“An undercover operation,” said Riley. “That’s way more interesting than a stakeout.”
Spoke and Rim was a secondhand-bike shop in an older area on the other side of Battersby Street. Brightly colored storefronts stood next to buildings with peeling paint and drooping hedges. The way I saw it, it was the perfect place for an operation dealing in stolen bikes.
“We’re not going undercover. That would mean working here,” I told Riley. “We’re just a couple of customers doing a little extra snooping around.”
“Close enough,” said Riley.
He locked The Flame to a No Parking sign near the front of the store. He was using his brother’s double-deadbolt Krpytoloc—a zillion times better than his old lock. Safe.
The bike store must have been a gas station and car garage a million years ago. On the left side was a small area with windows where the till and office were, along with a few posters and a couple of fancy new bikes. On the right was a larger area that would have been used by car mechanics but had been turned into the shop itself.
There were wide doors front and back, and inside was a cool cement cave. It was hard to see at first, but all my other senses knew where we were. Smells of oil and rubber. The clink of tools. The whir of a chain being freewheeled and a soft click as it smoothly slipped from one gear to another.
Gradually, objects grew out of the shadows—a workbench, scattered tools, bikes partly assembled…or partly disassembled. It was hard to tell which. There were two men working in the shop but no other customers. The secondhand bikes were along the far wall. All kinds. All sizes. That’s where we headed.
“Look them over really carefully,” I whispered to Riley. “They might have decals or spray paint to disguise them. Or parts switched up. Like the neat seat you had on your bike switched over to a different bike entirely or—”
A gruff voice interrupted.
“Forget it. We stay away from that kind of business.”
Riley and I jumped about a foot. An older man was standing behind us, wiping his hands on a rag. He wasn’t pleased.
“I don’t deal in stolen bikes. Or parts from stolen bikes.”
“We don’t mean on purpose,” said Riley. “But you might get fooled sometimes by someone else who brings one in.”
It was pretty fast thinking on Riley’s part, but the man wasn’t impressed.
“Nope,” he growled. “I’m the owner, and we don’t deal in stolen bikes.”
He pocketed the rag and gestured to the tall skinny guy who was working at the bench along the other wall.
“That’s why I hired Sammy. Sammy can smell funny business a mile away.”
The skinny guy looked up at us and grinned. He was missing a couple of front teeth, which gave him a jagged smile, kind of like a jack-o’-lantern. Creepy.
“Should be able to,” he said. “I stole enough of them in my time.”
“That’s awful!” I said, the words flying out before I could stop them.
Sammy laughed. It was an evil laugh that echoed on the cement. Riley and I looked at each other. Who was this guy?
“Don’t sweat it,” said the older man. “Sammy likes to put on a show, but he’s come over from the dark side. Whose bike got stolen?”
“Mine,” said Riley and I together.
This time, Sammy’s laugh was even wilder. The owner turned to him.
“Aren’t you due for a coffee break?” he suggested.
Sammy shrugged, picked up something from the shelf behind him and headed out the door.
“Okay,” said the owner. “Let’s look on the bright side. You’re angry now, but this can be an opportunity. You’re going to need new bikes. I’ve got some great secondhand ones at good prices.”
I shook my head. I’d have to save birthday money, Christmas money and maybe get a paper route. But Riley’s eyes lit up. If the posters didn’t work, he was hoping the insurance would come through.
Bikes with a zillion gears. Bikes made of fancy metal. Riley began to get really interested in one with super shocks. I could feel myself getting peeved at him. Getting a new bike didn’t make the stolen part right! What about our old bikes? They weren’t fancy, but they were great anyway! I liked my bike. I wanted it back!
Settle down, I told myself. It wasn’t Riley’s fault that insurance doesn’t cover bikes that aren’t locked—not that we had bike insurance anyway.
I followed them around. The old guy really did know a lot about bikes. He liked them too. You could tell. He talked about gear ratios, fancy metals, cables and brakes. It was all interesting, but after a while it was kind of hard to concentrate. It’s not like I could actually buy one. I started to lag behind. That’s when I began to think more clearly.
Why were we trusting someone just because he was old, friendly and liked bikes? Maybe our bikes were here, hidden somewhere that we didn’t know about. And what about Sammy? Had he really reformed?
That’s when I spotted him coming back inside. He was carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a bike in the other. It was a small red bike with bright tongues of yellow and orange fire.
“Riley!” I called.
“What’s u—” began Riley.
He stopped mid-sentence as he realized why I’d called him.
“Don’t look so surprised,” said Sammy. “You guys should be used to your bikes being stolen by now.”
He lifted The Flame to the holder on the bench.
“This bike needs a tune-up. Who’s got the key?”
The lock was still intact and still on the bike. The bike was still in one piece. Everything was the way we’d left it—except that it wasn’t fastened to the sign post outside anymore.
“But…” I began.
“How…?” began Riley.
Sammy reached to the shelf to return the object he’d taken earlier. I could see now that it was a wrench, a larger wrench than anyone would use for a bike.
And then I heard a strange wheezing sound behind me. I turned. The owner’s shoulders were shaking as he tried to hold back the laughter, and tears had started to run down his face.
“You kids,” he wheezed. “You kids make it way too easy.”