Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash (6 page)

TEN

The McKenzes don’t have a dog, so why they even had a leash was a mystery to me. But then Marissa explained that it’s how Mrs. McKenze used to keep tabs on Mikey at amusement parks and stuff, so he developed a positive association with the leash.

Or something.

Whatever, he really didn’t seem to mind. He just let Marissa clip it to a belt loop of his jeans, and off we went.

From Marissa’s house to the movie theater was all downhill, so walking Mikey there was no problem. We actually had a good time. Plus, it was nice and cool in the theater, the movie was funny, and we ran into Dot and her brothers, which was fun.

Afterward I made a quick detour to the Senior Highrise to switch Mrs. Wedgewood’s laundry into a dryer while Marissa finished wiping out the rest of André’s money by bribing Mikey with a Double Dynamo ice cream from Maynard’s Market.

But when we finally started the trek back to Marissa’s house, Mikey started rattling off complaints. “My feet hurt. I’m tired. I’m thirsty. It’s too far….”

“Come
on,
” Marissa said, clipping the leash back on.

“But I’m tired.”

“How can you be tired? We’ve barely even started!”

“I’m thirsty!”

“You just had an ice cream!”

“But I
am
thirsty!”

“Maybe if you hadn’t hogged all the popcorn at the movies, you wouldn’t be thirsty!” Marissa grumbled, dragging him along.

“But I
am,
” he said, then pulled a total bulldog face and sat down in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Come on,” Marissa said, yanking on the leash. “How else are you going to get home?”

“Call Mom!”

“I don’t have a phone anymore, remember? And she won’t come anyway. We’ve got to walk.”

He crossed his arms, and his face sort of buried in on itself. “No!”

“Get up!”

“No!”

Marissa yanked again, but the only thing that budged was his belt loop. It gave way, and the leash came flying toward her. “Why am I doing this?” Marissa asked, throwing her hands in the air. “Why am I even doing this?”

I squatted in front of Mikey. “How old are you, Mike? Five?”

“Shut up! I’m nine!”

“Nine?”
I said with my eyebrows up. “You’re kidding, right? There’s no
way
you’re nine. Six, maybe. At the most.”

“I’m nine!”

I snorted. “You’re six. Max.”

He turned all red in the face, then stood up and started after me. I darted off, then held back, letting him almost catch me before speeding up again. “See?” I said after I’d yo-yoed him along for a while and he was starting to give up. “You’re wimping out, just like a six-year-old.”

“I’m NINE!”

He started after me again, but after a while he just couldn’t run anymore. So I called, “Hey, I bet I know where we could get you something cold to drink.”

“Really?” he said, gasping for air.

“Follow me!” I called, and took off again.

Marissa kept up with me, checking over her shoulder the whole way. “Let me guess—Hudson’s?”

I tossed her a grin. “Uh-huh.”

“Good ol’ Hudson,” she said, tossing one back.

Hudson may be seventy-three, but he’s one of my best friends. He’s got a never-ending supply of patience, iced tea, and good advice, and his porch is where I usually wind up when I’ve got problems.

And Mikey McKenze was definitely a problem.

“Sammy!” he said, swinging his yellow cowboy boots down from the porch railing when he saw me coming up the walkway. “How are you, stranger?” Then right away he added, “And you’ve brought Marissa. What a nice surprise!” He cocked his head a bit when he saw the leash in her hand. “If you’re here to walk Rommel, I’m afraid he’s no longer with us.”

“Oh! Hudson, I’m so sorry!” I said, because even though Hudson’s dog had gotten old and deaf and hobbly, he’d been Hudson’s little buddy forever.

“No tears, now,” Hudson said when he saw my face. “He had a really good life. And it was definitely time.”

Suddenly Mikey comes blustering up the walkway, ruddy-faced and mad. “I’m telling!” he cries. “I’m tellin’ Mom you tried to ditch me, and she’s gonna ground you!”

“I’m already grounded,” Marissa shouts back, “by
you.
”

“Oh my,” Hudson says, his bushy white eyebrows raised high.

“Hudson,
this
is Mikey,” I say with great, dramatic flair. “Mikey, this is Mr. Graham.” I zero in on Mikey. “And you’d better be polite, or you can forget about getting anything cold to drink.”

Mikey just glowers as he pants at the base of the porch.

“Ah,” Hudson says, heading for his front door. “It’s a long walk up to Jasmine Street, isn’t it, Mike?”

When Hudson’s safely inside, Mikey pulls a squinty little face and says, “He’s
old.
And he’s wearing
yellow
boots.”

“That’s his style,” I tell him. “He’s got boots in all kinds of colors and styles.”

“Yellow’s weird,” he grumbles, then just stands there, his forehead gushing sweat.

Hudson reappears a couple of minutes later with two pitchers, a stack of plastic cups, and a bowl of strawberries. “What’s your pleasure, Mike, iced tea or ice water?”

Mikey frowns. “Don’t you have any Coke?”

“I’m offering iced tea and water,” Hudson says evenly.

Mikey just stands there with rivers of sweat running down his face.

“I’ll have tea!” I say. “And those strawberries look amazing!” They were, too. They were big and a beautiful deep red.

So while Mikey’s body’s stewing in its own steamy salt bath, the rest of us have a cool drink and delicious strawberries. And when Mikey finally
does
decide that iced tea is better than nothing, he takes one sip and sprays it out into the bushes.

“Mikey!” Marissa scolds.

“It’s awful!”

“It’s unsweetened,” she says between gritted teeth.

“So where’s the sugar?” Mikey whines.

I was so embarrassed. And I was ticked off, too. I mean, what a brat! But it didn’t seem to faze Hudson a bit. He didn’t lecture or scold, and he didn’t bring out any sugar. He just sipped tea and watched Mikey and Marissa bicker.

Finally I said, “Well! I think we should be going.”

“No!” Mikey whined. He looked at Marissa. “I wanna call Mom!”

Marissa eyed Hudson like, Can we
please
use your phone? But Hudson just gave her a sage smile and said to Mikey, “Sorry, Mike. No phone available.”

I really wanted to bail on going back to the McKenzes’. My skateboard was still there, but I figured I’d get it later. I’d had more than enough of Mikey McKenze for one day!

But when I said something about needing to get back to Mrs. Wedgewood’s laundry, Marissa latched on to me and said, “You can’t abandon me now! You have got to help me get him home!”

“But…if the Nightie-Napper takes the Wedge’s stuff, I’ll never hear the end of it!”

Hudson’s eyebrows shot up. “The
Nightie-Napper
?”

“They haven’t caught him yet?” Marissa asks.

Now, the truth is, I didn’t know if they’d figured out who’d been stealing clothes from the Highrise dryers, and I didn’t care. Actually, I suspected that it was all just made up. I mean, what else is there in the way of excitement at the Senior Highrise? But I was so sick of dealing with Mikey that I was desperate for a way out.

Marissa rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on! Who’d want to steal
her
stuff?”

“No, really,” I said as she dragged me down the steps, “if you were the Nightie-Napper, she’d be
just
the person you’d want to steal from! You could make curtains for a whole apartment out of just one muumuu!”

“What’s a muumuu?” Mikey asked, trailing behind us.

Marissa kept dragging me along.

I ignored Mikey and continued pleading my case. “It took two machines to wash six pairs of her undies!”

Marissa stopped and faced me. “Undies are not nighties. Or even muumuus!”

“What’s a muumuu!” Mikey demanded.

“It’s a big tent of a dress, all right?” I snapped, then turned to Marissa. “Look, they call him the Nightie-Napper, but he steals all sorts of stuff! Sheets, dresses…. Do you have any idea how much trouble I’ll be in if her good muumuu gets snatched?”

Marissa kept dragging. “You got me into this, you’re getting him home!”

I scowled at her and grumbled, “That’s the last time I take you to the movies!” But really, what could I do? I caved. And pretty soon Marissa switched from dragging me to dragging Mikey.

Ordinarily, it would have taken ten or fifteen minutes to walk to the McKenzes’, but with Mikey dragging and plopping down every half block and
crying,
it took almost forty-five.

The good thing was that when we got to the McKenzes’, Mikey went to his room and totally left us alone.

As Hudson says, a tired dog is a good dog.

The
bad
thing was that even though Mikey was no longer being a pest, Marissa was in the world’s worst mood, and I couldn’t seem to snap her out of it. “I hate my life!” she kept saying, then moaned about her stupid brother and her stupid parents and the fact that she had no stupid money.

Frankly, being “trapped” in her bedroom
suite
surrounded by all her
stuff,
I was having a little trouble sympathizing. And since I really did need to get back and finish Mrs. Wedgewood’s laundry, I finally just took off.

I loved tearing down the hill on my skateboard. My whole focus was on avoiding cracks, dodging rocks, and hopping curbs. It was like a high-speed obstacle course where I could crash and burn at any time. No puzzling thoughts, no worries, no Mikey…just the wind in my face and the rush of ball bearings battling it out with gravity.

I made it down the hill in one shaky piece, then cruised along catching my breath. And as I approached Cypress Street, I decided to make a quick stop at Hudson’s to apologize for subjecting him to Mikey-The-Whiner-McKenze.

Hudson was still on the porch, or
back
on the porch—who knows? Shoot, he’d had enough time to mow the yard, wash the windows,
and
take a nap.

Anyway, his yellow boots were propped up on the rail and he was reading the newspaper, but the minute he saw me coming up his walkway, he closed the paper and sat up. “Say! I’m glad you came back.”

I grabbed my board and went up the steps. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for bringing Mikey over. Marissa’s parents let their nanny go, so Marissa’s stuck with him all day ’cause she’s home for summer and her parents are still going off to work. Nobody can handle him. He’s just…impossible.” Then I nodded at the newspaper and tried to be real casual as I said, “What’s going on in the news? Robberies? Murders? Burglaries?”

He shook his head. “Not a thing.” He smiled at me. “Let’s hope the trend continues, right?”

I laughed. “Right!”

He put the paper aside. “Interesting you should come back,” he said. “I’ve been thinking.”

I plopped down in the chair next to him. “Yeah?”

“It seems to me that Mike could benefit from some structure. Some discipline.” He eyed me. “And some better eating habits.” He poured me a glass of tea and handed it over. “From the bits and pieces you’ve told me, I have the impression that the parents aren’t around much…. Is that right?”

“They’re
never
around. Even when they are, they’re not.”

“Hmm,” he said, and then just sat there for the longest time.

“What?” I finally asked, because I could tell he was thinking
some
thing.

“How do you think they would feel about having Mike come here during the day for the rest of the summer?”

“Come
here
?” I snorted. “Marissa would love that, but you’re crazy! You saw him—Mikey’s a nightmare!”

Hudson gave a wily smile. “He’d be just fine.”

“But…I don’t get it.
Why?
”

He gave a little shrug. “It’s been pretty quiet around here since Rommel passed.” He laced his fingers together across his stomach. “And the way I see it, it won’t be long before it’s too late to help Mike. Now…well, I believe I could turn him around.”

I blinked at him a minute. “Turn him around? Do you have any idea what that’s gonna take? He needs boot camp or something.”

Hudson nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

I sat up straighter. “Mm-hmm? So it’d be like Hudson’s Boot Camp?”

Hudson threw back his head and laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I like the double entendre. Although it would be more of a day camp than a boot camp.” He chuckled. “But maybe I’ll buy him a pair of boots at the end of it.”

“So…you’re really serious?”

He took a deep breath, then smoothed back one of his bushy white eyebrows. “It’s probably more up to them than me. They may be insulted, or they may be uncomfortable with the idea. I couldn’t blame them on either account, but yes, I think I’ll make the offer.”

We talked about it some more, and I wound up giving Hudson the McKenzes’ phone number. And the whole way home I just kind of shook my head in amazement at Hudson, thinking about what a cool guy he is. What a
good
guy he is. I mean, come on, who in the world voluntarily takes on Mikey McKenze?

And thinking about all that got me thinking how Hudson had been a rock-solid friend to me since day one. He was always helping me out. Always helping me
figure
things out. Maybe it was about time I did something for
him.

The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. But it had to be something totally cool. Something totally unexpected.

And then it hit me that I could actually
buy
him something! I had money! He wouldn’t have to know it was from me. I could just deliver it to his porch with an anonymous thank-you card.

Or wait—a secret admirer card!

Yeah, I thought as I clicked along toward the Senior Highrise, a surprise gift from a secret admirer would make Hudson feel really good. Really…happy. It wouldn’t be some cheap little knickknack, either. Hudson Graham deserved something
nice.

After all, I had the money—why not spend it?

ELEVEN

“There you are, Sammy-girl!” Mr. Garnucci shouted when I came through the front door. “Mrs. Wedgewood called down here wondering if I knew what had happened to you!”

I headed toward the basement. “Hey, I’ve got my own chores at home! It’s not like I
live
here, you know!”

He chuckled and waved, and off I went, zipping down to the basement to pick up Mrs. Wedgewood’s laundry. And when I had everything crammed into the basket, I put my skateboard upside down across the top of it, anchored the whole thing with my chin, and took the elevator up to the fifth floor.

Now, Mrs. Wedgewood does not appreciate getting her laundry back in a big crumpled mess, and I don’t appreciate the way she micromanages the folding of her Dumbo-sized drawers. So I did what I always do when I’m stuck with her laundry.

I went home.

And I was actually looking forward to having a nice little folding session with Grams while I told her all about Mikey and the leash and Hudson’s Boot Camp, but the minute I walked through the door, I tripped.

I didn’t trip
on
anything—it was just the unexpected sight of my mother that sent my skateboard clanking and the laundry and me sprawling.

“Are you all right?” my mother gasped in her overly dramatic soap star way.

I looked around frantically, going, “Where’s Dorito?” because the last time my mother visited, she let him out and I almost lost him for good.

“He’s fine!” Grams said. Then she added, “He’s hiding in the closet.”

“Smart cat,” I grumbled, standing up.

I eyed my mother suspiciously as I put the clothes back inside the basket. “Why are you here? What happened?”

For such a good actress, she gave a really fake laugh. “Nothing
happened,
I just thought I’d surprise you with a visit.”

“It was a double surprise for me,” Grams laughed. “I ran into her at the grocery store!”

My face pinched. “At the
grocery
store?” I turned to my mother. “What were you doing at the grocery store?”

She gave me a movie star smile. “I didn’t want to show up empty-handed!”

Grams laughed again. “I was doing Mrs. Wedgewood’s shopping, and there she was!” She leaned in a little, acting like she was sharing something top-secret. “Jewel has gone into a coma, so your mother has a few days off.”

Jewel is my mother’s character on
The Lord of Willow Heights,
and even though comas, amnesia, sudden deaths, and resurrections are nothing out of the ordinary for soaps, her being home because her character was out of commission for a few days was.

“What?” my mother said, because my face was still pinched. “Must you always be so suspicious?” She gave me a hug and then sat very daintily on the edge of the couch. “Can’t a mother come home to see her daughter once in a while?”

A year ago I would have snipped, Yeah, I’ve wondered the same thing myself hundreds of times! but now I just gathered the laundry and started folding Mrs. Wedgewood’s clothes.

The first thing I picked up was a pair of granny panties. My arms could barely stretch wide enough to hold them straight.

“What are
those
?” my mother gasped.

“Blackmailer briefs,” I said, folding one arm in, then the other arm over.

“What?”
my mom said with a lot of dramatic wind gushing from her mouth.

Grams jumped in, saying, “They’re Rose’s underwear.”

Mom’s jaw dropped. “She must be
enormous.
”

“Shhhh!” Grams whispered. “She’ll hear you!”

I eyed her. “Like her being enormous is a secret or something?” But she was right—the rest of Mrs. Wedgewood might be a disaster, but her hearing is strangely bionic.

So while Grams and my mother lowered their voices and gossiped about the Wedge, I fluffed and folded and sorted and stacked. And when I was all done, I said, “I’ll be back,” and went next door to deliver the laundry.

The first thing Mrs. Wedgewood said was not Thank you so much! or Nice of you to spend your day doing my laundry, or anything you might expect someone to say after you’ve washed and dried and folded her clothes. No, she said, “Took your sweet ol’ time, didn’t you?”

“My friend had an emergency,” I said, pushing past her.

“Well, I’m sure my dress is going to need ironing now.”

And that’s when it hit me—I hadn’t folded her dress.

I hadn’t seen it since I’d moved it into the dryer.

Inside, I’m going, Oh no! But on the outside, I’m trying to stay cool. “No problem,” I tell her as I move toward her bedroom. “You want me to put these away?”

“Why, yes, sugar. That would be most appreciated.”

So I put away Mrs. Wedgewood’s clothes, and sure enough, there’s no dress. “Wow,” I tell her as I take a different muumuu out of her closet. “I’ll bet this looks great on you!”

She shakes her curly-haired head. “It washes me out. Makes me pale and sickly lookin’. That’s the problem with mail order. You just can’t tell from a catalog, and it’s too much bother to return.”

“How about this one?” I ask, taking another dress out. “Ooooh. Now
this
has Rex Randolf written all over it. Subtle, classy…”

“Sugar, that is
ugly.
”

I wanted to scream, So why’s it in your closet? but I’m busted anyway. Her eyes zoom down on me as she hobbles forward with her walker. “What happened to my dress? Did you ruin it in the wash? Did you
bleach
it?”

“Uh…your dress?” I say, looking around like it’s gotta be there somewhere.

“Yes,” she snaps, “my dress! What happened to it?” Then she gasps and her eyes pop wide open. “The Nightie-Napper! The Napper got it, didn’t he!” She clanks forward. “This is your fault! This is all your fault! You should never have left my things alone in that basement!”

“Look, Mrs. Wedgewood,” I say, scooting for the door. “I probably just accidentally left it in the dryer. I’ll be right back.”

But it wasn’t in the dryer. It wasn’t anywhere. And after I tried to negotiate with her about it, Mrs. Wedgewood finally dropped the sweet talk and went straight for blackmail. “Buy me a new one—or else!” She looked at her wristwatch, which was like a mini boa constrictor choking off her wrist. “Monte Carlo night starts in one hour. Go to Large and Lovely in the mall, and don’t you
dare
just buy me the cheapest thing you can find! Nothing in peaches or beiges…. I want something festive! Blues, greens…. The one I had was perfect! I can’t believe you let the Nightie-Napper steal it!” She clanked toward me with her walker. “What are you waitin’ for, girl? GO!”

“But I don’t have any money!” I tried, looking as pathetic as possible.

“Then
find
some!” she snapped, and pushed me out the door.

Now, I guess I could have asked my mother for money. But my mother would have made a horrible fuss, and knowing her, she would have found some way of ruining everything. I mean, I could just see Mrs. Wedgewood ratting on me because my mom was on her high horse. And moving to Hollywood to live with her instead of Grams was the last thing I wanted. Aside from leaving all my friends behind, I’d be living with a person who played a formerly amnesiac, currently comatose aristocrat on a gag-me soap. Not my idea of fun, especially since my mother “adopts” her character, practically living the role in real life.

And I guess I could have asked Grams, but I knew she was still worried about the hundred and twenty dollars that she’d lost somewhere in her checkbook.

And since I already
had
found some money, I went back to my apartment, grabbed my backpack and skateboard, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

“Wait!” my mother and Grams both cried. Then Grams said, “Dinner’s just about ready!”

Something delicious-smelling was baking in the oven, and I was starving, but I had no time. “I have to go get something for Mrs. Wedgewood. I’ll be back in less than an hour. Go ahead and eat without me!” Then I zipped out of there.

I was ticked off, all right. And I really resented spending my hard-found money on the Blackmail Whale, but I did find a “festive” muumuu in quadruple-XL on the sale rack. And then on my way out of the mall I spotted something in the art gallery window that I thought Hudson might really like. It wasn’t an Ansel Adams or a Howard Bond or some other black-and-white photographer Hudson admires, but there was something about it that I really liked.

I was in a hurry, though, so I didn’t go in and see how much it was. I just jetted back home.

“Here,” I said, delivering the muumuu to Mrs. Wedgewood.

“Ooooh,” she said, turning on the sugar. “Why…it’s perfect!” Then she smiled at me and said, “I’m sorry for getting so testy before. It’s just that it’s been ages since I’ve been invited out, and then to have nothing to wear? You understand, right, sugar?”

I almost said, No, you blackmailing, slave-driving, ungrateful hippo! but instead, I bit my tongue and made a speedy exit.

Now, normally when I tell Grams I’ll be right back, I’m
not
right back. I’m sidetracked somewhere trying to
get
right back. And then a lot of times something
else
happens and I wind up getting sidetracked from my
sidetrack.

I’ve been known to be really,
really
late.

But this time I was back
way
within the hour like I’d promised, only instead of getting praised for not being late, I walked in to find Grams fuming.

For once, though, it wasn’t at me.

“Where’s Mom?” I asked, looking around.

“Apparently,” Grams said, tying an apron around her waist, “our apartment is not up to Lady Lana’s standards.”

“What?”

She gave me a prim look. “Your mother saw a mouse.”

“Oh, good grief,” I said. “She freaked out?”

“The tail was still twitching in Dorito’s mouth, and there was blood.” She eyed me. “Need I say more?”

I served myself some leftover casserole. It had broccoli in it, but I didn’t even care. I was
starving.
“So where’d she go?”

“Back to Hollywood, for all I care.” She ran water into the sink, saying, “She appears without warning, insults me, and disappears. Why’d she even bother to come? I can do without surprises like that!”

“Wow, Grams,” I said, taking a big bite. “She doesn’t usually get to you this bad. What did she say?”

She frowned at me over her shoulder. “She called our home a flea-infested hovel.”

That was a
really
low blow, even for my mother, because Grams takes great pride in keeping the apartment spotless.

Now, you’d think that I’d be happy that for once someone besides me was back-combed by my mother, but I actually just felt bad for Grams. And I didn’t really know what to say, so instead of saying anything about the infamous Lady Lana, I wolfed down some more casserole, then asked, “Do you need me to get rid of the mouse?”

“I already took care of it,” she said, but her chin was quivering. And before I could say anything else, the phone rang. “That’s probably her.” She sniffed. “The ungrateful prima donna!” She snatched up the phone and in a very controlled voice said, “Hello?”

Two seconds later I could tell it was not my mother.

Judging by Grams’ deep breathing and closed eyes and counting to ten, it could only be one person.

Rose Wedgewood.

“Fine,” Grams said. “She’ll be right over.” And when she hung up the phone, she looked at me and said, “Our neighbor wants your help getting dressed for Monte Carlo night.” Her lips pressed together a moment, then she went back to the sink and snapped on yellow dish gloves. “Monte Carlo night! If that woman is mobile enough to meet a date at Monte Carlo night, she’s mobile enough to do her own laundry!”

But I was actually glad she’d called.

I was hoping it would give me the chance to figure out what Rex Randolf was really up to.