The Adventures of Jack Lime (3 page)

Friday, May 23, 8:57 p.m.
Riverside Park, The Flea Market

Riverside Park is a green belt that runs along the Iona River. The planners at Luxemcorp must've thought it would be just terrific for business if the fine citizens of Iona could sit on their patios, leisurely sipping cappuccinos, gazing across the river at the peaceful sway of the trees and listening to the gentle flow of the water. I hated to rain on their parade, but it wasn't all sunshine and lollipops on the other side of those trees, because every Friday night at nine, the Riverside Boys were getting ready to do some crooked business at a little something called the Flea Market.

I hunkered down behind some bushes with a good view of the trash-infested clearing the Riverside Boys used for their illicit business venture. The sun was just about to set, but here in the trees, it was already getting dark. The air was thick, and thanks to all the rain we'd been getting, it reeked of dampness. Farther down the river, ordinary people joked about the ordinary things they did in their ordinary lives. Here, at the far end of the park, an assortment of Iona's shadiest kids were setting up shop, ready to sell their wares to anyone with enough dough to grease their dirty little paws.

I took off my retro glasses and tucked them into my pocket so I could actually see the seedy activities that were just heating up as kids started to trickle into the clearing. They stumbled over rocks and slogged through the thick, black mud that lined the river just to find a cheap deal. These were kids who got good grades, kids who never got into trouble, all handing over their allowances to buy things that'd probably been stolen out of their best friend's locker. I saw Joey McQueen buying some poor sap's PSP. Lily Jones laid down cash for a pink cell phone. Billy Patterson got himself a new MP3 player. I didn't spot a bike in the mix, but I couldn't be sure there wasn't one being kept out of sight for the big rollers. I had to get a closer look, but I couldn't just march out of the trees like a guy busting in on his sister's pajama party. I had to be subtle about things.

I made my way back up to the main asphalt path that wound its way through the park and spotted the narrow trail that led to the market. I started down the path and went over the cover story I'd made for Roger. He was an out-of-town kid who'd heard the Flea Market was the place to be if you were looking for something cheap. His little brother was sick, so he wanted to get him something real nice for his tenth birthday. He was hoping to pick up a bike, maybe something with a banana seat and streamers. Everything was hunky-dory until I was ambushed halfway down the path.

“Freeze, buster! I got you covered!” someone shouted.

I whipped off the glasses and spun around, looking to see where the voice was coming from.

“I said freeze, bozo!”

“I'm just heading down to do a little shopping,” I said. Was this some kind of security checkpoint the Riverside Boys had cooked up so they wouldn't be taken by surprise?

“State your name, soldier,” the voice demanded. I thought I caught a glimpse of movement off to my right.

“Roger Daltry,” I said. “I'm just looking for a bike for my kid brother.”

“Just an innocent shopping trip, eh, Roger? Well, let me tell you something, the plan just changed.”

Now I was sure the voice was coming from my right. I thought I could see a figure in the trees, and unless my eyes were playing tricks on me, that somebody was wearing an army helmet and his face was covered in green paint. The rest of his body was concealed behind a bush. I considered jumping into action, but didn't want to blow my shot at finding the bike if Sergeant Wingnut actually was a watchdog for Bucky's gang.

“Now listen carefully, soldier,” he said. “You're going to march down that path and ask about a pair of night vision goggles. If they have them, you ask how much, and when they tell you, you act like you forgot your money. Then march back up here. Don't bother looking for me, just keep walking. I'll find you. And don't try to bail on me, bug-bait, because I'll be watching your every move. You got that?”

This wasn't a lookout from the Riverside Boys. This was a lone wolf cooking up some hare-brained scheme that would probably get me killed if I went along with it. I considered my options and decided to play along. I wanted to avoid any loud and messy confrontations.

“All right, boss,” I said, in my best Nervous-Nellie voice. “I'll do what you want, just don't hurt me.”

“Smart choice, soldier,” he said. I could see him smiling beneath all that green paint. “Now hop to it!”

I left Private Nutso squatting in the woods and turned my attention back to the case. I had more important (and sane) things to do, so I straightened my wig, pulled down my hat and put on the glasses. It was showtime.

The path led me straight down to the clearing I'd been watching from the trees. I spotted three goons standing at the edge of the river and decided to see if they had the dope on this crooked operation.

“What's up, what's up, what's up, fellas?” I said, getting into character.

“What's up,” the tallest one said. He had a sneer permanently frozen on his face. “You got any beer?”

“Afraid not, my man,” I said. “I'm driving.”

“So what?” Sneer said, and all three of them snickered like hyenas.

“You're not from Iona, are you?” another one of them asked. I recognized him from my geography class. He wasn't hard to ID because he had a head as big as a hot air balloon. But from what I'd seen in class, there wasn't much filling up all that space.

“No, I'm from out of town, but word is this is the place to go if you want a sweet deal on some high-end merchandise.”

“So, how'd you get in?” Sneer asked.

FYI — Iona is a gated community, or an “insulated living environment,” as the bigwigs at Luxemcorp like to say. There's an iron gate across the only road into town, and you need a security code to get it open. If you don't have the code, you have to get past the Luxemcorp guards who are posted in a little white house just inside the gate. Sneer was clearly testing my alibi, but I passed “Going Undercover 101” a long time ago, and these were silly kids' games.

“I parked on the highway,” I said.

“Then you walked?” the third one asked. His name was Derek Sanders. Everyone calls him Heavy because he tips the scales at close to three hundred pounds, but couldn't be more than five foot eight. Heavy is also blessed with hair as red as a carrot, which makes him about as hard to spot as fireworks on the Fourth of July.

“That's right, chief,” I said. “I needed the exercise.”

“Whatever,” Big Head grunted. “What are you looking for?”

“A bike,” I said. “Something cheap, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I think I know what you mean,” Heavy said, and winked at his compadres. Then he turned and disappeared into the trees.

When Heavy came back, he was wheeling a slick yellow and black mountain bike. It had heavy-duty wheels, shocks and lots of gears. This was not Ronny's bike. But at that particular moment, it wasn't the bike I was concerned about. It was the beast emerging from the trees behind the bike that got my attention. Sneer, Big Head and Heavy were intimidating in their own bungling kind of way, but this guy was tall and pumped up. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt, worn-out jeans and work boots that weren't laced up. He had one cigarette behind his right ear and another dangling between his lips as if it had been forgotten. This was Bucky King, in the flesh.

“Is this what you're looking for?” Heavy asked, stopping the bike in front of me. Bucky stood a few feet away and lit up his cigarette.

“Ah, actually, I was looking for something smaller,” I said, trying to play it cool, “maybe with a few streamers, a banana seat and a little bell.” I had to be careful; I didn't want to blow my cover.

“You're serious?” Sneer asked from off to the side. Big Head had disappeared.

“Yeah,” I said, “it's for my little brother, Tommy. He's got a thing for streamers, banana seats and little bells.”

“You must think I'm stupid,” Bucky cut in, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air. “I don't suppose your little brother's last name is Lime? Tommy Lime? Is that his name?” he asked, stepping over to me and poking me hard in the chest with a massive finger. “'Cause I'm one hundred percent certain that you're Jack Lime. My sister told me you might be stupid enough to come down here tonight.”

“You got me, Bucky,” I said, holding up my hands. “You're a heck of a lot smarter than you look.”

“Not really,” Bucky said, completely missing my clever insult. “Because everything you've tried to pull tonight is so lame a retarded chicken could see through it.”

“You're a long way from politically correct, my friend,” I said.

“And you're a long way from Kansas, Dorothy.” The small crowd that had gathered around us had a nice laugh at the expense of yours truly.

“Do you have the bike?” I asked, ignoring the fact that I was in no position to be asking questions.

Bucky smiled, started to turn away, then spun around and slammed his fist into my gut like a runaway locomotive. The wind blew out of me like a deflating balloon. I tried to crumple, but Big Head grabbed me from behind and held me up. “That's for my sister,” Bucky said, and took a long drag from his cigarette. “I don't know what frigging bike you're looking for Lime, but you mess with me and you're going to pay.”

“Do you …” I said, sucking in air, “have … the … bike?”

“What bike, Lime?” Bucky said.

“Streamers … banana seat … little bell,” I said, just starting to get my breath back. “Ronny … Kutcher's.”

“Kutcher? Sandra Kutcher's little brother?” he said. “Man, doesn't that kid still ride around on a tricycle?” The crowd laughed again. “Let me tell you something, Lime. Nobody's in the market for that kid's bike. That's small time. Real small time, and Bucky King ain't small time. And, Sandra, she ain't small time, either. She's a real sweet girl,” he said, giving me a wink.

I stamped on Big Head's toes. He yelped, and I tried to slip out of his grip, but he was too strong.

“Don't like that, Lime?” Bucky said, stepping close to me. “Well, you really ain't going to like this news flash, big man: me and Sandra used to hook up.”

“I don't believe you,” I said.

“It's true.” Bucky grinned. “She couldn't get enough of me, but I had to break it off. She got kind of boring, a little needy. But I'll tell you, Lime,” Bucky said, squeezing my cheeks into the kind of pucker my crazy Aunt April used to force on me when I was a little kid, “she was one hell of a kisser.”

“I don't buy it, Bucky,” I slurred through the pucker. “You're too ugly.”

Bucky's eyes blazed, and he chomped down on his cigarette. I was sure another punch was on its way, but at the last moment, he stopped himself and stepped back. “Toss him in the river with the rest of the trash,” he said, flicking the butt of his cigarette into the darkness. I watched the orange tip fly away and then sizzle in the black water of the Iona River. Big Head grabbed me around my chest, and Sneer grabbed my feet.

I kicked. I thrashed. I fought the good fight, and I wish I could tell you I escaped, but that would be a lie. They started swinging me back and forth, building momentum. “One … two … three!” they hollered. For a moment, I was flying through the air, and then I hit the water.

Bucky and his cronies thought this was all just fun and games. They'd toss me in the river, and I'd struggle out, soaking wet, with my tail between my legs, and never bother them again. Problem was they didn't know I was prone to falling asleep at the worst times. So a simple dip in the Iona River suddenly got very serious when I felt my condition kicking in. Just before I drifted off to Never-Never Land, I saw someone diving in the water, then everything went black.

I dreamed I was sitting on the bottom of the river. A purple grizzly bear rode by on Ronny's bike — banana seat, streamers and all. As he drove past me, he yelled, “Find the bike, Jack.” I tried to say, “No thanks, bear,” but my mouth filled up with water. That's when my dream took a turn for the worse. The purple bear was gone. Instead, I was staring into the face of a hideous green monster. It was descending on me, its mouth wide open, like it was going to bite my face off. I tried to scream, but choked instead.

“Oh, thank God,” the monster said, leaning back. “I really didn't want to give you mouth-to-mouth.”

That's when I realized this wasn't a dream. I wasn't under water; I was lying in the black mud on the banks of the river, with Colonel Crazy from the path kneeling beside me, apparently about to perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

“I owe you an apology, soldier,” he said. “I shouldn't have forced you into being my mole. But I didn't know that Bucky was going to go ballistic about a pair of night vision goggles. I mean, I know they're not easy to get your hands on, but that whole situation was seriously snafu.”