From Russia with Lunch Page 7

  Natalie looked down at me. “What for?”

  “So I can apologize and get them to reverse the curse. Let’s motor.” I tried to stand, but was still too wormish. “Uh, mind giving me another lift?”

  Natalie eyed me the way I eyeball my mom’s wolf spider pizza. “What’s your hurry?”

  “Ha, ha,” I said. “Don’t kid around.”

  “But I like worms,” said Natalie, eyes twinkling. “And you know, I haven’t had lunch yet . . .”

  “Natalie . . .,” I said, warningly.

  18

  That’s What Ends Are For

  By late recess, I had my own body back, and all was right with the world. Natalie and I kicked a soccer ball around while Maureen DeBree gave us the latest scoop.

  “So this whole thing started because Dr. Lightov stole some inventions from Pete’s dad?” said Natalie.

  Ms. DeBree stabbed a gum wrapper with her trash pole and twitched it into her bag. “That’s what it sounded like through the kid’s blubbering,” she said. “The bugger wanted revenge—plus he wanted to be noticed, in the worst way.”

  “Let’s see,” said Natalie. “He sabotaged the inventions, put chemicals in the Munchmeister meals to make kids act rowdy, and tried to grind us up in the Yard Czar. I’d say that’s the worst way.”

  I hooked the ball with my foot and bounced it off my knee, happy to have knees again.

  “But how did Pete come up with the formula that made everyone go nuts?” I said.

  “And the robot?” said Natalie. “That couldn’t have been easy to make.”

  I kicked the ball to her. “Yeah, after all, Pete isn’t exactly a whiz kid.”

  The custodian bent to scrape gum off the walkway. “Chee, the little stinkers,” she muttered.

  “Ms. DeBree?” I said.

  She looked up. “Eh? Oh, yeah. Turns out the bugger really is one genius. He never tries in class, ’cause it’s too easy for him.”

  “Huh,” I said. “Looks can be deceiving.”

  Natalie chirped, “I’ll say. Look at you.” She passed the ball back.

  “Funny, birdie.”

  We kicked it around some more while Ms. DeBree tidied up the bushes.

  “So what happens to the money-saving inventions?” said Natalie.

  The mongoose lifted a shoulder. “That gal, Dr. Lightov, she got in bad disrefute from this whole thing.”

  “You mean, the woodchuck’s in the doghouse?” I said.

  “That’s what I’m saying,” said Ms. DeBree. “They’re gonna hire back everyone who was fired and trash all the fancy new machines.”

  “Even the robot?” I said. “I could think of a few uses for him . . .”

  “Especially the robot,” said the mongoose. “Mr. Zero said one Chet Gecko at this school is plenty.”

  Dang. Ah, well. Can’t blame a PI for trying.

  “So I guess we go back to doing things the old-fashioned way,” said Natalie.

  “With animal power,” Ms. DeBree said, tying up her trash bag.

  I looked from my partner to our custodian—mockingbird and mongoose, true-blue friends, both of them.

  “Animal power works for me,” I said with a smile.

  1

  The Big Stink

  You can’t avoid it. No matter what, at some point in every school day, during that long, long stretch between lunch and freedom, time stands still. The great wheel grinds to a halt, the universe holds its breath, and the birds forget to sing.

  Everything stops.

  Except Mr. Ratnose’s mouth.

  That drones on and on and on, explaining the layers of the earth’s crust, the eight parts of a plant, the ten types of clouds, the workings of friction, the wonders of the water cycle, the principle of gravity, and the true, exact meaning of the phrase, “bored out of your ever-lovin’ skull.”

  This stretch of frozen time is also known as “science lesson.”

  Nothing against science, but I’d rather investigate the mysteries of a case than the mysteries of molecules any day.

  Halfway through this one particular science lesson, I glanced at the clock. Sure enough, the minute hand hadn’t budged for at least an Ice Age.

  Would this day never end?

  Then, from the nonstop blah-blah-blah at the front of the room, two words penetrated. The sound of my name.

  “Chet Gecko?” said Mr. Ratnose. “That’s the twelfth time you’ve checked the clock in the last minute. Is there somewhere else you’d rather be?”

  Such an easy straight line.

  I muttered, “Um, at the dentist, running from rhinos, shopping for underwear . . . Did you want the full list?”

  Mr. Ratnose scowled. His response felt like an old line from an even older movie. “Go to the attitude adjustment corner,” he said wearily. “Maybe that will teach you some manners.”

  “Maybe,” muttered my friend Bo Newt, “but I doubt it.”

  “How’s that?” said Mr. Ratnose.

  I sighed. “Uh, I said I’m on it.” Past the desks of stupefied students I shuffled, back to the dusty corner and its pink plastic chair.

  “You’d better be, mister,” said Mr. Ratnose. “Parents Night is Friday, and I’m telling your parents everything.” But even his warning had a kind of been-there, done-that feel to it.

  I slumped into the chair, facing a poster of Rodney Rodent in a rocket that read YOUR ATTITUDE DETERMINES YOUR ALTITUDE.

  If Rodney was right, I was on the fast track to Lower Nowheresville. I hadn’t had a new case in weeks, my wallet was flatter than a tapeworm’s tummy—heck, I even had time to do all my homework. (Not that I actually did it.)

  If this kept up, I’d turn from Chet Gecko, Private Eye, to Chet Gecko, Regular Guy. I was hungry for something, anything, to break the boredom.

  But I wasn’t ready for the Big Stink.

  I sat quietly, practicing my thumb twiddling—forward twiddle, reverse twiddle, fast, medium, and slow—when the whiff of a funky stench tickled my nose. Craning my neck, I searched for a culprit in the back row.

  No shifting in seats. No telltale fake innocence. All my classmates looked like bored little angels.

  The stench grew stronger. I fanned the air in front of my face. “Whew.”

  A giggle erupted from somewhere close at hand.

  “He who smelt it, dealt it,” whispered Rick Shaw, a nerdy hedgehog.

  The giggling grew louder. Now several of the back-row kids had turned around to stare and point.

  I shook my head. “Wasn’t me.”

  “Sure,” said Rick. “We believe you.”

  Then the funky stench cranked up another couple of notches, from cheese-cutting to paint-peeling. It seemed like it was coming from the direction of the wall. Poor wall.

  “Oh, man.” I stood and backed away.

  Mr. Ratnose’s lecture droned on. But by this time, the odor had tiptoed on its little stink-footed feet throughout the class. More and more kids were turning and searching for its source.

  Finally, even Mr. Ratnose noticed me. “Chet Gecko, why did you leave your seat?”

  “Smells like he blasted himself out of it,” said Waldo the furball. “Hur, hur.”

  “It wasn’t me!” I repeated.

  Now the class laughed uncontrollably. Some of the nearer kids got up and scooted back.

  Mr. Ratnose put a fist on his hip. “Settle down, class.”

  I covered my nose. “I think it’s coming from over near the vent.”

  “What is?” Mr. Ratnose asked. Then the stench wave hit him. “Oh. Sweet Norwegian pie! What is that?”

  Somewhere along in here, the class finally realized this stench was way beyond anything one kid could have caused. More and more of my classmates were on their feet, moving back from the heating vent.

  I joined them.

  “Oh, baby,” cried Bo Newt.

  “That stinks!” said Shirley Chameleon.

  “Hoo-eee!” said Waldo.

  How can I des
cribe the intense odor? It was the pharaoh of funkiness, the sheik of stenchiness, the grand high pooh-bah of putrid. In the ranks of rank smells, it would be head honcho of the whole dang enchilada.

  And all I wanted was to leave it behind. (No pun intended.) Luckily, Mr. Ratnose agreed.

  “Class!” He coughed and waved his hand. “Out—kaff kaff!—side!”

  We were way ahead of him. By the time he finished speaking, everyone had jammed into line and was pushing through the doorway. Out in the hall, other classes milled around, eyes watering, noses covered.

  It wasn’t just our stink. Every classroom in the school was emptying out.

  “Terrible!” cried Bitty Chu, teacher’s pet. “Think of all the class time we’re missing.” She held her nose.

  “Wonderful,” I said, breathing deeply. “A fresh mystery—koff!—at last.”

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  Look for more mysteries

  from the Tattered Casebook of Chet Gecko

  Case #1 The Chameleon Wore Chartreuse

  Some cases start rough, some cases start easy. This one started with a dame. (That’s what we private eyes call a girl.) She was cute and green and scaly. She looked like trouble and smelled like . . . grasshoppers.

  Shirley Chameleon came to me when her little brother, Billy, turned up missing. (I suspect she also came to spread cooties, but that’s another story.) She turned on the tears. She promised me some stinkbug pie. I said I’d find the brat.

  But when his trail led to a certain stinky-breathed, bad-tempered, jumbo-sized Gila monster, I thought I’d bitten off more than I could chew. Worse, I had to chew fast: If I didn’t find Billy in time, it would be bye-bye, stinkbug pie.

  Case #2 The Mystery of Mr. Nice

  How would you know if some criminal mastermind tried to impersonate your principal? My first clue: He was nice to me.

  This fiend tried everything—flattery, friendship, food—but he still couldn’t keep me off the case. Natalie and I followed a trail of clues as thin as the cheese on a cafeteria hamburger. And we found a ring of corruption that went from the janitor right up to Mr. Big.

  In the nick of time, we rescued Principal Zero and busted up the PTA meeting, putting a stop to the evil genius. And what thanks did we get? Just the usual. A cold handshake and a warm soda.

  But that’s all in a day’s work for a private eye.

  Case #3 Farewell, My Lunchbag

  If danger is my business, then dinner is my passion. I’ll take any case if the pay is right. And what pay could be better than Mothloaf Surprise?

  At least that’s what I thought. But in this particular case, I almost paid the ultimate price for good grub.

  Cafeteria lady Mrs. Bagoong hired me to track down whoever was stealing her food supplies. The long, slimy trail led too close to my own backyard for comfort.

  And much, much too close to the very scary Jimmy “King” Cobra. Without the help of Natalie Attired and our school janitor, Maureen DeBree, I would’ve been gecko sushi.

  Case #4 The Big Nap

  My grades were lower than a salamander’s slippers, and my bank account was trying to crawl under a duck’s belly. So why did I take a case that didn’t pay anything?

  Put it this way: Would you stand by and watch some evil power turn your classmates into hypnotized zombies? (If that wasn’t just what normally happened to them in math class, I mean.)

  My investigations revealed a plot meaner than a roomful of rhinos with diaper rash.

  Someone at Emerson Hicky was using a sinister video game to put more and more students into la-la-land. And it was up to me to stop it, pronto—before that someone caught up with me, and I found myself taking the Big Nap.

  Case #5 The Hamster of the Baskervilles

  Elementary school is a wild place. But this was ridiculous.

  Someone—or something—was tearing up Emerson Hicky. Classrooms were trashed. Walls were gnawed. Mysterious tunnels riddled the playground like worm chunks in a pan of earthworm lasagna.

  But nobody could spot the culprit, let alone catch him.

  I don’t believe in the supernatural. My idea of voodoo is my mom’s cockroach-ripple ice cream.

  Then, a teacher reported seeing a monster on full-moon night, and I got the call.

  At the end of a twisted trail of clues, I had to answer the burning question: Was it a vicious, supernatural were-hamster on the loose, or just another Science Fair project gone wrong?

  Case #6 This Gum for Hire

  Never thought I’d see the day when one of my worst enemies would hire me for a case. Herman the Gila Monster was a sixth-grade hoodlum with a first-rate left hook. He told me someone was disappearing the football team, and he had to put a stop to it. Big whoop.

  He told me he was being blamed for the kidnappings, and he had to clear his name. Boo hoo.

  Then he said that I could either take the case and earn a nice reward, or have my face rearranged like a bargain-basement Picasso painted by a spastic chimp.

  I took the case.

  But before I could find the kidnapper, I had to go undercover. And that meant facing something that scared me worse than a chorus line of criminals in steel-toed boots: P.E. class.

  Case #7 The Malted Falcon

  It was tall, dark, and chocolatey—the stuff dreams are made of. It was a treat so titanic that nobody had been able to finish one single-handedly (or even single-mouthedly). It was the Malted Falcon.

  How far would you go for the ultimate dessert? Somebody went too far, and that’s where I came in.

  The local sweets shop held a contest. The prize: a year’s supply of free Malted Falcons. Some lucky kid scored the winning ticket. She brought it to school for show-and-tell.

  But after she showed it, somebody swiped it. And no one would tell where it went.

  Following a strong hunch and an even stronger sweet tooth, I tracked the ticket through a web of lies more tangled than a rattlesnake doing the rumba. But the time to claim the prize was fast approaching. Would the villain get the sweet treat—or his just desserts?

  Case #8 Trouble Is My Beeswax

  Okay, I confess. When test time rolls around, I’m as tempted as the next lizard to let my eyeballs do the walking . . . to my neighbor’s paper.

  But Mrs. Gecko didn’t raise no cheaters. (Some language manglers, perhaps.) So when a routine investigation uncovered a test-cheating ring at Emerson Hicky, I gave myself a new case: Put the cheaters out of business.

  Easier said than done. Those double-dealers were slicker than a frog’s fanny and twice as slimy.

  Oh, and there was one other small problem: All the evidence pointed to two dames. The ringleader was either the glamorous Lacey Vail, or my own classmate Shirley Chameleon.

  Sheesh. The only thing I hate worse than an empty Pillbug Crunch wrapper is a case full of dizzy dames.

  Case #9 Give My Regrets to Broadway

  Some things you can’t escape, however hard you try—like dentist appointments, visits with strange-smelling relatives, and being in the fourth-grade play. I had always left the acting to my smart-aleck pal, Natalie, but now it was my turn in the spotlight.

  Stage fright? Me? You’re talking about a gecko who has laughed at danger, chuckled at catastrophe, and sneezed at sinister plots.

  I was terrified.

  Not because of the acting, mind you. The script called for me to share a major lip-lock with Shirley Chameleon—Cootie Queen of the Universe!

  And while I was trying to avoid that trap, a simple missing persons case took a turn for the worse—right into the middle of my play. Would opening night spell curtains for my client? And, more important, would someone invent a cure for cooties? But no matter—whatever happens, the sleuth must go on.

  Case #10 Murder, My Tweet

  Some things at school you can count on. Pop quizzes always pop up just after you’ve spent your study time s
tudying comics. Chef’s Surprise is always a surprise, but never a good one. And no matter how much you learn today, they always make you come back tomorrow.

  But sometimes, Emerson Hicky amazes you. And just like finding a killer bee in a box of Earwig Puffs, you’re left shocked, stung, and discombobulated.

  Foul play struck at my school; that’s nothing new. But then the finger of suspicion pointed straight at my favorite fowl: Natalie Attired. Framed as a blackmailer, my partner was booted out of Emerson Hicky quicker than a hoptoad on a hot plate.

  I tackled the case for free. Mess with my partner, mess with me.

  Then things took a turn for the worse. Just when I thought I might clear her name, Natalie disappeared. And worse still, she left behind one clue: a reddish smear that looked kinda like the jelly from a beetle-jelly sandwich but raised an ugly question: Was it murder, or something serious?

  Case #11 The Possum Always Rings Twice

  In my time, I’ve tackled cases stickier than a spider’s handshake and harder than three-year-old boll weevil taffy. But nothing compares to the job that landed me knee-deep in school politics.

  What seemed like a straightforward case of extortion during Emerson Hicky’s student-council election ended up taking more twists and turns than an anaconda’s lunch. It became a battle royal for control of the school. (Not that I necessarily believe school is worth fighting for, but a gecko’s gotta do something with his days.)

  In the end, my politicking landed me in one of the tightest spots I’ve ever encountered. Was I savvy enough to escape with my skin? Let me put it this way: Just like a politician, this is one private eye who always shoots from the lip.