Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash (18 page)

Why didn’t the gold twenty shift colors?

The more I thought about it, the more this icky-sicky feeling grew in my gut. I hadn’t just stumbled onto three thousand dollars. I was in the middle of something deep and dark.

And—I could feel it now—dangerous.

THIRTY-THREE

My problem was, I wasn’t sure I had a problem. Maybe the twenty I’d been checking was some brand-spanking-new issue where they didn’t use color-changing ink. Maybe I was totally worried over nothing.

What I needed was more information. So I started thinking that if I could get my hands on a bunch of money—you know, just to
look
at—maybe I’d see other bills without color-changing ink.

I thought about going to the bank, but figured that no matter what story I tried, they’d never let me near their stacks of cash. I thought about going to Maynard’s Market, but the only one who might help me out there was the Elvis impersonator, and he only seems to work nights. And I thought about going over to the Pup Parlor, but Meg and Vera are kinda paranoid about their money. They keep it locked up tight in a thick cast-iron safe, and it’s this big ordeal any time Holly needs a little money for something.

Besides, I didn’t want to have to explain what I was doing, and I didn’t want to feed them some lame
story
about what I was doing.

So I went to the only other place I could think of.

The Heavenly Hotel.

As usual, André was behind the counter, chomping on his cigar. And he was making like he was reading the paper, but what he was really doing was keeping his eye on me.

“You’re back,” he growled.

“Happy to see you, too,” I said, then did something I’d never done before—I walked behind the counter like I worked there.

One of his eyebrows arched waaaaaay up. “What are you doin’?”

I grinned at him. “Let me see your money.”

He pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “What is this, a stickup?”

“Oh, right,” I laughed. Then I came as close to the truth as I dared. “My friend just taught me how to spot a counterfeit bill. I’m here to do you the favor of checking your money.” I smiled at him. “No charge.”

His eyebrows did a sort of rolling wave. Like a little hairy sea of suspicion.

The cigar floated back to his mouth.

Finally he growled, “I know how to check for phony cash.”

“Watermark? Security thread? Color-shifting ink? All of that? Or do you just swipe with a pen?”

He studied me. Then without a word, he popped open the ancient register and pulled out a ten. “Show me.”

“It’s easier with twenties,” I said, still smiling.

He switched the bills and grumbled, “What in the world are you up to, girl?”

“Trouble—what else?” I laughed, trying my best to sound like I was definitely
not
up to trouble. I gave a sad little shake of my head. “Why are you always so suspicious?”

He grunted. “’Cause I work in
this
joint.”

“Well, lighten up!” I pointed out the security thread, the watermark, and how the number twenty shifted colors as you looked at it from different angles. “Isn’t that cool?”

“I had no idea.”

“So let’s do another.”

One by one, we went through all the twenties, fifties, and even tens in his drawer.

Every single bill had color-shifting ink.

“Looks like you’re all clear,” I said, like a cheerful little do-gooder.

“Uh, thanks, Sammy,” he said, and for the first time ever, his voice didn’t sound like a growl. It sounded almost…
soft.

“No problem,” I called over my shoulder as I headed out. But the fact is, there
was
a problem. There was a problem with the way I felt. I felt sneaky and creepy and kinda sick to my stomach.

Why couldn’t he have growled at me?

Why couldn’t he have told me to quit wasting his time?

Why did he have to sound so
grateful
?

And there was another, bigger problem.

A big color-
not
-shifting problem.

A problem tucked neatly away inside my pocket.

And, I was afraid, tucked away inside the cushions of my grandmother’s couch.

I hurried home, and when I discovered Grams wasn’t there, I felt so relieved.

Until I found the note:

GONE SHOPPING—BACK SOON.

I felt panicky all over. She was probably spending the cash I’d slipped her. What if it
was
fake? What if she got caught?

I hurried over to the couch, unzipped a cushion, and started inspecting the gold number twenty in the bottom right corner of every bill.

I checked nearly two thousand dollars in twenties.

Not one of them shifted colors.

“Oh no!” I whimpered. “Oh
no.
”

My mind began a complete free fall about the money. If it
was
fake and I got caught, would they throw me in jail? Would they make me pay for everything I’d bought with it?

How would I ever do that?

I didn’t have any money!

And I sure couldn’t borrow from Grams!

Which made me start panicking about Grams. Besides her being out on a possibly-fake-money spending spree, there was the Jackal to worry about. He knew there was some sort of connection to our apartment—what if he and the Sandman and Buck Ritter from Omaha, Nebraska, were, like, old Mafia guys? The Jackal was sure smooth enough to be a Mafia guy.

And what if some head honcho Mafia guy was putting big pressure on the Jackal because the money was supposed to get
laundered
first.

What did laundering money mean, anyway?

Washing it?

Making it less crispy?

I shook off that thought because what did it matter what laundering was? It was something they did to dirty money or fake money or whatever! The problem wasn’t that, it was what the Jackal might do to get his money back. He’d already been pretty over the top. I mean, come on—he’d broken into Mrs. Wedgewood’s apartment!

Wait. Worse than
that,
he’d pretended to want to go
out
with her!

If he was
that
desperate, what if he forced his way into
our
apartment and then, like, tied up Grams and…and ransacked the place!

What if he found the cash and the digital camera with the picture of him and he put the whole thing together…only he thought
Grams
was the one behind it all?

What if they
killed
her to keep her quiet?

I tried to tell myself to get a grip. I tried to say, Mafia guys laundering money in the Senior Highrise?

Please!

Like the Nightie-Napper wouldn’t foil their evil, sudsy plans?

But I couldn’t shake the image of Grams all roped to a chair being tortured by a one-eyed Mafia guy.

As I stuffed the cash back inside the cushion and zipped it up, I was completely panicked and desperate to do
something.

But…what?

My brain started Dumpster-diving for a plan. Any plan. And after inspecting a few ideas that were total garbage, what it came up with was one that at first seemed like junk, but the more I dusted it off and looked it over, the more potential it seemed to have. Because right now all I had were hunches and guesses. I had to
know
if there was really something going on before I…what? Before I called the police or the FBI or the CIA or whoever you call to report that a one-eyed Mafia guy is laundering money in the Senior Highrise?

But—like Officer Borsch had told André—to get a search warrant, they had to know what they were searching for. And I knew Officer Borsch well enough to know that my hunches and guesses were not enough for a search warrant.

But
if I could somehow see inside the Jackal’s apartment, I might be able to pick up some clues that would help me figure everything out
and
give me something besides hunches and guesses to tell Officer Borsch about.

The more I polished the idea, the more I liked it.

But I didn’t know where the Jackal lived, so the
Sandman’s
apartment was actually the one to try. It was on the fourth floor—the same floor where I’d scared Buck Ritter to death. The same floor where the fire escape door had been rigged not to lock. It was the place where the Jackal had used his secret knock.

The Sandman’s apartment seemed like headquarters.

But how was I going to see inside? I couldn’t just go up, use the secret knock, and say, Hey, dude. Are you in the Mafia? Are you laundering phony money? Are you planning to tie up my grandmother and torture information out of her?

But then it hit me that there
was
someone who could go up and ask a bunch of questions. Maybe not about laundering money, but that didn’t matter. The point was, she could snoop. Maybe even get inside!

The minute the idea hit me, I knew I had to give it a shot. It was risky. It was iffy. But I had the thought in my head, and at this point, I was desperate to do something,
anything,
to figure things out and fix the mess I was in.

So this was it.

Time to pull out the wig.

Time to put on the glasses.

Time to turn into Old Lady Superspy!

THIRTY-FOUR

I grabbed a notebook and pen, snuck out of the building, and went straight to the bushes where I’d stashed my sack of old-lady stuff.

It was still there.

So I hurried around the building to the back side of the Dumpster and got busy—tummy bulge, flowery dress, sweater, earrings, ugly shoes, wig…. This time was a lot quicker than the last time ’cause I knew what I was doing.

I had to put on extra makeup because even with sunblock I’d gotten a lot of color at the pool party. When that was finally done, I did my lips way outside the line, popped on my granny specs, and stuffed my regular clothes inside the bag.

While I was shoving in my jeans, the counterfeit pen fell out of them and onto the ground. I picked it up and was about to put it inside the bag, but at the last second I stopped, thought a minute, then slipped it inside my little granny purse.

Now, in all the times I’ve gone up and down the fire escape, I’ve only had problems outside the building twice. Well, that’s not including scaring someone to death. I’m talking
normal
problems.

Anyway, both times were with the gardener going back and forth on his riding mower near the fire escape, and both times I just waited him out.

So when I heard the purr of an engine getting closer and closer, I just backed up a little, making sure I wasn’t visible from the lawn area.

But the sound got even
closer,
and then I saw something driving across the lawn that made my heart skid to a halt.

A van.

A
white
van.

I edged out and peeked around the corner, watching as it parked right beside the fire escape. And sure enough, out of the driver’s side comes one bald, glass-eyed Jackal.

I duck back quick, my mind scrambling for a reason he’d be driving a van up to the fire escape of the Senior Highrise in the middle of the day.

Was he making the Big Escape?

Was that why he’d gotten boxes and tape at the Office Emporium?

Is that why he’d been in such a hurry?

Whatever the reason, I don’t have time to hang around and spy on him. Obviously, something’s going down, and I’ve got to get
moving.
And since I sure can’t go up the fire escape, I ease out of my little changing area, sneak around some bushes, and hurry over to the main entrance walkway. I’m moving
fast,
too, but before I get to the door, I make myself slow down and creak along. “Hello, dearie,” I say under my breath. “Isn’t it a heavenly day, dearie?”

And that’s when it hits me that the last time I was Old Lady Superspy I had a name. Only…I can’t really remember it. The last name was Florentine, but the first name? Was it Mary? Margaret? Millie? None of those seem quite right, but I can’t put my finger on what
is
right.

I don’t have time to waste thinking about it, though, so I finally just go inside and creak my way past Mr. Garnucci, who’s playing with one of those handheld electronic poker games.

“Hello there!” he calls out.

I give a creaky little hunched-over wave.

“We visiting someone today?” he asks.

“Eh?” I warble, cupping my ear.

“Who are we visiting today?”

I stand there and just blink at him a minute. “Are you coming with me, sonny?” I ask, acting confused.

“No, no,” he laughs. “Who are
you
visiting today? I’ll call them and let them know you’re here.”

“Now, don’t ruin it, dearie,” I tell him, then put a finger in front of my big orange lips. “It’s a surprise.”

“Ah,” he says. “Do you know your way?”

“I do, indeed,” I tell him.

And just like that, the interrogation’s over. “Well, enjoy your visit,” he says, and turns back to his electronic poker game.

Now, as I creak my way over to the elevator, it hits me that it would be very helpful if I knew the Sandman’s real name. So I take a little detour over to the mailboxes, find number 427, and see the name T. Egbert.

And while I’m at it, I find J. Allenson, too.

He’s in number 298.

That actually made me feel safer. If the Jackal lived on the second floor, maybe I didn’t have to sweat him going up to the Sandman’s on the fourth floor right away.

’Course, then again, maybe I
did.

I hobble over to the elevator and ride it up to the fourth floor. And before I can talk myself out of it, I go up to apartment 427, knock four times, and pause, but before I can even finish the secret knock, the door swooshes open and I find myself face to face with a stout old guy sporting a buzz cut. He’s also sporting a ruddy, sweaty face and a dingy wife-beater T-shirt. “Oh!” he says, obviously surprised I’m not someone else.

I don’t really like the looks of him, but I glance down at my notebook like there’s actually something written in it, then say, “Mr. Egbert?”

He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “Yes?”

“I’m here about the problem with mice.”

“I don’t have a problem with mice,” he says.

But in a sort of pushy-old-lady way, I move past him and into the apartment anyway. “They’re coming in the building through plumbing crevices, so we’re checking under the sinks of all the apartments. It won’t take long.”

“Wait just a minute!” he says, coming after me, only he’s not moving as fast as I am ’cause he’s got a serious limp. “I did
not
say you could come in here!”

But I’m already in, and what I’m seeing by the kitchen table are packing boxes stacked up and ready to move out. I’m also seeing fat rolls of paper. They’re like butcher paper, only…cleaner. Whiter. And more
transparent.

And there are what I think are computer printers—
three
of them.

And a large plastic high-tech-looking paper cutter.

“I have to do all the apartments or I don’t get paid,” I tell him, but my heart is pounding and my hands are sweating and all of a sudden I’ve got the urge to get
out
of there.

“Look,” he says, not knowing what to do with me, “just make it quick, all right? I’m actually very busy right now.”

But then, when he turns around and hobbles back toward the door, I see that he’s got the same tattoo on his neck that the Jackal and Buck Ritter had on theirs. And I want to scream, What’s the deal with that tattoo?! but I more want to get
out
of there. So real quick I take out the counterfeit pen, tag one of the rolls of paper with it, and pop it back in the purse.

The yellow streak doesn’t turn brown.

It doesn’t even turn
orange.

It stays a light, clean yellow.

And as the pieces scattered all over my brain come together in a loud, solid
clank,
my knees start shaking and there’s no doubt in my mind—I’ve got to get out of there
now.

“You!” a voice booms from behind me, and without even looking, I know who it is.

The Jackal.

I turn around and I don’t even have to pretend to be an old lady anymore. My joints are all wobbly, and my voice is all warbly as I say, “Hello there,” like he’s a total stranger, ’cause the last time I was Old Lady Superspy, he was in his Suave Guy disguise.

I turn to the Sandman and say, “I took a look under the sink and it’s fine—everything’s sealed up tight.”

Now, as I’m talking, I’m trying to ease my way out because the Jackal is not looking too friendly, let me tell you. As a matter of fact, he’s studying me
verrrry
closely, and his eyes are all slitty and slanty and suspicious-looking. He starts wagging a finger at me slowly, and I can see him putting the pieces together. And before I can get past him, he blocks my way and mutters something in the Sandman’s ear.

The Sandman looks at him like he’s crazy. “
She
did?”

“Uh-huh.” He gives me a biting look. “And I can assure you she’s not here looking for
mice.
” He moves in closer to me, saying, “As a matter of fact…”

He reaches for my wig, so I jump back and try to buy a little time. “Gentlemen, please! Call Mr. Garnucci. He can explain everything. He’s the one who sent me.”

“Drop the act,” the Jackal says, coming toward me. Then he calls to the Sandman, “Block the door!”

“Stay away!” I tell him, and then since he’s coming at me and I’m totally desperate, I swing at him hard with my pea green granny purse, trying to bean him in the head.

Trouble is, it’s a dumb little pea green granny purse with no weight to it, and he manages to grab it and twist it out of my hand. “Got your camera in there?” he asks. He reaches inside the purse, watching me the whole time, but instead of finding a camera, he pulls out my counterfeit-detector pen.

His jaw drops and he hurls the purse aside. Then he tosses the pen to the Sandman, calling, “This is worse than I thought!”

I jet away from him, but really, there’s no place to go. The Sandman’s apartment is just like every apartment in the building. There’s no way out except through the front door.

Now, it does flash through my mind that if I can get to the bathroom, I can lock myself in there, but all they’d have to do is snap the chintzy knob off with some pliers.

Piece of dead-granny cake.

And since going into the bedroom or kitchen is like backing myself into a corner
away
from the front door, I scramble into the living room while the Jackal comes at me, muttering, “Domino’s Pizza. What kind of police department puts together a ridiculous surveillance like
that
?”

And that’s when it hits me—he thinks I’m a
cop.

I look left and right, trying to find a way out of the corner he’s backing me into. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sonny.”

“Classic line,” he mutters. “I couldn’t figure it out, because the woman who lives there was out of the apartment that night. But
you
were staked out there, weren’t you?”

“Please,” I warble, “you’re scaring me.”

“Oh, knock it off. You’re not even old,” he says, then lunges at me.

Now, if I
had
been old and stiff, I definitely would have been toast. But he’s got me cornered by a
couch,
so when he lunges, I jump onto the couch, run
across
the couch, and charge for the door.

“Stop her, Tommy!” the Jackal cries.

The Sandman’s standing in front of the door like a big ol’ sand
bag
, but all I can think is that I’ve got to get past him or that one-eyed Jackal is gonna kill me. So I hunker down with my head tucked and my shoulder forward and charge him like a linebacker, thinking I’ll knock him aside and get out the door.

Trouble is, shoulder-slamming him is
exactly
like charging into a big ol’ sandbag—he doesn’t even budge. And as if the pain shooting through my shoulder isn’t bad enough, the next thing you know,
I’m
off my feet and flat on the ground.

The world starts spinning around me.

The Jackal and Sandman are waaaay up above me, looking down.

Old Lady Superspy is in serious trouble.