Fish Finelli Book 1: Seagulls Don't Eat Pickles (6 page)

“The point is,” continued Roger, “whoever spots the suspects should alert the other members of the team.”

We pulled out our walkie-talkies and flipped the switches to ON.

“Hey, what about me?” said T. J., pieces of Cracker Jack shooting out of his mouth.

Roger’s eyes lit up. “I know. Blow the duck whistle. You’ve got it, right?”

T. J. nodded and pulled out the yellow plastic whistle. It looked kinda like a kazoo.

“Just blow it if you see Mystery Man and we’ll come,” I said. Then I handed T. J. my clipboard and pen. “Here. Write down everything you hear. It’s important, okay?”

T. J. nodded. He bent his head over the clipboard and started to write.

“What are you writing?” I asked.

“Everything you said,” said T. J.

“You’re not supposed to write what
I
say.”

“But you said to write everything important. And what you said is important, right?”

“No,” I began.

“But you said it was.”

“Yes, it is, but that’s not . . . ”

Roger and T. J. laughed. “T. J. got you good,” Roger said.

T. J. winked at me. I shook my head, but I had to admit it: He got me. T. J. is way smarter than he sometimes acts.

“Time to move out, men!” said Roger. He held up a hand, pinky out. T. J. and I held ours out, too. We all hooked pinkies. Then we did our secret handshake. And said our secret password: “S.D.E.P.” And we bumped fists again.

In case you were wondering, S.D.E.P. stands for “Seagulls Don’t Eat Pickles.” It’s been our password since second grade, after Summer got mad at Roger and told everyone in school our old password. Okay, I’ll tell you, too—it was A.N.T. (Alien Ninja Turkeys—I know, totally lame, but we were little kids.)

I headed down the main trail. I tried to walk quietly, but every twig that crunched sounded as loud as my Uncle Norman’s motorcycle when it backfires. I kept glancing over my shoulder, but there was no one there. I walked over a footbridge. On the other side were some benches. A perfect spot for a clandestine
(spy word for secret)
meeting. I crouched behind a bush. Then I moved slowly toward the clearing.

I stopped and listened. I didn’t hear anything except the pounding of my own heart. And when I looked up, there was no one there, not even a duck.

I recrossed the bridge back to the main trail. I was about to take the path to the right when my walkie-talkie crackled.

“Mayday! Mayday!” came Roger’s staticky voice. “They’ve got me surrounded! There’s no way out!”

Duck, Duck, Goose–Pooped!

"Roger!” I said into my walkie-talkie.

There was no answer.

“Roger!”

“Sorry,” said Roger. “My walkie-talkie got pooped.”

“Ew!” Goose poop seriously puts the
N
in nasty.

“Listen, Fish, I need help A.S.A.P. They won’t leave me alone. And they look real hungry.”

He couldn’t mean Mystery Man and his partner—or could he? But hungry for what? Roger? No way. Mystery Man might be a spy, but he was no cannibal. “Who?”

“Get away from me!”

“Who has you surrounded? Who looks hungry?” I yelled into the walkie-talkie.

Seconds passed. And then, “The mutants.”

Oh, no!
The mutants. Roger’s hand was going to be chomped off. His blood and guts would be scattered all over. I had to help him!

“Where are you?”

There was no answer. Just static.

“Roger!”

Still nothing. I didn’t know if I was sweating from panic or from T. J.’s dad’s camo gear.

I turned back the way I had come. If Roger was somewhere east, that would be to my left, since now I was going south instead of north.

“Roger, can you give me your coordinates?” I asked.

Nothing.

I hurried along, hoping Roger was okay. I was just rounding the next bend when I heard a rustling sound. I paused, listening.

SWISH! THUD! SWISH! THUD!

Someone was walking down the path just across from me. I couldn’t see who it was unless I crossed over the central trail. If I did, I would be changing course and going west when Roger was somewhere in the opposite direction.It would just take a minute.

I darted across the trail. SWOOSH! THUD! I hunkered down so my head was level with the duckweed. I crawl-walked forward. I couldn’t see anyone, but the footsteps were getting closer.

I hurried around the next bend and ducked behind a beech tree.
Aha!
There was someone in the shadows. I pulled out the binoculars to get a better look, but they didn’t help. Whoever it was just looked like a bigger black blob. Something about the bulky shape made me think it was a man, though. He was definitely slowing down. He seemed to be heading for the bench just over the bridge.

SQUISH! SWOOSH! SQUISH!

The man stopped suddenly. “
Zut!
” exclaimed a deep voice.

My eyes almost popped out of my head. I knew that deep voice. It belonged to Mystery Man. And even though I didn’t know what
Zut
meant, it sounded like some cool foreign word you would say if you had just been pooped. I guess no one told him about the geese.

Mystery Man knocked his pooped shoe against a tree, but goose poop has similar properties to rubber cement. The more you rub it, the more it sticks. He started hopping around to try to get it off. I had to hold my breath so I wouldn’t laugh.

“Of all the vile substances,” I heard Mystery Man angrily mutter.

A minute later, he headed across the bridge. I waited until he sat down on the bench. I inched my way after him. I noticed there was a tree behind the bench and wondered if I could hide behind it.

I was staring at the tree when my eye was caught by something white. I squinted. That’s when I saw there was a hand holding the white thing. The hand belonged to a person who was sitting in the tree. I blinked and looked again, but how many red-headed boys could there be at the duck pond at 7:30 at night?

It was T. J. all right! The white thing was the paper in the clipboard.

I edged closer and stopped right by the bridge. Just then Mystery Man stood and waved to someone out of sight on the other side of the tree. I had a feeling it was his partner!
Oh, man!

At that moment, my walkie-talkie crackled to life. “Abort mission! Do you read?” said Roger.

I ducked down so the grass would muffle the sound.

“Read and copy,” I said. There was no time to ask how he’d gotten rid of the mutants. I was just glad he was okay. I whispered to him what was going on, and gave him directions.

I had to figure out how to get to the tree before T. J. blew the duck whistle. If he did, I was afraid Mystery Man would look up and see him.

I lay down on my belly and inched along the muddy trail. I was eyeball to eyeball with goose poop. It was everywhere. Poop smooshed under my legs and arms. Some even got on my nose. The smell was so bad, I gagged. I could feel the hot dogs and beans I had for dinner on their way back up. I swallowed hard.

EMU

The emu is the largest bird native to Australia. It is brown and flightless and stands up to 6½ feet tall.

“Did you see that?” Mystery Man said. “There’s an animal on the bridge.”

My heart started pounding. I lay still, trying not to breathe.

“No, it was much bigger than a duck,” he went on. “It was the size of an emu.”

I lifted my head slowly. Mystery Man was still standing and staring my way.

Uh-oh!
I had to hide. But where? I couldn’t get up and sprint for the trees. They would see me for sure.

That left only one option—the water. The mucky, yucky to the millionth degree water. I held my nose, and slid off the bridge and into the pond. If getting pooped was 9¾ on a scale of 1 to 10 of nasty, wading through the pond was 10 to the 10th power
(10 billion, in case you don’t know how to calculate exponents)
.

Slimy stuff coated my legs and arms. I tried hard not to think of just how many ducks had been you-know-what’ing in the water. Plus, there were the moldy scraps of bread that floated by and all the pond scum.

When I reached the other side, I pulled myself up. I took a deep breath of fresh air.
Phew!

Mystery Man was sitting down again, looking the other way. I scrambled up the bank. Then I crouched down and began to work my way to the tree, my eyes on Mystery Man.

I was halfway there when he suddenly stood up. He handed something to his partner. Something flat and rectangular. The map! It had to be! If only I could hear what they were saying. I sure hoped T. J. was taking good notes.

I was almost at the tree and I just had to signal T. J. I looked up and saw a flash of white. T. J. was moving his arm. He was holding something up to his mouth.
Oh, no!
It was the duck whistle.

I had to stop him. I stood up and waved my arms. Then I ducked back down so Mystery Man wouldn’t see me.

Don’t blow it!
I thought hard at T. J. But it was no use. The next instant the loudest-ever QUACK-QUACK-QUACKING filled the air. The sound of flapping wings and the calls of hundreds of ducks echoed through the trees. Ducks flew, swam, and swarmed to our part of the pond. Water churned. Feathers flew. It must have been the party call, because I’ve never seen so many ducks in one place in my life.

It was the end of our stakeout. Mystery Man and his partner hurried off. They had to leave; with all the noise and approaching ducks, no one could hear themselves think, let alone talk. They fled west, so I never even got a tiny peek at his partner.

“Hey,” said Roger, coming up behind me. “What’s going on?”

I nodded my head at the tree. “T. J. blew the duck whistle.”

“Wow!” said T. J., landing with a thud beside us. “The package said it was the feeding call. Guess those ducks were hungry for a midnight snack.”

I sighed. “Well, this stakeout sure stank.”

“Not as much as you do, dude,” said Roger. He held his nose as he stared at me.

“Yeah, Fish, what happened to you?” said T. J.

I glared at both of them as I tried to wring the water out of Mr. Mahoney’s dripping-wet thermal. “Will you guys knock it off?! Way worse than how I smell is how messed up this stakeout was.”

“Whaddya mean?” said T. J. “I wrote down all the import-ant stuff, just like you told me.”

“You did?” I said in surprise. “Let me see.”

T. J. handed me the clipboard. There were tic-tac-toe games all over the page.

“What does tic-tac-toe have to do with anything?”

“Sorry. Wrong page. I won every game, in case you were wondering.” T. J. grinned and grabbed back the clipboard. He flipped the pages.

T. J. had drawn a jaggedy circle with a square in the middle. There was a skull and crossbones on top of the square. And the only two words he had written made no sense at all . . . MUNCH EGGS.

“Munch eggs?! What does that mean?”

“Scrambled, sunny-side up, hard-boiled, fried,” joked Roger. “Just a few of the many ways I like to munch my eggs. Oh, and how could I forget my favorite—egg salad.”

“T. J., what’s this about?” I asked.

“Simple. Mystery Man is looking for a treasure chest with a skull and crossbones on it that’s on some island called Munch Eggs. I thought I drew the island pretty good.”