On the same wall of his bedroom was a yellow flyer handed out to drivers entering Yellowstone National Park. The flyer said:

WARNING!MANY VISITORS HAVE BEEN GORED BY BUFFALO.BUFFALO CAN WEIGH 2,000 POUNDSAND CAN SPRINT AT 30 MPH, THREE TIMES FASTER THAN YOU CAN RUN.THESE ANIMALS MAY APPEAR TAME BUT ARE WILD, UNPREDICTABLE, AND DANGEROUS.DO NOT APPROACH BUFFALO!

At the bottom of the handout was a drawing of a tourist being tossed on the horns of a fuming bison. The tourist's camera was flying one way and his cap was flying another, just like the cowboy's hat in the rodeo poster.

Roy had saved the Yellowstone flyer because he was so amazed that anybody would be dumb enough to stroll up to a full-grown buffalo and snap its picture. Yet it happened every summer, and every summer some nitwit tourist got gored.

It was exactly the sort of idiotic stunt that Dana Matherson would try, Roy thought as he contemplated his apology letter. He could easily envision the big goon trying to hop on a bison, like it was a carousel pony.

Roy took a piece of lined notebook paper out of his English folder and wrote:

Dear Dana, I'm sorry I busted your nose. I hope the bleeding has stopped. I promise not to hit you ever again as long as you don't bother me on the school bus. I think that's a fair arangement. Most sincerely, Roy A. Eberhardt

He took the page downstairs and showed his mother, who frowned slightly. "Honey, it seems a little too… well, forceful."

"What do you mean, Mom?"

"It's not the content of the letter so much as the tone."

She handed it to Roy's father, who read it and said, "I think the tone is exactly right. But you'd better look up 'arrangement' in the dictionary."

The police captain slumped at his desk. This wasn't how he had planned to end his career. After twenty-two winters pounding the streets of Boston, he'd moved to Florida with the hope of five or six warm and uneventful years before retirement. Coconut Cove had sounded ideal. Yet it had turned out not to be the sleepy little village that the captain had envisioned. The place was growing like a weed-too much traffic, too many tourists, and, yes, even crime.

Not nasty big-city crime, but flaky Florida-style crime.

"How many?" he asked the sergeant.

The sergeant looked at Officer Delinko, who said, "Total of six."

"Two in each toilet?"

"Yes, sir."

"How big?"

"The largest was four feet even. The smallest was thirty-one inches," replied Officer Delinko, reading matter-of-factly from his report.

"Real alligators," the captain said.

"That's right, sir."

Officer Delinko's sergeant spoke up: "They're gone now, Captain, don't worry. A reptile wrangler came and got 'em out of the Johns." With a chuckle he added, "The little one almost took the guy's thumb off."

The captain said, "What's a 'reptile wrangler'-aw, never mind."

"Believe it or not, we found him in the Yellow Pages."

"Figures," the captain muttered.

Normally an officer of his rank wouldn't get involved in such a silly case, but the company building the pancake franchise had some clout with local politicians. One of Mother Paula's big shots had called Councilman Grandy, who immediately chewed out the police chief, who quickly sent word down the ranks to the captain, who swiftly called for the sergeant, who instantly summoned (last and least) Officer Delinko.

"What the heck's going on out there?" the captain demanded. "Why would kids single out this one construction site to vandalize?"

"Two reasons," said the sergeant, "boredom and convenience. I'll bet you five bucks it's juvies who live in the neighborhood."

The captain eyed Officer Delinko. "What do you think?"

"It seems too organized to be kids-pulling out every stake, not just once but twice. Think about what happened today. How many kids do you know who could handle a four-foot gator?" Officer Delinko said. "Seems awful risky, for a practical joke."

Delinko is no Sherlock Holmes, thought the police captain, but he's got a point. "Well, then, let's hear your theory," he said to the patrolman.

"Yes, sir. Here's what I think," Officer Delinko said. "I think somebody's got it in for Mother Paula. I think it's some kind of revenge deal."

"Revenge," repeated the captain, somewhat skeptically.

"That's right," the patrolman said. "Maybe it's a rival pancake house."

The sergeant shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "There is no other pancake house in Coconut Cove."

"Okay," said Officer Delinko, rubbing his chin, "so then, how about a disgruntled customer? Maybe someone who once had a bad breakfast at a Mother Paula's!"

The sergeant laughed. "How can you mess up a flapjack?"

"I agree," the captain said. He'd heard enough. "Sergeant, I want you to send a patrol car by the construction site every hour."

"Yes, sir."

"Either you catch these vandals or you scare 'em away. It doesn't matter to me as long as the chief isn't getting any more phone calls from Councilman Bruce Grandy. Clear?"

As soon as they left the captain's office, Officer Delinko asked his sergeant if he could come in early to work the Mother Paula patrol.

"No way, David. The overtime budget's tapped out."

"Oh, I don't want any overtime," the patrolman said. All he wanted was to solve the mystery.

Roy's mother made him stay home all weekend to make sure there was no delayed reaction to the golf-ball bonking. Though his head felt fine, he didn't sleep well either Saturday night or Sunday night.

On the way to school Monday morning, his mother asked what was bothering him. Roy said it was nothing, which wasn't true. He was worried about what would happen when Dana Matherson caught up with him.

But Dana was nowhere to be seen at Trace Middle.

"Called in sick," Garrett reported. He claimed to have inside information, owing to his mother's high-ranking position as a guidance counselor. "Dude, what'd you do to that poor guy? I heard there was guts all over the bus."

"That's not true."

"I heard you pounded him so hard, his nose got knocked up to his forehead. I heard he'll need plastic surgery to put it back where it belongs."

Roy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right."

Garrett made a fart noise through his teeth. "Hey, everybody in school is talkin' about this-talkin' about you, Eberhardt."

"Great."

They were standing in the hall after homeroom, waiting for the first-period bell.

Garrett said, "Now they think you're a tough guy."

"Who does? Why?" Roy didn't want to be thought of as tough. He didn't particularly want to be thought of at all. He just wanted to blend in quietly and not be noticed, like a bug on a riverbank.

"They think you're tough," Garrett went on. "Nobody's ever slugged a Matherson before."

Apparently Dana had three older brothers, none of whom was remembered fondly at Trace Middle.

"What'd you put in your apology letter? 'Dear Dana, I'm sorry I thumped you. Please don't break every bone in my body. Leave me one good arm so at least I can feed myself.'"

"You're so funny," Roy said dryly. The truth was, Garrett was pretty funny.

"What do you think that gorilla's gonna do next time he sees you?" he said to Roy. "I was you, I'd start thinkin' about plastic surgery myself so that Dana wouldn't recognize me. Seriously, man."

"Garrett, I need a favor."

"What-a place to hide? Try the South Pole."

The bell rang and streams of students filled the hall. Roy pulled Garrett aside. "There's a tall girl with curly blond hair, she wears red glasses-"