temper so bad that he’d rather kill a man than
correct him. So whatever you do, watch what
you say or you could be shark chum.”
“Oh, my goodness,” says Emilio. “Then I’ll
let you do the talking.”
Which is wise.
Because as soon as we get to the dock, the
captain is running toward us.
“Hey, you’re that little kid who was vomit-
ing all day,” says Captain Largo Spargo.
“I was your co-captain on the voyage,” I
correct him. “But yes, it is I. And this time I’m
here on business.”
“Who’s your friend?” he asks, wiping his
brow with a small towel.
“My unpaid intern,” I answer.
Emilio just stares. “You’re Captain Largo
Spargo?” he asks.
“I don’t know who that is,” says the cap-
tain. “But my name is Bruce.”
“‘Bruce’ on land,” I whisper to Emilio.
“‘Largo Spargo’ at sea. Sailors have many
aliases.”
“Well, you look nothing like I expected,”
says Emilio.
“Yeah? Well, you caught me jogging today.
I’ve been doing it three times a week. Really
helps keep the old ticker strong. Plus, my cho-
lesterol is terrific.”
“Let me cut right to the chase,” I respect-
fully interject, not wishing to anger him.
“Okay, but do you mind following me to
that food cart across the street while you talk?”
says the grizzled sea captain. “I want to get a
bran muffin and some Greek yogurt.”
So we follow him to get a bran muffin.
“Captain, my life has been threatened,” I
explain as we walk. “By somebody who wants
me to stay away from the money. A captain’s
money.”
“Wow. Well, it’s sure not my money,” he
says, taking a bite from his bran muffin. “I
mean, I used to have money, back when I was
an organic farmer in Connecticut. But last
year I said good-bye to all that and put my sav-
ings into this charter fishing boat here in—”
“So which one is fake?” interrupts Emilio,
staring at the captain’s legs. “The peg leg, I
mean. Which one is it?”
“Peg leg?” answers the captain, glancing
down at his sweaty thighs. “What are you talk-
ing about?”
“Well, Timmy was saying—”
“Never mind what I was saying!” I admon-
ish my intern. “The captain here doesn’t have
time for your landlubber buffoonery. Are you
trying to irritate him?”
“Oh, God,” says Emilio, clasping his hands
together. “Please don’t make me shark chum.”
“Shark chum?” says the captain. “Listen,
I don’t want to hurry you two, but if you have
something to say, you might want to say it
quickly. I’m attending a poetry reading at Key
West Books in about fifteen minutes and I still
have to shower.”
“I know that store well,” I tell the ancient
mariner. “I did a very successful book signing
there.”
“On the sidewalk,” adds Emilio. “We were
trespassing. And we didn’t sell books. We sold
a table. A table we didn’t own.”
“DEMERIT!” I yell at my unpaid intern.
“Listen, kids, I gotta go,” says the captain
as Emilio makes an X in his notebook. “Maybe
we can talk some other time.”
“Wait!” I say as he recedes down the pier.
“What?” he asks, turning around.
“Captain, there is treasure somewhere
around this island,” I say, cool as a red snap-
per on ice. “It is large. Large enough to be
worth threatening the life of a detective. And it
belongs to a captain. A member of your noble
profession who threatens to bring dishonor
upon you all. Take me to that treasure, and I
shall give you half.”
The captain swallows a spoonful of yogurt
and dabs the corners of his mouth with a tiny
napkin.
“Listen, kids, I own a charter fishing boat,”
he says. “If you want to go fishing on that boat,
it’s two hundred a person. If you don’t, that’s
fine, too. Either way, I have a poetry reading to
attend. And I’d like to smell fresh and clean.”
He throws his yogurt cup into the recy-
cling bin.
“Always recycle,” he adds.
Emilio watches him jog off and turns back
toward me.
“I’m so glad he didn’t stab us.”
We must raise four hundred dollars to go on
Largo Spargo’s fishing boat.
And fast.
So I print fifty more copies of my best-
seller, Timmy Failure’s Wisdom-Filled Guide
for the Uneducated People Who Don’t Know
Very Much, now updated with bonus material:
“You can’t have the answer be someone
who wasn’t mentioned in the answers,” says
Emilio.
“Emilio, the public understands my genius,
even if you do not. So do not attempt to edit or
modify my work. For genius like this cannot
be corralled. It is like a runaway donkey.”
“Yes, well, your donkey has not sold a
single book and we’ve been sitting in front of
this bookstore for thirty minutes and I just
know they are gonna come outside and arrest
us both for trespassing.”
“You are very excitable,” I tell him. “It’s a
profound character flaw. Perhaps you should
try yoga.”
“And I’m sorry,” Emilio adds, “but why’d
you have to bring those lamps? There’s not
even a place to plug them in.”
“Because they lend an air of dignity to
our retail establishment,” I reply. “You should
know that as my promotional manager.”
It is a stinging rebuke.
But a fair one.
For a few minutes later, we have our first
customer.
And another successful book signing.
“Honey, I’m trying to read, but I can’t,” says
Doorman Dave from the bedroom next to mine.
“Isn’t there a light in this room?”
“Yes, the one on your nightstand,” replies
my mother from the kitchen.
“Yeah, well, I’m not blind,” says Doorman
Dave. “It’s not there.”
“It was there yesterday,” says my mother.
“Oh, good gosh,” I cry out, stomping into
the hallway. “How do you expect a world-class
detective to concentrate with all this mundane
chatter? Emilio and I are in the midst of a crit-
ical investigation.”
“Then go somewhere else and do it,” says
Doorman Dave from the bedroom. “This is my
honeymoon. I’m allowed to talk.”
I walk into the kitchen and stare at my
mother.
“Look what you’ve wrought,” I tell her.
“Go outside and play,” she tells me. “You
two have been cooped up in the
re for too long
anyway.”
“I do not play—I work,” I remind her.
“Must you disturb and insult me?”
“Then go outside and work,” she answers.
Which is easy for her to say.
For she is not the one whose Super-Hidden
Global Headquarters has been compromised.
So Emilio and I leave the house and sneak
carefully through the dusk-lit alleys of Key
West until we reach the most heavily fortified
spot on the island.
“What is this?” asks Emilio.
“Fort Taylor,” I answer. “An old military
fort. And shockingly, no longer in use. So I
hereby commandeer it for police use.”
“I’m not sure we can do that,” says Emilio.
“I think it’s against the law.”
“We are the law,” I remind my timid fort-
mate. “And the best part is that no one can
sneak up on us here.”
“Why is that?” asks Emilio.
“Big Bertha,” I answer.
“We cannot fire a cannon at Key West
vacationers,” says Emilio.
“Of course not,” I say. “So we start with a
warning shot.”
“Can we go home now?” asks Emilio. “It’s
getting dark.”
“Not until we figure out who’s writing us
those notes. I have a long list of suspects.”
“Well, I hope I’m not on it.”
“You’re not,” I assure him.
“Can I see it?” he asks.
“Sure,” I answer.
“I’m every name on the list,” says Emilio.
“That might be a typo,” I answer.
“That doesn’t seem likely.”
“Yes, well, forgive me. My Arctic secretary
has fled to Cuba, and I’m not good at typing.
There are more suspects on the other page.”
“What man in the white cap?” asks Emilio.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I just always
list him.”
“What about Bruce?” asks Emilio.
“Who the heck is that?”
“Captain Largo Spargo,” he says.
“Oh, him. Can’t be him.”
“Why not?”
“He likes bran muffins.”
“So?”
“So that means he’s a good person.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Because you know nothing about detec-
tive work.”
“Fine. Then maybe it’s Uncle Dave,” says
Emilio. “Because I know for a fact that he
doesn’t like bran muffins.”
“Absurd,” I cry.
“Why is that absurd?”
“Because Dave wants me to like him.
Badly. And he knows that if he committed
such an evil deed, I would curse his name to
the heavens forevermore.”
And with that, I look to the heavens.
And see a plane, high out over the ocean,
skywriting.
It is my polar bear, no doubt seeking to
make amends for his prior behavior.
And I am suddenly reassured.
And then less assured.
And then even less assured.
It is getting dark as we walk home. And the
walk is long.
“Let’s cut through the old Key West cem-
etery,” I tell my unpaid intern. “It will shave a
couple blocks off the walk.”
Emilio stares at the headstones, many of
them old and crumbling.
“C’mon,” I say as he stops at the entrance.
But he doesn’t move.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid again,” I tell
him. “These people are dead, Emilio. It’s not
like they’re gonna rise from the grave.”
“I’m not going in there, Timmy.”
“Emilio Empanada, you can’t be afraid of
everything in life. It’s annoying. And it looks
very bad on a job application.”
“I don’t care,” he says. “I just want to go
home.”
So I climb onto one of the old headstones,
marked WILSON.
“Fear must never hold a detective back,” I
remind my unpaid intern.
But he doesn’t answer.
“Because,” I continue, “as that famous
quote says, ‘If you are determined to succeed
in life, nothing can stop you. Except maybe a
truck.’ ”
I look around at the graves below me.
“Which may have hit some of these people.”
My inspirational speech over, I glance
back at Emilio.
But he is not there.
For he is already halfway home.
And as I begin climbing back down from
the headstone, I feel a stirring from deep inside
the tomb.
Someone rising from the grave.
And it is not Wilson. But an iguana.
And I leave to join my intern.
“What do you mean we can’t go on the boat?” I
yell at Largo Spargo as the sun peeks over the
horizon. “My intern and I got up very early
for this!”
“Well, first off, you only have a hundred
“That was all the lamps we could sell,”
replies Emilio. “Er, books, I mean.”
“And second,” the captain continues, “you
two are kids. You can’t come onto the boat
without a parent or guardian.”
“We can’t bring a parent!” I object. “That
would compromise the integrity of our whole
investigation! And besides, you never said any-
thing about bringing a parent when we talked
to you last time!”
“Sorry,” says the captain as he unties his
boat from the pier. “I figured you knew.”
“Now what are we supposed to do?” asks
Emilio.
So I contemplate what we can do.
“Something legal we can do,” adds Emilio.
“Well, in that case, my plan is different,”
I answer.
“What is it?”
“We can start digging.”
“Why do we have to dig so deep?” asks Emilio
Empanada. “I’m tired. And I want to go swim-
ming with Dinky Duck.”
So I squeeze the life out of Dinky Duck.
“You have to blow that back up,” says
Emilio.
“Fine,” I answer. “When we’re done.”
“When are we done?”
“When we find it.”
“When we find what?”
“When we find the treasure!” I snap.
“We’re never gonna find treasure.”
I throw my shovel to the ground and pull
Emilio close.
“Emilio Empanada, there is treasure
somewhere on this island. A whole lot of it.
So much so that some captain wants to kill me
over it. Now it may be in the water or it may
be on land. But wherever it is, we are going to
find it and stash it all in our new super-hidden
global headquarters!”
“Fort Taylor?” asks Doorman Dave.
“Is there no privacy on this island?!” I cry.
“Sorry,” says Dave. “It’s just that I saw
you guys walking there. You can see it from
our house.”
“That does it,” I announce. “We’r
e mov-
ing our headquarters to Cuba. Emilio, start
swimming.”
Emilio starts swimming.
“Come back here,” says Dave.
Emilio comes back here.
“You boys need to stop digging for a min-
ute and have some lunch. I bought you both
some Cubano sandwiches. Pork and ham on
pressed bread. Delicious.”
“Sounds wonderful,” says Emilio, tucking
a paper napkin into the top of his bathing suit.
“I have digging to do,” I answer. “And
I can get all the Cubano sandwiches I want
when I get to Cuba. That is, if there’s any food
left.”
“You’d leave Key West and give up on the
captain’s treasure here?” asks Dave.
I stare at him, dumbfounded.
“Sorry,” he says. “You talk loud.”
“First off,” I answer, “I deny everything.
Second, my agency’s business is none of your
concern, Dave. And third, we may have to
shoot you.”
“It’s not personal,” adds Emilio, patting
Dave on the back. “It’s just that it’s top secret.”
“I understand,” says Doorman Dave. “I
just thought that if you were looking for trea-
sure, you’d want to know about Captain Tuft.
Or maybe you already do. It’s a pretty well-
known story around here.”
I toss my shovel to the side.
“If this is a ruse, you are doomed,” I tell
him.
“It’s no ruse,” says Dave.
“Then begin speaking,” I tell him. “But
remember, your fate may hang in the balance.”
“Well, there’s not much to say, really,”
explains Dave, pouring fried plantains onto
his paper plate. “Atticus Tuft was a famous