The Adventures of Jack Lime by James Leck Page A

room.
    â€œGet back here, Mr. Lime!” Kurtz yelled. “You’ll be late! I’ll mark you absent!”
    The late bell rang just as I stepped out of the school. I raced across the field and tossed the lid off the can. It was empty, completely empty. Even the few cups and soggy cigarette butts that had been sitting at the bottom were gone. Someone had collected the garbage. I raced to the far side of the building where the big green dumpsters sat. Tony Leoni, the school’s custodian, was tossing bags into the dumpsters.
    â€œStop!” I hollered, as I bolted across the field. “Stop!”
    â€œWhat? What? What do you want, kid?”
    â€œI need to look through those bags!”
    â€œAre you crazy?”
    â€œI dropped something in one of them, and I need to get it back. It’s valuable. I need to look through the bags. Please.”
    â€œWhat’s with you kids? Last week some mooyuk chucked his wallet in the garbage. He ripped the bag apart, and I had to clean up the mess. So you listen close, kid,” he started, leaning in on me. Leoni was short, sported a cheesy handlebar mustache and a comb-over that only covered part of his head. But he had Popeye forearms and a way of walking that made kids step aside in the hallways. “You want to dig through the trash, be my guest, but I’m warning you, if I see one bit of garbage floating around out here when you’re done, I’m going to come after you, and when I find you, I’m going to skin you alive. You got that?”
    â€œIt’ll be spic and span,” I promised, crossing my heart. He started to leave, but I had one more question.
    â€œDo you always collect the garbage on Tuesdays?” I said to his back.
    He whirled around and leaned into me again, breathing stale coffee into my face. “You know darn well I collect on Mondays, don’t you, kid?” he hissed, poking me in the chest with a thick, pudgy finger. “Are you some kind of snitch or something? Did the principal put you up to this? Does Snit want a piece of me?” I thought Leoni might skin me alive right there. “Well you can tell Snit that I had an appointment yesterday. I don’t need a snotty kid telling me I’m a day late! I know I’m late!”
    â€œJust wondering,” I said, holding up my hands. “Just wondering is all.”
    Leoni glared at me, then turned and trudged back into the school. “Not one scrap!” he hollered before disappearing into the school.
    Folks, there are parts of this P.I. game that are nastier than cleaning the boys’ bathroom with a broken toothbrush. Digging around in those dumpsters was one of them. Let’s just say that when Principal Snit came out to find me, I was knee deep in filth, covered in sweat and I reeked like the fish burgers we had for lunch a week ago. But I had the essay.
    Tuesday, June 3, 9:32 a.m.
A street with no name, Grandma’s House
    Snit decided I couldn’t go back to class stinking like week-old fish burgers, so he wrapped me in some old blankets and drove me home. Apparently, Snit had issues with me skipping classes to work on my investigations. My grandma seemed to have issues with that, too. So we all sat down and had a very pleasant chat over tea and crumpets to address the matter. I made nice with Snit, and they decided that a suspension was out of order, but I had to promise to keep my nose clean. Snit said his good-byes, and I hopped in the shower.
    I’ll spare you the intimate details of the conversation I had with my grandma after Snit left (if being yelled at counts as a conversation), but let’s just say I was in serious trouble. Surprisingly, she wasn’t excited about me finding Tyrone’s essay, and she wasn’t interested in listening to reason. But I could understand where she was coming from. Grandma had been enjoying her golden years when little old me arrived on the scene, looking for trouble.