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Killed your daddy?”

“Uh-huh,” Pia recalled sadly.

“I did your daddy’s funeral, Pia. I own the Conboy Funeral Home. I’m real sorry about that accident.”

I thought Pia might start crying. She usually began sobbing when someone mentioned our Dad. But this time she didn’t.

“Here’s my offer, children,” Clarence said, passing one plump hand over the merchandise displayed on the table before him. “Movie posters are two dollars. The key chains are a dollar. So are the paperback books and the treasure maps.” The souvenirs were neatly arranged on the table. “All the money goes to the Jamesville museum fund.”

“Cool poster,” I said, eyeing
The James Boys
posters stacked at one end of the table. Two men peered out from the black and white posters, scowls on their faces, six-guns drawn.

“How about a Jesse James treasure map?” Clarence said, sliding one of the maps off the stack. He held it up like an auctioneer at a farm sale. “Everybody loves to hunt for treasure.”

“I’ve seen this map before,” I said, trying to remember where.

“Course, you have. Everybody in the county has seen it before,” Clarence confirmed with a grin. “At the museum. We printed up a bunch for the festival.”

The Jamesville Museum was located in the basement of the county courthouse. It was a favorite destination for grade-school fieldtrips.

Clarence laid the map flat on the counter, and I examined the two-foot-square drawing. It was reproduced on parchment paper to give it an authentic look. The route to Jesse’s treasure was illustrated on the map like the bending, curving pattern of a child’s board game.

Beginning in Jamesville, the dotted line followed James Creek west and on past Harper’s Hole to a cave on the west side of Bear Mountain. The route to the treasure began at the Cave Entrance, a place on the map adjacent to something called the J.J. Rock.

“The map looks real,” Kiki said.

“It
is
real,” Clarence said. “Just like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the map. Continuing inside the cave at a place called the Hotel Lobby
,
I traced the treasure route through the underground passage with my eyes: Boulevard of Chandeliers, Death Cake, Lake With Dam, Church Organ, Room of Ghosts, Graveyard, Magic Rock. The route ended at a place named the Cathedral
.
An X marked a spot in the Cathedral where the treasure could be found.

“What’s wrong with the map?” Kiki asked.

“You see all those places in the cave named Hotel Lobby and such?” Clarence asked, flattening one curled edge of the map with his palm.

Kiki nodded.

“There is no cave—map’s a fake,” Clarence said. “It’s just a novelty to raise money for the museum. But everybody knows the map’s a fake, so nobody’s offended.”

Clarence wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his Civil War jacket. “Old woman from Stark City donated it to the museum. She was a bit touched, if you get my meaning, but nobody wanted to insult the poor woman—she donated a ton of money to the museum’s restoration fund—so it was displayed alongside the real stuff,” Clarence explained. “Jesse and his boys really did steal all that money and jewelry, but there’s no cave. It’s a windy—a myth. They’ve been looking for that cave for years. Problem is, there aren’t any caves in Bear Mountain.” Clarence threw his head back with a laugh. “Wished there was. I’d be the first one in that cave.” His turkey beard jiggled like Jell-O.

“Just the same,” I said. “I’ll take one.” I handed Clarence a dollar bill.

“Bet you kids didn’t know that Jesse and his gang staged America’s first bank holdup,” Clarence said, rolling up the map, securing it with a rubber band, then handing it to me. “Robbed the Clay County Missouri Bank of more than $60,000, nearly all of it in coins.”

“You mean like
gold
coins?” Pia asked, swiping at a tangle of hair that had flopped across her face.

“That’s right, girlie,” Clarence said. “In the Glendale, Missouri train robbery of 1879, the gang made off with more than $40,000 in brand new twenty-dollar gold pieces.”

“What year?” I asked.

Clarence repeated the year.

Odd. The year of the Glendale robbery and the year on the $20 gold coin I’d found in James Creek were the same. I wondered if that was just a coincidence.

I looked at Kiki. Kiki looked at Pia. Pia looked at me. None of us said a word.

“Jesse and his boys also made off with a bunch of jewelry they stole from bank customers, and from train and stagecoach passengers,” Clarence concluded.

“I’ll take one of those books,” Kiki said, handing Clarence the money. The thin paperback was titled
The Life and Times of Jesse James.
Kiki stuck the book in the back pocket of her shorts.

“How about a key chain?” Clarence asked, dipping into a straw basket and pulling one out. A pair of six-shooters dangled from a small chain.

“No thanks,” I said. “I think we’ve got all—”

“Hey, Duct Tape!” a voice shouted.

I cringed.

It was Jimmy Coleman. He was in the company of a couple of cheerleaders—including Sara Miller—and a middle-school football player named Chet Armstrong. Everyone called him Big Dog because of his size. They were strolling past the gazebo and acting like a bunch of kindergarten kids.

“Friends?” Kiki asked, noting the group as they approached.

“Not really,” I said. “They call me Duct Tape because of my sneakers.”

“You’re kidding?” Kiki said, glancing down at my feet.

“I wish,” I said faintly.

Jimmy and his three friends swaggered over to where we stood.

“Yo! The one and only Duct Tape,” Jimmy rejoiced. He and Big Dog fist bumped. “And this must be Little Miss Duct Tape,” Jimmy grinned, looking at Pia, then at her sneakers—they had also been reinforced with duct tape, though not as much.

“Leave my sister out of this,” I said, leveling my gaze at my tormentor, a flicker of rage boiling up inside me. “I mean it.” I stepped in front of Pia. I’d never slugged anyone in my life, but I was close to it.

“Yo, I’ll decide who I talk to,” Jimmy challenged.

“
Yo
?” Kiki said. “Did I just hear you say
yo
?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy replied, smirking around his dimples. “Yo! It means—”

“I know what it means,” Kiki interrupted, holding him with her smoldering gaze. “Are you totally dim? You think you’re some sort of homeboy? Goonies from the St. Louis ghetto say yo, not some seventh grade dweeb from Hillbilly Hollow.” Kiki hit Jimmy with a combative smile. “Are you taking notes, homey?”

“Yeah, well … whatever,” Jimmy said, his tongue tied in a knot.

“Yo! Whatever!” Big Dog growled, giving Kiki his best evil eye.

Regaining his train of thought, Jimmy gestured at my duct-taped sneakers. “What’d I tell you, Big Dog? He’s got enough duct tape on his sneakers to circle the town square.”

That brought on a flutter of giggles from the two cheerleaders. “How pathetic,” Sara Miller said, rolling her eyes.

“Maybe he thinks it’ll make him run faster,” Big Dog grunted.

“Yeah, you two are definitely from around here,” Kiki said, looking at Jimmy and then Big Dog, her voice razor-sharp.

“What makes you think you’re so smart?” Jimmy snarled.

“Yo! Your manners are as backward as your town.” Kiki was shooting daggers.

Confused, Jimmy puffed up like a frightened bullfrog.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Big Dog barked, the veins in his thick neck swelling.

“It means you’re both dumb as stumps,” Kiki said, glaring at the six-foot, two-hundred pound seventh grader named Big Dog, and then at Jimmy. “It’s an incurable disease and you both have it.” Kiki grabbed my shirtsleeve and we strode off. Pia was a step behind, snickering, both hands cupped over her mouth.

When I glanced back, Jimmy and Big Dog were standing flat-footed and staring at one another, mouths wide open. They seemed unable to respond. Big Dog’s fists were doubled. They hung at his side like meat hooks.

We had made it to the gazebo when Kiki turned to me and said, “I don’t think your town is Hillbilly Hollow, Pablo. Actually, I think it’s pretty cool. It’s what city people would call
quaint
.”

“It used to bother me when they’d call me Duct Tape, but it doesn’t bug me so much anymore,” I lied. “Thanks for sticking up for me.”

“No problem,” Kiki said with a quiet laugh. “What’s a
primo
for?”

The small earthquake hit Jamesville about noon. We were watching festival-goers dunk Sheriff Mack Hickman, who was perched on a small platform above a tank of water. He was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. By hitting a red target with a baseball, a player could drop the scrawny sheriff into the water with a noisy splash. The small crowd gathered around the dunking tank roared with laughter each time Sheriff Hickman fell.

There wasn’t much to the earthquake. Tree leaves rustled and the gazebo quivered, and I didn’t give it a second thought.

Fact was, we didn’t even know the seismic event had occurred until we arrived at Lyda’s Café later that afternoon.

“People don’t know it,” Lyda said, standing beside our booth, “but the worst earthquake to ever hit the U.S. occurred here in Missouri. Year was 1811. That’s a fact.”

“I remember reading about that in school,” Kiki said.

“How bad was it?” Pia asked, slurping her drink.

Lyda’s forehead wrinkled and she snapped her gum. “Double bad. Changed the course of the Mississippi River, honey. At least a hundred on that Lickter scale thingamajig, that is if that Lickter scale thingamajig had been invented, which it wasn’t. Learned all about it in the
Reader’s Digest.
”

The kitchen bell rang and Lyda rushed off to pick up an order.

“I think she meant
Richter
scale,” Kiki said.

“And they never reach a hundred,” I noted.

“I think eight or nine is about as bad as they get,” Kiki said.

I had unrolled the Jesse James treasure map. It was stretched out on the table before us. We sat drinking our cherry limeades, our eyes tracing the route through the cave to the lost treasure.

After a minute or two, Kiki looked up at me with a flicker of a smile. “Tell me something,
primo
.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

The excitement flaring in her eyes, Kiki said, “Do you know anything about exploring caves?”

I shook my head. “Not really.” A grin began as a tiny crease, but broadened across my entire face. “But I know someone who does.”