Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash

After two years of sneaking up the fire escape and stealing down a hallway of old people’s apartments to get to my grandmother’s, you’d think I’d have it down. You’d think I’d know just where to duck and how to hide and what to say if some ornery old guy sees me tiptoeing down his hallway.
You’d think.
You’d also think I’d relax a little about living illegally in a seniors-only building. I mean, come on. I’m thirteen now, not some scared-to-death eleven-year-old worried about being tossed out onto the streets.
And the truth is, I was sort of used to it. I had started to relax a little. Slipping in and out of the apartment had become routine. The Senior Highrise was my home.
But then one night I was doing my usual sneak up the fire escape when something happened.
Something that had never happened before. And now I really know what it means to be scared to death.

ONE
Holly Janquell is one of my best friends, and she happens to live right across Broadway from the Senior Highrise in an apartment above the Pup Parlor. I love going over to the Pup Parlor. You never know what crazy canine creation you’ll find getting groomed there.
As far as the Pup Parlor humans go, you can expect to find either Meg or Vera, or both. Meg is Vera’s daughter, and they were both friends of mine way before they adopted Holly. Grams describes them as “salt of the earth,” but I don’t really get that expression. I just know that they’re hard working and kind and trustworthy. They put it together about me living with Grams back when the only other per son who knew was my friend Marissa. They never made a peep about it, either. They just minded their own business.
When I first met her, I thought Vera was, like, ninety. She’s got wrinkles galore, she’s missing teeth, and she’s wiry. Her forearms look like stretched-out, overroasted chicken legs. You know, where all the fat’s been burned away and what’s left are tendons, shrively muscles, wrinkly skin, and bones.
But I don’t think anyone who’s ninety could wrestle a bulldog into a bathing tank the way Vera does. It’s like seeing an Italian greyhound take down a mastiff. Those wiry arms go into action, and watch out! She’ll have a dog tubbed and sudsed before you can get across the shop to offer help.
Meg’s taller and stockier than her mom, but they let the world know they’re related by the way they do their hair. They both have pouffy poodle dos decorated with little clip on bows: red, pink, purple, polka-dotted…. They seem to have a different pair of bows for every day of the month.
I used to go hang out at the Pup Parlor just to kill time before going home, but now I go there because Holly lives there and it’s fun to do homework together or help around the shop.
This time, though, I hadn’t just dropped by. And, it being summer and all, I sure wasn’t there to do homework. This time I was there by official invitation.
Holly had called me at home Tuesday morning and said, “Hey! I’m inviting everyone over tonight to see pictures of our trip. Seven-thirty to nine-thirty. Can you come?”
I squinted at the phone. “You’ve got two hours of pictures?”
“No! It’s a party. We’re having pizza and salad, and dessert, too.” Then she laughed. “But Vera did get a new camera before the trip, so expect to be bombarded.”
I laughed, and after I cleared it with Grams, I said, “I’ll be there!”