Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash (20 page)

THIRTY-SIX

“Samantha, wait! Where are you going? Why are you taking those…body parts?”

“I have to find Officer Borsch!”

“Just let him handle it! He said not to leave the apartment.”

“You don’t understand!” I cry, and take off running for the fire escape.

I’m feeling so strange. Completely confused. And when I pass by the fourth-floor landing, I get all choked up. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Officer Borsch is at the white van, all right. So are two squad cars, which are parked on the lawn and aimed at the van like black-and-white cannons.

The Jackal’s and the Sandman’s heads are bowed, and their hands are being cuffed behind their backs by Squeaky and the Chick.

“Officer Borsch,” I cry, flying off the last few steps of the fire escape. “Officer Borsch, wait!”

He takes one look at me, grabs me by the arm, and yanks me aside. “What are you
doing
? And why are you carrying those things? Why are you here at all? Go home!”

“I have to give them back! I…” I tear away from him and run over to where the Jackal and Sandman are looking totally defeated. “I’m so sorry,” I tell them, and I’m trying to return their body parts when it hits me that the Sandman is standing on two feet and the Jackal has two eyes.

Apparently, they have backup body parts.

Anyway, I’m just gawking at them like an idiot, holding out a leg and an eye, when the Jackal says, “Who
are
you?”

Squeaky and the Chick are obviously wondering the same thing, because Squeaky pipes up with, “Excuse me, ma’am, but your presence here is not constructive or warranted,” and the Chick is blinking her ultra-tarred lashes at me like she can’t believe what she’s seeing.

Officer Borsch tries to pull me away, but I wrestle my arm back and say to the Jackal and Sandman, “Buck’s daughter told me about you guys. Said that your whole platoon got killed except for the three of you.” I turn to the Jackal. “That’s how you lost your eye.” I look at the Sandman. “That’s how you lost your leg. And that’s why you have those tattoos on the backs of your necks.”

Everyone goes dead quiet.

Finally the Jackal sort of nods and says, “That’s right.”

“Buck’s daughter said you had the tattoos done at the same time. She said those letters are the initials of your friends who died.”

The Jackal and Sandman exchange looks, and finally Sandman says, “It’s been forty years of nightmares. You think you’ll get over it, but you never really do.”

“Please try to understand,” the Jackal says. “We felt…disposed of. And we all thought Uncle Sam owed us more than he was willing to pay.” He shrugs. “So after forty years, we came up with a way to
make
him pay. We weren’t trying to get rich, we just thought we deserved better.”

“Poor Buck,” the Sandman says in a really heavyhearted way. “He was nervous about it the whole time.”

The Jackal rolls his good eye my way. “I know you thought we were going to hurt you, and I’m sorry. We just wanted to restrain you until we could leave town.” He frowns. “I know it didn’t look that way, but that’s the truth.”

I look at Officer Borsch and whisper, “Can’t you just let them go?”

Officer Borsch pulls me aside. “I understand why you want to, but the answer’s no. They broke the law. They were skipping town with big duffel bags of counterfeit money.”

“But—”

“Look, it’s not really Uncle Sam who pays—it’s the people who get stuck with the phony cash.” Then he drops his voice even further and says, “Now
please.
Go home. And don’t use the fire escape. These other officers are witnesses to everything, you got that?”

I nod, and after a little more shooing on his part, I trudge around to the front of the building and head for the front door.

My feet are killing me in my rubbery old shoes, but my heart feels even worse. It’s like a lump of cement in my chest. I mean, usually a bad guy is just that—a bad guy.

Or a psycho sicko.

Or, you know, just plain
crazy.

But it wasn’t so cut-and-dried with these guys. It
didn’t
seem right that they were stuck living in the Senior Highrise or some trailer park in Omaha, Nebraska. But I knew that Officer Borsch was right—counterfeiting cash wasn’t right, either.

And even though I had really thought that I was in, you know, mortal danger, I was feeling really, really bad for ripping off a war vet’s leg and using it to pop out another war vet’s eyeball.

Not to mention having scared the third one to death.

So I didn’t go in the front door right away. I just sat down on one of the wooden benches by the walkway to the Highrise entrance and felt miserable. My feet were hurting, my tummy padding was itching like crazy, and I knew I
looked
ridiculous in my stupid granny getup, but I didn’t care.

All I could feel was my block-of-cement heart, pulling me down, down, down, making it hard to breathe, hard to want to do
anything.

Which is why I didn’t hear the
clickity-clack
of the skateboard right away.

Why I didn’t notice that it was actually coming up the Highrise walkway.

Why I didn’t even look up until it was clickity-clacking right past me.

All of a sudden my heart forgot about being a lump of cement and started bouncing around in my chest. “Casey?”

He stopped and looked around, and when all he saw was a crazy-looking old lady on the Highrise bench, he pushed off again.

“Casey!” I called, and when he stopped again, I started laughing.

His face went all funny as he cocked his head.

I waved him over. “It’s me!”

“No way…,” he said, coming toward me. “What are you
doing
?”

“What are
you
doing?” I laughed, because he’d never come to the Highrise before and something about him being there made me feel all bubbly inside. All bubbly, and light-headed, and
happy.

He moved closer and sort of
peered
at me. “Is that really you?”

“Yes, sonny,” I warbled.

He looked over both shoulders. “Do you
always
wear a disguise when you’re here?”

“No!”

Now, I’ve been in some pretty embarrassing situations with Casey before, but this was on beyond embarrassing.

It was totally absurd.

Laughable,
actually, and boy, did I laugh.

He sat next to me on the bench and shook his head. “Man, you’ve got that lipstick thing down, that’s for sure. My grandmother used to wear hers just like that.” Then he whispered, “So why are you in an old-lady disguise?”

I made my voice all quivery as I said, “It’s kind of a long story, sonny.”

“Well?”

So I started at the beginning and told him everything. About scaring Buck Ritter to death, about taking the money, about…everything. And when I was all done, I came up for air and said, “I dug myself in pretty good, huh?”

He let out a low whistle. “Wow.” Then he kinda grinned at me. “Who says living with old people is boring? Man!”

I snorted. “Yeah. Well, this was a little
too
much excitement.” I shook my head. “I wish I hadn’t found the money or gotten nosy or tried to figure it out. I’m all, like, confused.” I looked at him. “I know that counterfeiting money is wrong, but I still feel really bad for them.” I took a deep breath. “And I’m gonna be in total hot water with Grams.”

He nodded, then reached over and held my hand.

My very spotty, very ugly hand.

I looked at his hand on mine, then looked into his beautiful brown, caring eyes.

It was a perfect moment, us alone on the bench, holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes.

Trouble is, I looked like Tweety’s granny, and
he
looked like a kid making eyes at an old lady.

After a few seconds of this, his mouth twitched.

My big orange lips pinched down a smile.

He snickered.

I snorted.

And then we both just busted up.

When we were all done laughing, he said, “I actually did come over for a reason.” He pulled a square yellow envelope out of his pocket. “Here. It’s from Heather.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

The flap was licked to death. It took me forever to peel it open, and when I finally got the note out and unfolded it, I found myself face to face with three bold blue words.

I HATE YOU!

“Gee, thanks,” I said, handing it back to Casey.

“What!” He jumped off the bench. “She was supposed to
thank
you. Even my mother said she had to!”

I shrugged. “All the more reason for her to hate me.”

“Man! I can’t
believe
her.” He grabbed his skateboard. “I’ll call you later, okay?” Then, when he was a few yards away, he grinned at me over his shoulder. “Go do something about those lips, would ya?”

I laughed and blew him a great big granny kiss.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Apparently, the only one who actually laundered any of the counterfeit money was me. Well, Grams did, too, but that was
thanks
to me.

Laundering, it turns out, has nothing to do with washing machines. It means exchanging fake money for real money. Like, if you go spend a fake twenty and get back fifteen dollars in change, you’ve just laundered a twenty.

Who knew I’d been laundering more than blackmailer briefs?

Anyway, Officer Borsch says that the Jackal and Sandman’s lawyer will probably argue that making fake money is not a crime if you keep it in your house. He says that it
is
and that they were obviously
planning
to spend it, but he also says that, considering all the circumstances and that they have no “priors,” they’ll most likely get off easier than they might have.

Unfortunately for
me,
I’m in some pretty hot water. Not as hot as it could have been if Officer Borsch wasn’t helping me, though. “Can’t have a criminal in my wedding,” he grumbled. “We’re gonna have to get you out of this.”

Saved by the wedding bells.

I turned over all the leftover money to him, and he helped me return everything I could return. No pretzels or Juicers or pool party swimsuits, but he gave back the camera and the clothes, and we even bagged up my Old Lady Superspy disguise and left it on CeCe’s Thrift Store doorstep after hours.

For the rest, he’s arranging to have me do community service. I don’t quite know what that means yet, but I have a feeling it’s going to involve an orange vest and a big trash bag. I don’t mind, though. Even if I have to pick up trash for a year, I know I’m getting off easy. The way Officer Borsch explained it was, “Passing around counterfeit money is like playing old maid.”

“Huh?” I said, and I guess I was squinting pretty good, ’cause he said, “You’ve never played old maid?”

“Uh…yeah. You saw me…?”

“No! Not dress up! I mean the card game. Your grandmother never taught you old maid?”

“Uh…no.”

He let out a puffy-cheeked sigh. “I am getting so old.” But then he went on to explain how in the card game old maid, the person who gets stuck with the old maid card loses. “Counterfeit money is like that. It passes around from person to person, but eventually someone realizes what it is and doesn’t accept it, and the person holding it loses. They get nothing for it.”

“Even if they turn it over to the police?”

“What are
we
supposed to do about it? Millions of dollars of counterfeit money are confiscated every year. We can’t pay for that!”

“
Millions
of dollars?”

He nodded. “Besides the jokers in this country, rogue governments in other countries print up our money.”

“No way!”

“It’s a big problem that hurts the whole economy. It waters down the actual value of our real cash. If people don’t trust their country’s money, they lose confidence in the economy, and the finances of the whole country are affected.”

I just looked at him and said, “Wow.” I mean, who knew that buying pretzels with fake twenties could bring down the whole economy?

Not me.

Anyway, Officer Borsch was actually really great about the whole mess. The only thing I didn’t let him help me with was getting the “secret admirer” gift back from Hudson. I had to do that myself, and let me tell you, it wasn’t easy.

“My,” Hudson said when I’d finished telling him everything. “That is some story.” Then he went inside and got the photograph and handed it over. “It was a very nice gesture, Sammy. I’m touched that you did it.” He gave me a one-armed hug and said, “But don’t you know? Your friendship,
that’s
what’s valuable. No gift can compare.”

And the interesting thing is, I’m seeing that for myself now. I’m back to having nothing, but I don’t really mind. And Marissa still doesn’t have a cell phone or a credit card or even spending money, but she seems to be getting used to it. We just hang out with Holly and Dot, toss the softball around, and talk about stuff.

Like Danny and Danny and Danny and Danny.

Actually, there is another boy she talks about.

Mikey.

Ever since she found out about Jab-the-Flab and the other things kids at school have done to Mikey, she keeps wanting to “check on” him. She hangs out with him, laughs with him, does stuff with him…. She’s actually
nice
to him and totally behind Hudson’s Boot Camp. “It’s working,” she told me. “His attitude is
so
much better, and he’s lost ten pounds!”

The situation with their parents is still a mess. I have no idea where that’s going to wind up, but seeing things change between Marissa and Mikey has been like witnessing a little miracle on Cypress Street. Who’d have thought losing money and Mikey living in a kind of foster home would make those two get along?

Again, not me.

Anyway, I also took a chance on André and told
him
everything and explained that the Jackal had confessed to ransacking Buck’s room to get the rest of his counterfeit money stash. André didn’t know that I live illegally with Grams, so it was a big leap of faith for me to tell him, and André knew it. “How am I supposed to tell you to scram now?” he said, his cigar stump wagging away.

I grinned at him. “Guess you’re stuck with me as a friend, huh?”

“Guess I am,” he growled. “So, when ya gonna clean this place, huh? It’s filthy.”

“Uh,
later,
” I said, heading for the door.

“Figures,” he grumbled, but right before hoisting his newspaper, his eye twitched a wink at me.

So I was feeling really good about all of that as I eased back into the Highrise. Then came my encounter with Mrs. Wedgewood, which, believe me, can totally blow a good mood.

I hugged the wall quick when her door opened up, but she whispered, “It’s okay, sugar.” Then she clanked out a few steps and asked, “Why are you always so skittery?”

I felt like saying, ’Cause I’m living next door to a big ol’ blackmailing, slave-driving whale! but I bit it back and sighed, “What do you need, Mrs. Wedgewood?”

“Need? Why, sugar, who says I need anything?”

Yeah, right. Like vampires don’t need blood?

“Come in, come in!” she says.

“Uh…”

“Oh, come on. I’ve got something for you.”

So I followed her, wondering what it was this time. Garbage? Laundry? Cans to recycle? A shopping list?

But she stopped at her table and picked up a plate of cookies. “I baked these for you.” Her eyes twinkled as she added, “Not that I didn’t eat a few myself.”

I eyed the cookies suspiciously.

She must’ve read my mind. “I’m not looking for something in return. I just got to thinking—you’ve been so helpful, and with that prima donna mother of yours and everything that’s gone on here this week…why, I just thought you could use some appreciation. So I baked these as a little way of saying thank you. I wish I could pay you or do more in return, but as it is, I’m not able to.” She pushed the plate of cookies on me. “Go on, sugar. They’re chocolate chip with creamy fudge centers. They were my all-time favorite when I was your age. It’s been years and years since I’ve made them, but”—her eyes twinkled again—“they’re every bit as good as I remember.”

I left there completely stunned.

And she was right about the cookies.

They were
amazing.

Anyway, it was actually Grams I was most scared of facing. I mean, how many times have I been down this same dumb road? In my gut, I knew there was something wrong with keeping the money, so why didn’t I listen to that? Why didn’t I confide in Grams? How could I have let things get so out of control?

There were a lot of details I could have kinda glossed over, but in the end, I wound up telling her everything anyway. I wanted to come totally clean, but since it was after the fact, it was too late—I’d lost her trust and she was fuming. And since Lady Lana was still on her high horse about being “unfairly maligned” and refused to have me shipped to Hollywood to stay with her, Grams finally just told me, “You are grounded, young lady! For the rest of summer!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

I mean, what else was there to say?

But after a week of being cooped up with me, she finally let me out, grumbling, “Just try not to scare anyone to death on your way down, would you?”

I actually laughed, and it was the first time she’d smiled at me in a week.

So even though I’ve got a lot of community service hours looming in my future, I know that overall I’m lucky to have gotten off so light. And maybe someday I’ll have some
real
money of my own, but in the meantime, I’ve got my friends.

And my grams.

And a boy who might someday kiss my cleaned-up lips.

Which, now that I think about it, are all things even real money can’t buy.

Yeah, maybe I’ve just been looking at this the wrong way.

Maybe it turns out I’ve been rich all along.