The Quick Fix Read online

  AT FRANKLIN MIDDLE SCHOOL, a.k.a. “the Frank,” Vincent biggio rules the halls with a team of water-gun-toting goons who will squirt anyone who crosses them faster than you can yell, “PEE-PEE PANTS!” Helping the innocent avoid this fate keeps seventh-grade private eye matt stevens as in demand as a pop quiz answer key. His latest client: Melissa Scott, idolized cheerleader and girlfriend of basketball star Will Atkins. Melissa hires Matt to follow Will, who’s been acting jumpier than a pixy stix addict after a fix. matt’s first clue: a mysterious wooden knickknack that everyone in school seems to be after.

  Unfortunately for Matt, everyone includes Vinny Biggs himself, who offers to pay Matt big money to recover the item in question. Seems like someone is using it to blackmail Vinny. But how can a knickknack be used to blackmail the most ruthless criminal at the Frank, and who would even dare?

  Matt’s on the case—if he can stay dry long enough.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN: 978-0-8109-9725-7

  Text copyright © 2012 Jack D. Ferraiolo Book design by Chad W. Beckerman

  Published in 2012 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

  Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.

  115 West 18th Street

  New York, NY 10011

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  To Mom and Dad,

  who are probably still shocked that

  I turned out to be a writer . . .

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  stood out from the Monday morning hallway traffic like a gazelle in a herd of cows. She had big blue eyes and blond shoulder-length hair, carefully styled to look carelessly towel-dried. She was thin and athletic, and I’m pretty sure her legs would’ve kept going if the floor hadn’t been there to stop them. She was tapping her right foot, making the light blue miniskirt of her official Franklin Middle School cheerleading uniform bounce in a rhythm that hypnotized every age-appropriate male within four hundred yards. Her name was Melissa Scott. She was as close to a celebrity as you’d find at the Frank, and at the moment, she was leaning against my locker.

  “If you’re here for my school spirit, you can have it,” I said. “I haven’t used it in years.”

  She looked at me as if she couldn’t figure out why I was talking to her. Then it dawned on her. “Matt Stevens?” she asked.

  “You don’t know? I’ll try not to take that personally.”

  She pushed her back off my locker, and I could’ve sworn I heard the door sigh in disappointment. “You’re a detective, right?” she asked in a loud whisper.

  “I have my moments.”

  “I want to hire you.”

  “Sorry,” I said, “but none of my cheers rhyme and I look lousy in a skirt.” I opened my locker and put my jacket and bag inside. I was reaching for my first-period books when she grabbed me by the shoulder. She turned me to her and leaned in so that her face was barely an inch away from mine.

  “Please,” she said in the same loud whisper as before. Her breath smelled like a field of spearmint. She pulled away, scanning the hallway nervously. “I’m sorry I grabbed you.”

  “Don’t be. My social status just jumped a couple of levels.”

  “I’m so nervous. I don’t know what to do … He’s been acting so—” She stopped herself. “I want to hire you,” she repeated.

  “Yeah, you mentioned that. For anything in particular?”

  “I want you to follow my boyfriend, Will Atkins. He’s the captain of the basketball team.” As stressed as she was, I could tell she still enjoyed the fact that she could put “my boyfriend,” “Will Atkins,” and “captain of the basketball team” in the same sentence.

  “He’s been acting strange lately,” she whispered.

  “Well, listen … I’m touched that you thought of me, but I’m going to have to pass.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I don’t take cases that start with ‘I want you to follow my boyfriend.’ All the paths are rocky and lead to the same place.”

  She seemed to have no idea what I was talking about.

  “I hate to be the one to break this to you,” I said, “but there are other pretty girls at the Frank.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s not like that.”

  “Yeah, it never is … until it is. And then it’s exactly like that.”

  She leveled a gaze at me that I’m pretty sure left scorch marks on the lockers behind me. “You know those girls around here … who are sweet and prim and proper? The type of girl who could never, ever even imagine kissing a boy?”

  “Yeah?”

  She smiled and leaned into me, putting her mouth as close to my ear as she could without actually touching it. “Well, I’m the other type.”

  Her breath tickled, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. She pulled away from me, a high school smile on her seventh-grade face.

  “If you say so,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to keep my voice from cracking. “So, tell me what you mean by ‘acting strangely.’ Has he started wearing a gown and high heels to practice? Or is he just having a lot more arguments with his imaginary friend, Reggie?”

  “He’s been quiet,” she answered. “And nervous. And some days it looks like he hasn’t slept the night before.”

  “Maybe he’s worried about his crossover dribble. You want my advice? Ask him. Because if you hire me, I can only sneak around so much before I eventually ask him. You might as well cut out the middleman and save yourself a couple bucks.”

  “I did ask him. He said it was nothing.”

  “Well, there you go. Sounds like he and I agree.”

  “I’d like to be sure.”

  “How would you feel if you paid me and I didn’t find anything?” I asked.

  “I’d feel relieved!” she snipped. “How else would I feel?”

  “You’d be surprised how many people want something bad to happen, just so they can feel like they got their money’s worth.”

  “If you don’t want the job, I’ll find someone else,” she said, but she didn’t move. As far as bluffs go, it wasn’t a very good one.

  “I just want you to know what you’re getting into,” I said. “I don’t want to get to the end and have you start haggling over the price.”

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p; She laughed as if I’d just insulted her. “You’re not exactly going to break my bank.”

  “Shouldn’t you know my rate first before you decide that?”

  “Fine. What is it?”

  “Two-fifty a day, plus expenses,” I said.

  She reached into the waistband of her skirt, pulled out a five, and handed it to me. “Is this enough to start?”

  I nodded. I meant to say, “I haven’t said yes yet,” but nothing came out. She was handing me a five-dollar bill that had just been pressed against her stomach. There was no way I could speak.

  “There’s something else,” she said. The worry was back on her face. “He dropped by my house yesterday and gave me something to hold. He said he was watching it for a friend and felt that it would be safer with me.”

  “Why would it be safer with you?”

  “He tends to lose things.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. What’d he give you?”

  She thought about it for a moment and then said, “I can’t tell you.”

  “We’re not off to a great start here.”

  “He made me promise. It’s not his. He’s holding it for a friend, and … well, he was afraid that if word got around, someone might think it’s pretty valuable and try to take it.”

  “So he gave it to you to hold?” I asked. “Nice guy, setting his girlfriend up to get mugged.”

  “He said nobody knew he had it, so they’d have no idea that he gave it to me. He also said I was the only one he could trust.”

  And there it was: the trump card. After that, he could’ve asked her to walk through walls and she would’ve been banging into them all day. Now she was hiring me to join her.

  “Can you at least give me a hint?” I asked. “Is it something illegal?”

  “No, nothing like that! It’s just— It’s … a piece of wood. That’s all. No big deal.”

  “A piece of wood?”

  “Yeah, like a decorative—” She stopped herself. “I’ve already said too much. I’m afraid he’s gotten himself involved in something that’s way over his head, and this was his way of asking for help.”

  “I thought you said it was just a piece of wood, that it wasn’t a big deal.”

  “I—I’m not sure what to think anymore,” she replied. “That’s why I’m hiring you. I used to be friends with Nicole Finnegan, you know. Back in fifth grade. Before she worked for Vinny Biggs … I heard what you did for her.”

  “Which part?” I said. “The part where I inadvertently distracted her so she could get popped with a water cannon, or the part where I did nothing to help her escape the Outs?”

  “The part where you solved her case when no one else cared. The part where, despite the fact that she used to be a ruthless criminal, you found justice for her.”

  If she was aiming for my bull’s-eye, she had just hit it, dead-on. “So what would you be hiring me to do?” I asked after a moment’s pause. “Follow him or protect you? Because if he is in trouble and that piece of wood is in the middle of it, you’re the one in the hot seat now.”

  “I don’t care about me. I only care about Will.”

  “Great. That should make my job easier,” I said, and then added, “I need to see it.”

  “See what?”

  “Whatever it is you don’t want me to see.”

  She tensed up, then shifted the backpack on her shoulder. “I … uh … I don’t have it.”

  “Yes, you do. It’s in your bag. No point paying me if you’re not going to trust me.”

  She smiled. Her teeth were perfect, of course. “Okay.” She started to pull her backpack around to the front.

  I stopped her. “Whoa. Not now. We’re starting to draw enough attention as it is. Meet me in the alcove off the gym after lunch.”

  “I can’t. We have a last-minute practice before the game today.”

  “Okay. Then when?”

  “After the game,” she said.

  “Fine. And bring a friend if you still don’t trust me.”

  “I trust you.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “And it’s making me nervous.”

  you were taking a bunch of tests to determine whether you felt jealousy or not, tailing Will “Captain of the Basketball Team” Atkins would be the final exam. He was handsome, six inches taller than almost every other kid in school (but not in an awkward, gawky way), and full of the kind of confidence that comes when you’re constantly being reminded of how amazing you are. Everyone wanted to be his friend, including the principal and most of the teachers. He was a straight-A student, but I wouldn’t fault him if he kept flunking eighth grade on purpose, just so he could stay at the Frank forever.

  He was wearing a pair of jeans—the expensive kind that puts its brand name all over the pockets so that you’re never at the wrong angle to show people how much you spent on them. The light blue of his official Franklin Middle School basketball jersey (number 4) was the exact same shade as his eyes, making it seem like fate that he was our school’s basketball savior.

  Today was a game day, so class attendance for Will was encouraged but not really enforced. I could only watch him between classes, as my teachers weren’t offering me the same deal. But it didn’t matter. Tailing him was as challenging as tailing a school bus on a weekday morning. He couldn’t walk two steps without someone coming up to wish him good luck or talk to him about his “plan of attack” for the game that afternoon.

  I was looking for any strange or suspicious behavior, but since I had never really watched Will that closely, I had no idea what was strange for him. I was hoping for something obvious, like a sudden screaming fit, but no such luck.

  For a kid who could get away with whatever he wanted, Will was modest and approachable. He talked to everyone, regardless of their social status. In fact, he seemed to enjoy his conversations with geeks and nerds the most. He looked everyone in the eye as they spoke to him. He nodded and smiled, but in a way that indicated that he wasn’t just glad-handing; he was actually listening. His laugh was easy and genuine. And you could tell when someone paid him a compliment, because he’d turn bright red and look at his shoes. It appeared that the only person who didn’t buy into the hype of “Will the Legend” was Will himself.

  That’s not to say he didn’t have his share of quirky habits. As soon as he’d start walking, he’d start whistling, as if there was no way to do one without doing the other. It was always the same tune, something that sounded like a cross between “Happy Birthday” and “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Sometimes, when he was standing around, he’d hum it to himself, like a pep talk or a quiet prayer. He tapped his teeth when he was thinking, and snapped his fingers when he was restless … which was a lot of the time. Before he opened his locker, he’d knock on the door four times—the same number that was on the back of his jersey.

  None of this seemed suspicious to me. Quirky and superstitious, perhaps, but not suspicious. I’ve met a lot of athletes in my time, and all of them were superstitious in one way or another. I once played baseball with a kid who would tap the plate the same number of times as his jersey number. A couple of years ago, he wore the number 48. After a few twenty-minute at-bats, the coach made him switch to number 3. Everyone agreed it was the right thing to do.

  When lunch finally came, the only things I’d discovered about Will was that he was apparently one of the nicest kids in school and also that he was a pretty decent whistler. I also realized that I should’ve started watching him last year. It might’ve inspired me to play basketball, which seemed to drastically change the whole middle school experience. He definitely looked like he was having more fun than I was.

  By the time I entered the caf, lunch was already in full swing. I used some of my advance to buy whatever they were substituting for food that day, then found a seat two tables over from Melissa Scott.

  She and her friends were at their regular table, the top of which was covered with more makeup than food. She was trying to act casual, but
I sensed that her responses to her friends were forced, and her laughs were a few seconds late. She scanned the cafeteria. When she finally found me, she shot a clear “Well, what did you find out?” look my way. I returned it with a half-smile and a noncommittal headshake as if to say, “Not much.” Before she could volley back, a hulking eighth grader stepped into my sight line. I looked up at him and smiled. He smiled back. Another huge kid came up beside me and put a hand the size of a bear paw on my shoulder. “Mr. Biggs wants to talk to you,” he said in a surprisingly high, clear voice.

  “I’m honored,” I said. “What are the topics today? Renewable energy sources? The European economy? My favorite kind of pie?”

  The kid in front of me grabbed my tray. “You finished with this?” he asked as he slid it off the end of the table. It landed with a crash, spraying ground beef and mystery sauce all over the floor.

  “You know,” I said, “I get the feeling you didn’t actually care whether I was finished or not.”

  The kid behind me lifted me out of my seat. “Time to go.”

  “Well, now you’re just being rude,” I told him.

  He carried me through the cafeteria like a bag of garbage he was lugging to the sidewalk. No one looked over; they just kept going about their business.

  Vincent Biggio, a.k.a. Vinny Biggs, was the seventh-grade head of a criminal operation that controlled most of the illegal activities here in the Frank. He was sitting at a table in the corner with his back to the wall. You’d need a sledgehammer to sneak up on him. He was eating a plate of spaghetti so delicious-looking, I didn’t even need to check the cafeteria menu to know that he hadn’t gotten it there.

  The kid who was carrying me placed me back onto the floor, more gently than I expected. The other kid pulled the chair that was opposite Vinny out from under the table. He made an elegant gesture for me to sit down. I did. Vinny ignored me and brought a forkful of perfectly wound spaghetti up to his pudgy face. He chewed slowly, looking out over the caf as if he couldn’t see me sitting in front of him, like a farsighted king looking out over a courtyard full of subjects. He dabbed the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin.