Boardwalk Bust Page 6

  * * *

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Mary Fleming

  Hometown: New York, NY

  Physical description: Age 37,5′7″, 125 lbs., frosted blonde hair, elegant looks, expensive clothes and shoes.

  Occupation: Businesswoman

  Background: Grew up on Park Avenue, moved to the shore after her divorce. No children. Owns her own business and a house on the beach in nearby Avalon, as well as an apartment in the city where she stays in the winter. Devoted to her business and to making it grow. Drives a hard bargain.

  Suspicious behavior: Knows her own security system. A calculating mind and very expensive taste.

  Possible motives: Need or greed—insurance payments can come in very handy.

  * * *

  “What? Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know—but there could be a reason. All I know is, there’s something about Mary Fleming that I don’t like.”

  9. X Marks the Spot

  Joe is totally nuts, okay?

  I don’t know, I must have been looking good that week, but for some reason I’d been getting a lot of attention from girls—and women.

  And Joe, who now had two—not one, but two—black eyes, was getting more and more jealous by the minute.

  I mean, take that poor woman, Mary Fleming. He kept insisting she was some kind of dangerous criminal.

  In the past he’d often been right about these hunches of his. But I think this time his black eyes had him seeing things that weren’t there.

  We got over to the pier in about five minutes. Most of it was enclosed, and from outside I didn’t see any tattoo parlor signs.

  “Let’s have a look inside,” I said.

  We did, and we were immediately hit by a wave of noise—dings and rings and blowing horns, and hundreds of human voices, shouting, screaming, laughing. There was the smells of popcorn, saltwater taffy, cotton candy, sunscreen, and people—the good, the bad, and the ugly.

  “Hey, Frank, check it out!” Joe said, nudging me and pointing to a sign that read: SOLLY’S SIDESHOW FREAKS. “I’ve gotta see the sword-swallower—and the bearded lady, too!”

  “Later, Joe,” I said. “First we talk to Ricardo, okay?”

  But Joe was already buying our tickets. He’s just too fast for me.

  So we went inside, and there were all the freaks and geeks: a guy maybe five feet tall who must have weighed about 800 pounds; a lady with a long beard that looked real and hung down to her belly button; a guy eating fire and swallowing swords; a lady with (if you believed her—and I did) over 500 piercings.

  Then I noticed the tattooed man. “I bet he can tell us where to find Ricardo Myers.”

  I wandered over to the guy. He was busy making muscleman poses so people could snap his picture. His face was covered with tattooed spider webs, and he was in shorts, so everyone could see that his whole body was totally covered with tattoos.

  “Wanna take a picture?” he asked me when I reached the front of the little crowd that surrounded him.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “But can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, pal. Go ahead, shoot.”

  “Doesn’t it … hurt to get those?”

  He laughed. “No pain, no gain.”

  “Well, what if you wanted to get them removed?”

  “Why would I wanna do that?”

  I didn’t want to upset him, so I just shrugged. “No reason, I guess.”

  Especially if you like being a sideshow attraction.

  “Actually, I was thinking of getting a tattoo,” I lied. “But I want it done by somebody really good.”

  “Excellent idea,” he said. “Nothing worse than bad art you have to wear.”

  “I heard about this guy, Ricardo Myers? He’s supposed to be good. You know him?”

  Tattoo Man smiled and pointed to his face. “He did my spidey-web.”

  “Cool!” I said. “Know where I can find him?”

  “Sure—all the way out on the pier. Place called Rat-a-Tattoo.”

  Oh yeah—we’d seen that place.

  “Thanks!” I said. “Um, keep up the good work!”

  I flashed him a thumbs-up and got out of there before I said anything else that would get me into trouble.

  “Come on, Joe,” I said, dragging him away from the bearded lady. “Let’s go find Ricardo.”

  Rat-a-Tattoo had a psychedelic-style sign above its entrance and a crowd of tattooed and pierced kids hanging out in front.

  “Excuse us,” I said as we made our way past them. “Coming through.”

  They stared at us like we were from the moon. A few of them smiled and laughed, thinking we were here to get our first tattoo or piercing.

  Inside, we looked around. There were sample drawings hanging from all the walls. You could pick any of these for your tattoo, or bring your own drawing. In the center of the store were cases of rings and pins to stick through whatever hole you had the guys behind the counter poke in you.

  There was a curtained doorway, behind which the actual “procedures” were being done, judging by the howls of pain that were coming from back there.

  Now, to find Ricardo Myers.

  Joe here. Frank can be a pretty cool guy, but sometimes he turns into something else.

  How should I put it? A geek? A nerd? A totally hopeless loser?

  Here we were, in this tattoo palace, surrounded by girls in halter tops that showed off their belly button rings.

  And Frank? He was standing there like a frozen yogurt on a stick. This girl was standing right in front of him. She had a tattoo of a shark on her stomach, and she was rolling her belly at him so the shark seemed to swim.

  Man, I wished I could take off those shades of mine and introduce myself. Why, that week of all weeks, did I have to get stuck with two black eyes?

  I couldn’t take any more of this.

  I went over to a guy who was, according to the plastic tag on his shirt, the store manager. “That guy over there?” I whispered in his ear. “That’s my brother. He wants a nose ring, but he’s too shy to ask about it.”

  “Cool,” said the guy, and went over to talk to Frank. I couldn’t hear what he said, but Frank looked at him like he was from Mars. Meanwhile, the girl with the shark tattoo moved on, giving up on Frank.

  Victory!

  “Hey, Frank, come on!” I said, playing like I was him and he was me. “We’ve got work to do!”

  Frank came over. “This place is giving me the creeps,” he said. “Let’s find Ricardo.”

  “He’s gotta be back there,” I said, indicating the curtain.

  Over it was a sign reading: EMPLOYEES ONLY. We waited for the manager to turn his back, then sneaked behind it.

  Back here, there were little cubicles on either side of a long, brightly lit room. In each cubicle someone was getting pierced or tattooed.

  Five of the workers were female. That left three possibilities, and two of them looked like they were at least fifty years old. Mary had said Ricardo was young.

  We tried the other guy, who was dressed in shorts and sandals but no shirt. He had a ponytail that hid the tattoo in the middle of his back, but I could see that it was some kind of snake wound around its prey.

  This guy was obviously not someone to be messed with.

  “Ricardo Myers?” Frank said.

  Snake Man looked right at him.

  “Who wants to know?”

  He left off what he was doing and said to his customer, “I’ll be right back.” Coming over to us, he said, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe.”

  “Yeah? So who sent you?”

  “Actually,” Frank said, “we’re looking into the break-in at The Shore Thing. We wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  “What are you, cops?”

  I could see that Ricardo was getting angry, but the steam wasn’t quite coming out of his ears yet.

  “Not cops, really,” Frank sai
d. “We’re sort of checking it out on our own. Turns out some people are saying you might be involved.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like who?”

  “Um, I’m not at liberty to say,” Frank told him.

  “That Fleming lady,” Ricardo said bitterly. “I hate that woman—she’s a snob, man. She thinks if you’re tough, you must be a criminal.”

  * * *

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Ricardo Myers

  Hometown: Newark, New Jersey

  Physical description: Age: 23, 5′7″, 160 lbs., hair in ponytail, several tattoos.

  Occupation: Tatto artist, may have mystery occupation on the side.

  Background: Grew up in the ’hood, spends summers at the shore. Considered a tattoo artist. Hurting for money, throws away whatever he has by betting it at Atlantic City. Hates rich people and snobs.

  Suspicious behavior: His hatred of Mary Fleming and his dread of cops.

  Suspected of: Jewel theft.

  Possible motives: Revenge on his ex-boss. Need to pay his debts (gamblers often owe lots of money to loan sharks).

  * * *

  “So … I guess it’s good she fired you, then?” I said.

  “Hey! Nobody fires me!” he snapped, grabbing me by the arm. He was so angry, and so strong, that I thought he was going to snap it right off. “Get it?”

  “I get it, I get it!” I said. I would have said anything right then, just to make him stop.

  Then, just as suddenly as he’d grabbed me, he relaxed his grip and let out a little laugh. “Yeah, man. I like it better here. I make my own hours. Plus I can express myself, y’know? Get into my art.”

  “How’s the pay?” Frank asked.

  Good question.

  “Stinks.” Ricardo’s smile vanished.

  “How do you get by, then?” Frank asked.

  Ricardo’s face got ugly in a hurry. “Bug off, okay? It’s none of your business how I get by. Mind your own business!”

  He gave Frank a shove that sent him into the wall, hard.

  Man, talk about mood swings! This guy needed medication, or some serious help.

  Frank stayed cool. He just worked out the kinks in his neck and said, “What I really want to ask you, Ricardo, is—”

  Just then, the manager lifted the curtain and saw us. “Hey! No customers back here!” he said.

  “Oh, sorry,” Frank told him. “We’re just going.”

  “Now!”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, getting between them to give Frank a little more time.

  “Here’s the question, Ricardo,” I heard him say behind me. “Who do you think did it?”

  “That’s easy. If you’re askin’ me, I say Mary did it herself.”

  “Mary?”

  “Yeah, man. I bet she ripped off those other two places, then knocked over her own store, just to make herself look innocent.”

  “Out! Now!” the manager yelled.

  “We’re going, we’re going!” I told him as he shoved us along. “Take it easy, dude. No harm, no foul, okay?”

  I heard Ricardo shouting after us. “Hey! If I’d ripped off two million bucks’ worth of bling, you think I’d be sitting here doing ankle tattoos for twenty a pop?”

  Good point.

  With a brief good-bye, we walked out of the shop and headed back down the pier.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked Frank.

  “Ricardo agrees with you about Mary Fleming. So maybe you’re right, Joe. I’ll tell you one thing, though—it’s hard to think when you’re hungry. Let’s get some lunch.”

  “I’m down with that. It’s one o’clock already.”

  We emerged onto the boardwalk and headed for the nearest hot dog stand. We put in our orders and were waiting for our Jersey-style Texas Wieners when we heard screams. Loud screams, coming from the beach.

  10. Buried Treasure

  At first we thought it might be somebody drowning, or maybe even a shark attack—a real one this time. But the people who were screaming weren’t even near the water. They were in the dry sand, gathered around in a big circle about five deep.

  It took us a while to push our way through, and the noise was deafening. Maybe there was a rock star in there, I thought. Poor guy—it sounded like they were tearing him to pieces.

  Then we got to the middle of the circle and saw what was really going on.

  There was this guy with a metal detector—a truly ugly guy, with hairy moles on his face, really bad teeth, and a scraggly beard.

  But that’s not what had everybody so crazed. They were screaming about what he was holding up in his hand: a huge diamond ring!

  People wanted to get close and see it—the find of a lifetime. They wanted to touch it; to fantasize that they were the ones who’d found it. Metal Detector Man let them get close, but he wouldn’t let anyone lay a hand on it.

  The crowd was growing, pushing in on us. The rumor must have been racing its way down the beach. Joe was shoved into me, and I banged into the guy on my left. And what do you know, it was Chuck Fatone, the lifeguard! Good thing he wasn’t paying attention to us.

  “Where’d you find it?” someone asked the lucky man.

  “You think I tell you where I find it?” he said in what seemed like an even thicker Russian accent than the taffy man’s, and he started laughing his head off.

  “I wonder why he told anyone in the first place,” I said to Joe. “You’d think he’d have kept it to himself.”

  “Maybe someone saw him pick it up,” Joe said.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet that’s what happened.”

  “Hey, Frank, I ran into that guy this morning,” Joe said. “I meant to tell you about him. He was messing up a really nice sand advertisement.”

  “A what?”

  “An ad drawn in the sand.”

  “What are you, kidding?”

  “Nope—somebody paid to have this ad done in the sand, and that dude messed it up on purpose.”

  “Hmmm …” I said. “That gives me an idea.”

  I went up to the guy and said, “Excuse me, sir, but I’m from the National Ad Agency, and—”

  “What you want?” the guy said in his thick accent.

  “This morning you defaced an advertisement of ours. You’re going to have to pay for the damage.”

  “I not pay nothing!”

  But before he knew what was happening, I’d snatched the ring from his hand and tossed it to Joe.

  “Get a quick look at it!” I yelled as the guy flew at me. “Memorize it, Joe!”

  “You not from advertising agency!” the angry Russian yelled, taking a swing at me. I got out of the way just in time. “You crook! Give me back diamond ring!”

  “Here you go, buddy,” Joe said, tossing the ring back to him. “Nice diamond—congratulations.”

  The guy snatched the ring out of the air and went to pick up his metal detector. Then he turned back to me. “If I see you again …” he said, and pretended to slit his throat with his finger.

  I got the message loud and clear. And hopefully, if Joe had gotten a good look at the ring, I wouldn’t need to bother him again.

  “Well?” I asked him as we backed away from the crowd.

  “About two karats, I’d guess. Brand new. And it had an inscription on the inside in cursive: ‘Melissa & Fred 4 ever.’ With the number 4.”

  “Good job, Joe.”

  “So you think it’s one of the stolen items?”

  “I don’t know, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find out. Come on.”

  “Where we going?”

  “Back to The Shore Thing.”

  “Why not check the other two places first?”

  “That was an expensive ring,” I said. “And The Shore Thing seems to specialize in pricey stuff.”

  Joe here. Mary Fleming didn’t seem happy to see us. Not until we told her about the ring on the beach. After that, she was all action. She checked in her inventory book, and then in her ledger of current orders.

/>   “Yes, here it is—it was scheduled to be picked up today. ‘Melissa & Fred 4 ever.’”

  “Whoever stole it must have dropped it,” Joe said.

  A reasonable guess, I had to agree. At that moment it occurred to me that the ring was found on the beach, right near the pier where Ricardo Myers worked.

  Hmmm …

  “Thanks, Ms. Fleming,” I said. “We’ll try to get the ring back for you.”

  “Thank you, boys!” she said, waving good-bye. “Thank you very much!”

  She seemed happy about it, which I took as a good sign. If she’d stolen her own stuff, it wasn’t likely she’d have dropped it on the beach, and it was even less likely that she’d be happy it was found.

  Ricardo Myers had tried as hard as he could to point the finger at her. I wondered what more was going on there. What did he really have against her—and how far had he gone to get even?

  We went back to the spot on the beach where the crowd had been. There was no sign of our ugly Russian friend with the metal detector.

  The crowd had broken up, but all along that part of the beach, people were on their knees, screaming and yelling.

  And digging.

  Not far from us, a large, dark-haired girl was gouging away with a beach shovel she must have stolen from some poor little kid.

  “Hey!” I called to her. “What’s going on?”

  She looked up at me, her eyes wide and wild.

  “You’d better start digging!” she said.

  “Digging for what?”

  She grinned from ear to ear. “So far they’ve found three diamond rings and a silver bracelet in the sand!”

  11. Gold Rush

  If you’ve never seen a whole crowd of people go crazy, let me tell you—it is an incredible sight.

  People on the beach were running in every direction. As soon as they found what they thought was a “lucky spot,” they dropped to their knees and started digging.

  Word must have been spreading, too, because more and more people kept coming down from the boardwalk to the beach. Some of them already had shovels or magnifying glasses. Everyone was screaming and shouting.