Fish Finelli (Book 2) Read online

  Si jumped on top of a cooler and held up a cardboard sign: CLAMS . . . $5 PER DOZEN.

  One of those big old Cadillacs from the 1960s with white-wall tires and pointy fins on the sides pulled up. A woman with a tall hairdo and lots of lipstick the same bright pink color as the car stuck her head out. “Yoo-hoo, boys! I’d like a dozen clams.”

  Si hopped off the cooler and popped the lid.

  “Get her a dozen,” said Mi, pointing at us.

  “We don’t work for you,” I said.

  “You want our help? Then you’ve got to help us.”

  Mi handed me a plastic bag and T. J., Roger, and I counted out twelve clams. They sure were slimy. We gave the bag to the lady. Mi came and took her five dollars.

  “So, are you going to hand over the Superman Special Shooter or not?” asked Mi.

  “C’mon, Fish,” said T. J. “It’ll be worth it. Just think of the Seagull.”

  “I don’t like it, but I think it’s the only way,” Roger whispered in my ear. “Hey, it’s just a marble.”

  The Superman Special Shooter wasn’t just a marble. It was an awesome collector marble from the 1950s. It was blue, yellow, and red—the colors of Superman. I had won it off Two O at the end of the school year. He supposedly got it from his grandpa, who won it off some kid when he was a kid. Two O’s real name is Owen Osborn, by the way, but everybody calls him Two O, even the principal.

  “Here.” I pulled the marble out of my pocket. “You going to take us to Eli now?”

  Mi held up the marble between his thumb and index finger, examining it in the sunlight. “Yep, a deal’s a deal. And the Clam Brothers always honor a deal.”

  Roger hopped on his bike. “Last one there’s a rotten banana!”

  T. J. and I helped Mi and Si load the clams onto their red wagon. By the time we got going, Roger was long gone. The Clam Brothers rode behind T. J. and me on an old two-seater bike, pulling the wagon.

  When we reached the marina, Roger was waiting for us in front of the office. He had a goofy smile on his face as he pointed to a poster advertising the Captain Kidd Classic—the oldest motorboat race in Whooping Hollow—circa 1933. There was a drawing on it of Captain Kidd looking like a real pirate, with a kerchief and a black hat on his head and a big gold earring in his ear, standing next to a treasure chest stuffed with jewels.

  Everybody thinks Captain Kidd was a pirate, but he was really a privateer hired to catch pirates. He didn’t look anything like that, either. I saw a picture of him at the library. He had long, lumpy white hair, kind of like George Washington, which I bet was really a wig.

  “And the winner is . . . da-da-da-da . . . the Fireball!” Roger bowed.

  I sure wished we would win. First prize for each age group was $100 and a silver cup. Uncle Norman and my dad won when they were my age. My dad still has the cup.

  “I would like to thank my family and everyone here at the marina for all of their support,” Roger went on in a loud voice.

  The docks were crowded. A bunch of people turned around to look.

  “Most of all I would like to thank my team—I couldn’t have done it without them,” Roger said. “Come on up here, boys. Take a bow. Don’t be shy.”

  “Roger!” I said. “Will you quit it?!”

  Roger put his arm around me. “See this boy, ladies and gentlemen.” More people turned. “This boy had a dream that one day he would have a boat and he stopped at nothing to make that dream a reality so he could enter the Captain—OOMPH!”

  I elbowed him hard as people laughed.

  “See you at the Classic!” said Roger. “May the best racers win!”

  Everyone laughed again and went back to what they were doing except for a tall, tanned man with silver-blond hair. He was dressed in a fancy suit and carrying a shiny leather briefcase. He was not smiling as he headed toward the marina office. We jumped out of the way as he flung open the door and strode inside.

  “I came here as soon as I got to town,” he said. “Where is the princess?”

  “Princess?” said Roger. “I didn’t know we had royalty in town.”

  We all shrugged.

  “I should never have trusted the princess with some local kid,” said the man in an angry voice.

  “Mr. de Quincy,” said Mr. Blue, the marina manager. “I’m sure Eli would only treat the princess with the utmost care and consideration. We can go check on her right now if you’d like.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Si, with a look at Mi.

  “We better go find Li,” said Mi.

  “He never said anything about a princess,” said Si.

  The Clam Brothers ran to a shed at the far end of the marina. We hurried after them. Inside we found someone dressed in a white jumpsuit, white gloves, goggles, and a mask. The person was sanding a small patch of cherry-red paint along the hull. The boat had a shiny wooden transom to match the shiny wooden cockpit; she was an awesome boat!

  BUZZ! BUZZ!

  “Li!” Mi and Si said over the pulsing of the sander. “Li!”

  Eli turned it off and pulled off his goggles.

  “What did you do with the princess?” Mi asked in a panicked voice.

  “Your boss is coming to look for her right now,” said Si. “You’re going to get it.”

  Eli laughed and patted the hull of the boat he was sanding. “Meet the princess, boys.”

  “The princess is a boat?!” said T. J. “Holy cow!”

  “She’s amazing,” I said.

  Eli nodded. “Princess powerboats are some of the finest ever made.”

  Just then we heard a voice. “Ah, here is the princess, Mr. de Quincy. I think you’ll find her in peak condition.”

  “Scram, guys,” said Eli. “Meet me on the back dock in ten.”

  We sneaked around the side of the boat. As we headed out the opposite end of the shed, I took one last look at the princess. She was the most beautiful boat I had ever seen. That’s when I noticed the name in gold cursive letters painted on the port side: Clementine.

  WHOA! Clementine, as in Clementine the girl whose backyard I had fallen into?!

  It had to be her. I mean, how many Clementines could there be in one little town? I remembered what she had said about someone caring more about a boat than about her. I bet Mr. de Quincy was her dad.

  We skipped stones while we waited. I thought I was good, but Mi could do six in a row every time.

  Finally, Eli jogged toward us. “So, what do you guys want?”

  “These guys need some help with a motor,” said Mi, nodding at us.

  “What kind of motor?”

  “A Seagull,” I said. “It’s a Silver Century Plus, from the seventies.”

  Eli whistled. “Wow! I’ve never seen one of those. Their propellers are legendary. Used to power light assault craft during the Second World War. Motor’s real quiet.”

  I nodded, although I had never actually heard the motor.

  “Does it run?”

  T. J., Roger, and I shook our heads.

  “If Li agrees to help, it’s going to cost you,” said Mi.

  Eli knocked Mi playfully on the arm. “This kid is all about business.”

  “So, first things first,” said Mi. “We need to agree on a price.”

  “The thing is, we don’t really have any money,” I said.

  “Are you kidding me?!” said Mi, throwing up his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  “That’s not exactly true,” said Roger. “We have nine dollars and sixty-three cents.”

  Mi laughed. “That’s less than we get for two dozen clams!”

  Eli looked from Mi to me and then out at the harbor, where a fishing boat was pulling up to the pier. On the deck a bunch of fish were flopping around in nets. “I have an idea,” said Eli. “How about you guys go clamming for me? If you can dig up my share of clams, I can use that time to work on your motor. It will be good experience for me.”

  “Really?”

  Eli nodded.


  “So, you guys find a hundred clams, and then Li will look at your motor,” said Mi. He pulled a pad and a pen out of his pocket and started making notes.

  “That’s way too many clams, Mi,” said Eli.

  “What about ninety?” said Si.

  “No, I think fifty would be good,” said Eli. “Deal?”

  I nodded. “The thing is, we also need to up the horsepower from five to nine point nine.”

  SEAGULL MOTOR

  Designed in 1931, the Marston Seagull was a low-horsepower motor that could run quietly nonstop for 24 hours. During World War II, the British used Seagull motors for light assault craft and to move platoons and build bridges across Europe during the Allies’ advance.

  “For the Classic, huh?”

  I nodded again.

  “If I bore out the cylinder, I can put in a bigger piston, and the extra space will allow more air and more gas into the combustion chamber.”

  “Huh?” said Roger, T. J., Mi, and Si.

  “More air and more gas equals more power.” I grinned at Eli.

  “Sounds expensive,” said Mi, making another note on his pad. “It’ll cost you more.”

  “No, it won’t,” said Eli. “Actually, I would love to experiment with a Seagull motor, since I’ve never worked on one before. Maybe I’ll change out the carburetor, too.”

  “So, that’s fifty clams by closing tomorrow night,” said Mi, making a note on his pad. “Then Li will look at your motor.”

  “You guys know how to clam?” asked Eli, smiling at us.

  “It takes some real skill,” said Mi. “And experience, of course. You gotta know how to sign.”

  Roger rubbed his chin with his fingers, as if he were deep in thought. “Not a problem. I think this is a sign that we’re all going to be happy as clams!”

  CLAM-DUNK!

  “T. J., Roger. It’s three o’clock, and low tide is at three twenty-five, so we need to get moving if we’re going to find a good spot before then.”

  “I’m telling you, clamming is a no-brainer,” Roger said, popping a wheelie down Sandy Lane.

  “Actually, it is true that bivalve mollusks like clams have no brains,” I said, balancing the bucket across my handlebars.

  “See, the little dummies will be easy to catch,” said Roger. “They don’t have the brain power to come up with a getaway plan.”

  It was the next day, and we were heading to Sandstone Cove to go clamming. We had stopped by the Captain’s to pick up some PFDs (Personal Flotation Devices). The Captain said Sandstone Cove was an excellent spot for clamming because nobody went there. You can’t beach a boat because the water’s too shallow and there’s no access from the road. He also said if we hit a SNAFU (Situation Normal All Fouled Up, in Navy speak), we should abort the mission. Sometimes the Captain thinks he’s still in the Navy.

  When we reached the end of Sandy Lane, the Sandstone Club loomed on the hill ahead of us. It was three stories with weathered gray shingles, a bunch of chimneys, and tall white columns. A long white-pebbled driveway curved up to it. Not a single white pebble was in the perfectly mowed, super green grass of the golf course that stretched out all around it. Mr. O, Two O’s dad, who is the golf course manager, made sure of that. As if just thinking about him made him appear, he putt-putted by in his Sandstone Club golf cart. We could tell it was him because it says manager on the side of the cart.

  “We’d better get going,” said Roger.

  T. J. and I nodded. Mr. O doesn’t like kids anywhere near his championship greens. Two O got mad at his dad one time and pogo-sticked right across the fairway. He was grounded for six whole months.

  We rode past the far edge of the course. I caught a glimpse of the tennis courts. I wondered if Clementine was there somewhere playing tennis. And if Bryce was with her.

  We kept riding south-southwest, according to the Captain’s directions. It only took a few minutes to spot the Lily Pond.

  “Okay, we need to go east now,” I said, turning right.

  There were no houses, no road, not even a trail. I pulled up to the edge of the weeds. Just past them I could see some scrubby trees and dune grass. T. J. and Roger pulled up beside me.

  “We’re going to have to leave our bikes here.” I wheeled mine into the weeds. I grabbed the bucket off the handlebars and the shovel I had stuck in the rack.

  T. J. opened up one of the bags hanging off the back of his bike. He pulled out a plastic, kiddy-sized rake, shovel, and hoe.

  “We’re clamming, dude,” I said. “Not gardening.”

  T. J. shrugged. “It was all I could find in the bathtub. I figured a rake’s a rake, right?”

  The bathtub is this gigantic old Jacuzzi tub in the Mahoneys’ garage, where T. J.’s mom makes his dad keep all of the stuff he picks up on carting jobs that he thinks is too useful to throw away. T. J.’s dad owns a waste-removal company called Mahoney’s Carting. All the trucks have a picture of a garbage can with gold and jewels coming out, with the slogan we treasure your trash written underneath.

  “Rog, you ready?” I asked.

  Roger peeked inside his backpack, smiled mysteriously, and zipped it up.

  “What you got, dude?” I asked.

  He just shook his head and smiled again.

  The three of us pushed through the weeds, past the scrub pine trees to a small strip of beach around a pond. To the side was a patch of cattails, just like the Captain had instructed. Cattails always grow by water. The Native Americans used to eat the bulbs and the stems.

  The deserted beach and Sandy Bay stretched out beyond.

  “Sweet!” said Roger. “Our own private beach.”

  “Time to clam, guys,” I said, leading the way to the cattails.

  Roger unzipped his backpack with a flourish. He whipped out a long, gray plastic tube that looked like a section of plumber’s pipe.

  “HI-YA!” He rammed the tube into the sand.

  “What are you doing with that pipe?” I asked.

  “That’s not a pipe,” said Roger. “It’s a gun.”

  “A gun?!”

  “Yep,” said Roger. “I’m clamming with it.”

  “You can’t clam with a gun!”

  “It’s a clam gun. I found it in the basement. My dad brought it back from Alaska when he went there to do a story about Alaskan sports.”

  “Clamming is a sport in Alaska?” I said.

  “Guess so.” Roger smiled, but his eyes looked sad. Roger’s dad is a sportswriter and he travels all over the world. He gives Roger the sickest stuff, like a Derek Jeter rookie card worth over $500 and a real New York Knicks basketball jersey and the newest-model skateboards. The thing is, since his parents’ divorce Roger hardly ever sees him. Even though Roger never says so, I know he misses his dad a lot.

  Roger pulled up the clam gun and took his finger off an airhole on the side. A bunch of sand shot out of the tube.

  “Get any clams?” said T. J.

  “Not yet. POW! POW! POW! Just you wait.”

  I had done a little reading on clamming and I didn’t remember anything about guns. I had learned a bunch of stuff about how to sign for clams. You have to look for little airholes in the sand. Clams make the holes when they filter water for food. I also learned that clams are usually an inch or so down, which is why sometimes it’s easiest to just feel for them with your feet. If the water isn’t too deep, you can pick them up with your toes.

  “Man your battle stations.” Roger ran into the water, waving the clam gun around. “Load your CLAMmunition!”

  T. J. followed, pulling a handful of what looked like Jujubes out of his pocket and tossing them at Roger. “Think clams like candy?”

  “They don’t have mouths to eat with,” I said. “Or noses to smell with. They sift water through tubes to find microscopic organisms called plankton. That’s their source of nutrition.”

  Just then something wet and slimy hit me on the arm.

  “Enough with the life science lesson, dude
,” said Roger. “It’s CLAMnoying.”

  He and T. J. laughed. I tossed the seaweed back. Roger ducked and the seaweed hit T. J. on the head. He grabbed for it and fell backward into the shallows.

  I looked down at the sand. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There were little holes. I bent down and started to dig. My shovel hit something hard. I pulled it out.

  “Hey, guys. I found a clam! We only need forty-nine more.”

  The clam smelled pretty stinky because the shell was open, but I slipped it in my pocket anyway. I wondered for a second if the shell being open meant it was dead, but I figured it didn’t matter. A clam was a clam.

  “Catch, Roger!” called T. J., lobbing a seaweed-covered lump at him.

  “Ouch.”

  “That rock sure is prickly. Good catch,” said T. J.

  “This isn’t a rock,” said Roger, rubbing off the sand. “It’s a clam.”

  “Let me see.” I waded over to Roger.

  The shell was purple and white and there were barnacles all over it.

  “That’s not a clam,” I said. “It’s an oyster!”

  “Too bad, because there are lots of them over here,” said T. J.

  “YES!!! Oysters are better than clams. They’re worth twice as much. Bet that will make the Clam Brothers happy.”

  “Clams are out, oysters are in,” said Roger.

  We spent the next hour digging up oysters, wading farther and farther into the water until it was almost up to our waists. They were easy to find with our toes. Unlike clams, oysters don’t have feet to move around, so there were lots of them together.

  OYSTER

  This invertebrate (no spine) bivalve mollusk (enclosed in two shells) is not related to the pearl oyster. It is three to fourteen inches long, gray, slimy, and high in calcium, protein, and iron. It extracts algae and food particles from water it draws over its gills, filtering up to 1.3 gallons of water per hour.

  I felt a lump and gripped it with my toes. Then I started pulling it up. I was just reaching down to grab it when my toes lost their grip. SPLASH! It fell back into the water.

  “Rats!” I said.