The Further Adventures of Jack Lime Read Free

about art contests and student fees, there was a reminder to come out and support the boys’ football team. Apparently they had an important game against Eastern High that afternoon. I dotted the last
t
and crossed the last
i
, handed in my test and headed for the football field. I might finally get a chance to look at those texts, after all.
    Friday, October 4, 4:27 p.m.
Iona High, The Football Field
    It was a sunny fall afternoon, the perfect kind of day to watch a football game. The place was swarming with kids jostling for good seats and gossiping about the average, ordinary things that go on in their average, ordinary lives. I spotted Betty in the front row, looking anxious. KC was off to the side with a pen and a notepad, and I was sitting in the top row of the bleachers taking it all in. Lance led the Iona High Warriors onto the field, but when the whistle blew, he didn’t look like much of a star to me. Sure, he could fire a ball down the field like it’d been shot out of a cannon, and he could run faster than a cheetah with his tail on fire, but he fumbled the ball once and threw two interceptions, all in the first quarter. By the time the second quarter started, Iona was down by fourteen and the crowd was getting restless. That’s when I decided to make my move.
    I casually strolled out of the stands, wandered over to the school and slipped into the side door of the gymnasium. The boys’ change room was connected to the bathroom, giving me a perfectly plausible alibi for snooping around. Luckily the place was empty, and finding Lance’s jacket was a cinch, since his name was stitched on the sleeve.
    Sure enough, I found his cell in his pocket, and I was about to start typing in his password when Mr. Leoni, the school custodian, burst in.
    â€œWhat are you doing in here, kid? There’s a porta-potty outside for the fans.”
    â€œI have really bad toilets,” I said, jamming the phone in my pocket, “so I need to use the cramp, and fast.” Before he could say anything, I bolted into one of the bathroom stalls.
    â€œJust make sure you flush when you’re done,” he hollered, and stomped out.
    I pulled out the phone and typed in 0-3-1-4. Lance might’ve been paranoid about his phone, but he wasn’t paranoid enough to delete his call history from yesterday. He’d gotten 188 text messages, but only one had been sent right around the time that he’d run off on Betty. That one came in at 8:03, and it was sent from someone called Red. According to the contact info, Red’s number was 555-3333. I opened the message. This is all it said:
    R side P. Now.
    In the movies, detectives always seem to figure out secret messages lickety-split, but that can be hard to do when you’re standing in a bathroom stall and you know that Mr. Leoni is lurking around waiting for you to finish with your business. Plus, I didn’t have long to consider the possibilities because a couple of eggs came in and started yakking about the game. I peeked through the gap next to the stall door and spotted a tall drink of water with brown hair and bad acne. He was standing beside a short, plump kid sporting a crew cut.
    â€œEastern’s going to win for sure,” Tall and Pimply said.
    â€œIf Lance is off, we don’t have a chance,” Crew Cut added.
    â€œSo what can I put you guys down for?” a familiar voice asked. I leaned a little to my left and saw Mike the Bookie holding a pencil and notepad.
    For those of you who haven’t been following my career as closely as you should, Mike the Bookie is a shifty grifter who was the numbers man for a criminal mastermind named Tobias Poe. Tobias worked a scam on yours truly that ended with me losing my laptop, my cell and a significant chunk of change. Tobias graduated last year and moved on to bigger and nastier places, but Mike was still prowling around Iona High with his little black book, taking money from