Adam Canfield of the Slash (18 page)

“Deceased,”
said the woman. “He’s totally deceased.”

“Whoa,” said Adam. “Anyone totally diseased must be totally contagious. Is it safe for me to talk to him on the phone?”

“Not diseased. D-E-C-E-A-S-E-D,” spelled the woman. “I should have known better than trying to be subtle with a newspaper reporter. He is completely and irrevocably stone-cold D-E-A-D. Is that a word you can spell?”

Adam gasped. “Oh, my gosh,” he said. “I am so sorry. I feel like an idiot.”

“Well,” said the woman. “You sound like an idiot. What rag did you say you’re from?”

“The
Slash,
” said Adam.

“Never heard of it,” said the woman. “That another Boland publication?”

“Oh no, ma’am, nobody owns us,” said Adam. “We’re the student newspaper of Harris Elementary/Middle.”

The woman was quiet, then softly said, “My word. The paper that did the basketball hoop story? What’s your name?”

“Adam Canfield.”

“Adam Canfield of the
Slash
!” she said. “I can’t believe it’s you. Every lawyer in this office was talking about your basketball story. We got five new clients thanks to you. They’ve hired our zoning specialist to fight that accessory structure nonsense.”

“Really?” said Adam.

“Really,” said the woman. “Tell me, how can I help you, sweetheart?”

Adam explained about the Minnie Bloch story and how he was hoping to verify the gift she left to Harris.

“Well, the lawyer may be dead,” she said, “but the will is public record. All wills are in this state. You can get a copy at the county courthouse in the probate office.”

Adam didn’t say anything; he was thinking about taking three buses to the courthouse. He was thinking he would never get to play another game of manhunt for as long as he lived.

“We might have a copy here,” she continued, “if the will was filed in the last two years, we’d still have it. Like me to check?”

She put down the phone. When she returned, she said, “Your lucky day. I’ll make a copy and mail it to you. Normally we charge a dollar a page, but since it’s for the
Slash,
” she said, “I’ll do it for free.”

Adam was excited.

“Now I want something in return,” she said. “Can you get me a mail subscription?”

Oh, could he. Before hanging up, he thanked her a million times.

“No,” she said, “I should thank you. Truth is a mighty precious commodity. Adam Canfield of the
Slash,
you keep up the good work, you hear?”

He couldn’t wait to tell Jennifer, but she didn’t stop by 306 that afternoon.

When he got home, he went into the garage and grabbed his basketball. He needed to practice foul shots. His coach had told them that many a game was won or lost at the free-throw line. Coach said they ought to be making six of ten every time. Coach said there were no shortcuts, just lots of hard work.

The wind was harsh off the river, and his hands turned red and ached after a few minutes, but he needed to be out there. He pulled his sweat-shirt hood over his head, taking several shots from the outside to warm up. And then he noticed. There, on the beam that supported the backboard, was a red sticker, about three inches square. He assumed some kid had put it there. Once when he’d ridden his bike to school, he’d come out and found a sticker on the seat that said,
In case of nuclear attack, stick your head between your legs and kiss your butt goodbye.

But this sticker was no joke.

It said:

N O T I C E !
S
TRUCTURE VIOLATES LOCAL ORD
. 200-52.7A.
R
EMOVE AT ONCE
!
Y
OU
HAVE
7
DAYS!
N
ONCOMPLIANCE MAY RESULT IN
$500
FINE
PER DAY
AND IMMEDIATE REMOVAL PER ORDER OF
T
REMBLE
C
OUNTY
Z
ONING
B
OARD
.

Adam had been red-tagged.

Adam, Jennifer, and Phoebe met so early the next morning, three of their six eyeballs still had sleepy bugs. The school wasn’t open yet, so they walked to the West River Diner, where they took seats in the rear. Jennifer had once read in a biography of Thomas Dewey that when great investigators eat in a restaurant, they sit with their backs to the rear wall so no one can sneak up from behind and shoot them.

The waitress was upset because they had taken a booth during the morning rush and just ordered hot chocolates. But the three news hounds did not notice; they were all business.

In voices barely above a whisper, the coeditors gave Phoebe the high points of the Miss Bloch story.

“You mean you’re going to write an article saying Mrs. Marris is a common low-down crook?” asked Phoebe.

“Shhhhhh,” they shushed her.

“Whoa,” said Phoebe. “Not a bad little story. That’ll probably make the front page, huh?”

“Probably,” said Adam, “if we live to tell it.” They explained that they needed to talk to Eddie to see where Marris got the money for the Bunker work.

“Wait until you see the bathroom,” said Phoebe. “It has gold handles on everything. It’s got a sauna. It’s got this weird thing Eddie said they have in Europe, I can’t remember the name, something like a biddy — rich people use them to wash their . . .”

“You saw the bathroom?” asked Adam. “Gold fixtures?”

“Sure,” said Phoebe. “Eddie showed me when I followed him around — it was my fourth or fifth interview. After everyone was gone, he took me to the Bunker to see the work he was doing.”

“So you think you can get Eddie to talk with us?” asked Adam.

“No problem,” said Phoebe. “Eddie’s my guy. He’ll do what I ask. We are so tight.” She paused. “You know, I was just thinking — I was right about Eddie, wasn’t I? Did I say he was the guy who knew everything at Harris? Remember that day when you yelled at me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Adam.

“Remember, you said Eddie was going to be so boring?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Adam.

“And you told me —”

“PHOEBE,” yelled Adam. “I give up; I surrender. You were right; I was wrong. You are king of the universe and I am a blackhead on the butt of a lowly warthog. Once again, you have proved —”

“Easy,” said Jennifer. “Let’s calm down . . . Phoebe, we know how much you’ve done and we really appreciate it.”

Phoebe nodded. She had done a lot. She said she would help them on one condition — that she got a byline on the Marris story, too.

“No problem,” said Adam. “If you want, we’ll put just your byline on it all by itself.”

“Really?” said Phoebe.

“He’s kidding,” said Jennifer. “We would never do that to you.” It was almost time for the first bell and they stood to leave. “See you after school?” said Jennifer.

“Be there or be square,” said Phoebe.

She spotted Eddie at recess, by the Dumpster. When she explained that the
Slash
editors wanted to speak with him, he seemed pleased, until he heard what it was about, and then he was plainly nervous and edgy.

“I don’t know, Phoebe,” he said. “You know how grateful I been, I’d do anything to help, but you are dealing with dynamite on this one.”

“Come on, Eddie,” joked Phoebe. “Relax. What’s the worst Marris could do?”

“Child, don’t be ignorant,” snapped Eddie. His voice was so different, Phoebe felt a shiver race through her. “You don’t know how deep this lady’s hate goes,” he said. “Don’t be fooled by her happy-face smiles. If Marris knew I was telling her secrets, she would fire me in a second. That witch would do anything to save her white behind.”

Phoebe was speechless. Was this the same Eddie? She had been so sure she could deliver him for her coeditors. How did things go wrong so fast?

She couldn’t think. Was there some way that a reporter persuades people to talk, even when talking will get them into trouble?

She was sure that real grown-up reporters must have special techniques — maybe secret words — for getting people to spill their guts. But nothing came to her. Worse yet, she wasn’t sure she wanted to change Eddie’s mind. She couldn’t bear to hurt Eddie. He was so angry at her now. She wanted the old Eddie back.

Recess was almost over. On the other side of the playground, kids were lining up to file back into the building. They looked so happy. Phoebe couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to be a reporter. It was the perfect job for a pit viper.

Eddie didn’t say another word, and when he turned to dump a barrel of old planks into the Dumpster, Phoebe ran away as fast as her little legs would go.

After school, she peeked through the windowpane in the door to 306. Jennifer and Adam were waiting for her. They were laughing about something. Probably one of their annoying middle-school inside jokes. Phoebe didn’t want to go in. How was she going to tell them that Eddie wouldn’t talk? Adam would start screaming again.

She turned to walk away, but Jennifer spotted her, jumped up, and led her into the room.

“So, Front-Page,” said Jennifer. “When do we see Eddie?”

Phoebe said nothing, stared at the floor.

“This afternoon?” said Adam. “We’ve really got a lot of stuff to tie together here.” Adam had been working on a list of questions.

Phoebe still didn’t say anything.

“He is going to talk to us?” asked Adam.

Phoebe did not lift her head.

“Whoa,” said Adam. “Eddie’s your guy, right? He’ll do whatever you ask, right? You two are as tight as ticks, right? Are you telling me —”

“Stop it, Adam,” said Jennifer.

“Two peas in a pod was my understanding,” said Adam. “Tweedledum and Tweedledee.”

“Stop it, Adam,” repeated Jennifer.

“Oh geez,” said Adam, finally noticing the tears rolling down Front-Page’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean — I’m sorry, Phoebe, I am, it’s just — we’re under so much pressure.”

Jennifer pulled a tissue from her backpack and handed it to Phoebe.

“I asked him,” Phoebe said finally, explaining how Eddie had turned her down because he feared Marris. “I felt terrible,” Phoebe said, “like I forgot to think about Eddie’s feelings. Like I’d betrayed a friend for some stupid story. Like I was just thinking of front-page glory.”

Adam and Jennifer were quiet. They knew the feeling. Every good reporter does. Finally Jennifer said, “How about this. What if we talk to Eddie but don’t use his name?”

They looked at each other. “That’s good,” said Adam.

“Wait,” Phoebe said to Adam. “Weren’t you the one who gave me this big lecture on how we have to use names, how using real names holds us to a higher standard. You were the one who said I had to let the whole world know that the dental association’s biggest idiot was Phyllis Cooper — spelled C-O-O-P-E-R. Remember how we’re not supposed to worry about hurt feelings? Our job is to tell the truth, no matter what, blah, blah, blah.”

Adam sneaked a peek at Jennifer. He didn’t know how to answer that. Phoebe really thought fast for third grade.

“I see your point,” said Jennifer, “but this is different.”

Dental society members, Jennifer said, had been looking for publicity. They had issued press releases, wanted to promote their cause and make themselves look like public heroes. They were fair game. “In this case,” she said, “we’re going to Eddie, he’s getting nothing out of this, and we could be putting him in real danger by using his name.”

“You sure?” said Phoebe.

Jennifer hesitated. “Pretty sure,” she said.

“Pretty sure?” said Phoebe.

“You know, Phoebe,” said Jennifer, “I might look like a big middle schooler who’s got all her ducks in order, but I’m going to let you in on something. I’m just doing my best here, trying to figure out this stuff as we go.”

Adam tried to get Jennifer’s attention, but she was totally focused on Phoebe. Jennifer really wowed him sometimes. How did she know to say that stuff?

Phoebe nodded. “OK,” she said. “It happens I agree.”

“Good,” said Jennifer. “So we’ll try talking to Eddie just for background, no name, then maybe he can lead us to people who can have their names printed in the
Slash.
This is great — we have a plan.”

But Phoebe was not finished. “What about your coeditor,” she said, refusing to even look in Adam’s direction. “Are you sure this is OK with your coeditor? Because way back at the first
Slash
meeting this year, when I said the stuff about Eddie was hush-hush, your coeditor screamed at me for being a Secret Agent Phoebe.”

Both girls stared at Adam, who looked embarrassed.

“You know, Phoebe,” he said softly. “I don’t like to admit this too much, but sometimes when I get worked up, I yell stuff — I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

He felt like an idiot, telling his deepest secrets to a third grader. But then he caught a glimpse of Jennifer smiling at him, and there was a small, sensational burst of joy in Adam’s chest.

They took turns peeking out the
Slash
’s third-floor windows to see if the car was gone yet. While they were waiting, Adam figured he’d get his twenty minutes of practicing done now so he’d have one less thing to do at home; then he might actually have a shot at being in bed by 11:30. He pulled out his baritone and played “Sweet Betsy,” the Level II piece he was doing for the statewide music competition. If he scored high enough — at least twenty-six of twenty-eight points — he might make the honors band.