Lemonade Stand Extortion

It was August. For Toby, the air tasted like car exhaust. He sat in a folding lawn chair. The nylon webbing of the chair dug into his thighs. He ignored the pain. He was working.

Next to him, his seven-year-old sister, Lily, adjusted her plastic pitcher. The pitcher was filled with warm, yellow liquid. It was supposed to be lemonade. It was mostly tap water and a crystallized powder that smelled like bathroom cleaner.

"You're scaring the customers," Lily said.

"You have no customers," Toby said.

He did not look at her. He kept his eyes on the street. The street was empty. Heat waves rippled over the black asphalt.

"Mrs. Johnston walked right past," Lily said. She kicked the leg of Toby’s folding table. "Because you look creepy."

Toby adjusted his sunglasses. They were cheap plastic. They scratched the bridge of his nose. He looked down at his desk. It was a cardboard box. He had flattened it and taped it over two milk crates. He had used a thick black marker to write his sign.

TOBY CONSULTING. INVESTIGATIONS. SECRETS. PET RECOVERY. $50 AN HOUR.

He needed three thousand dollars. He had a spreadsheet on his phone. The spreadsheet listed the parts for a custom liquid-cooled PC. He needed a high-end graphics card. He needed a motherboard. He needed thirty-two gigabytes of RAM. His current computer took four minutes to boot up. This was unacceptable. He had calculated his allowance. It would take him four years to buy the computer. He did not have four years.

He needed capital. The neighborhood was full of bored adults. Bored adults had secrets. Secrets had a market value.

"Here comes someone," Lily said. Her voice went up an octave. She pasted a fake, terrifying smile on her face.

Toby looked up. Mrs. Mitchell was walking down the sidewalk. She was walking fast. Her sandals slapped against the concrete. She was wearing a giant sun hat. She was holding a thin pink leash. There was nothing attached to the leash.

Mrs. Mitchell stopped in front of the lemonade stand. She was panting. Her makeup was melting down her cheeks in thin beige lines.

"Lemonade?" Lily asked. "Fifty cents."

"Not now, child," Mrs. Mitchell said. She looked at Toby. She looked at his cardboard sign. She squinted.

"You find pets?" Mrs. Mitchell asked.

"I locate missing assets," Toby said. His voice was flat. He leaned back in his lawn chair. The nylon creaked.

"It is Barnaby," Mrs. Mitchell said. Her voice shook. "He dug under the fence. Or someone took him. I do not know. He is gone. My husband is going to kill me. Barnaby is a show dog."

Barnaby was a Pomeranian. He was a small, angry ball of orange fur. Toby knew this.

"Fifty dollars an hour," Toby said.

"You're ten years old," Mrs. Mitchell said.

"I'm eleven," Toby said. "And I have a lot of free time. The police do not care about your dog. I care. For fifty dollars an hour."

Mrs. Mitchell stared at him. She was sweating. She opened her leather purse. She dug past a hairbrush and a pack of gum. She pulled out a crumpled fifty-dollar bill. She slammed it onto the cardboard box.

"Find him," she said.

"I need a picture," Toby said.

Mrs. Mitchell shoved her phone in his face. The screen was cracked. It showed a picture of the orange dog wearing a tiny blue sweater.

"I will begin the investigation immediately," Toby said. He folded the fifty-dollar bill. He put it in his pocket.

Mrs. Mitchell turned and walked away. She was crying.

"You're a bad person," Lily said.

"I'm an entrepreneur," Toby said.

He stood up. He stretched his legs. He walked away from the table. He walked up his driveway. He opened his front door. The air conditioning hit him in the face. It felt incredible. He walked down the hall. He opened the door to the basement. He walked down the wooden stairs. The basement was dark. It smelled like damp concrete and laundry detergent.

He turned on the light.

Barnaby was sitting on a pile of dirty towels. The dog looked up. He wagged his tail.

"Quiet," Toby said.

He walked over to the mini-fridge in the corner. He opened it. He took out a package of premium sliced ham. He peeled off a slice. He tossed it to the dog. Barnaby caught it in the air. He swallowed it whole.

Toby had stolen the dog three hours ago. He had lured Barnaby through a gap in the Mitchells' fence with a hot dog. It was a simple business model. Create the demand. Supply the solution.

"I will keep you here until tomorrow," Toby told the dog. "That is three hours of billable time. One hundred and fifty dollars."

The dog burped.

Toby went back upstairs. He had to fake an investigation. He needed to be seen looking for the dog. He walked out the back door. He climbed over his own fence. He dropped into the Gable yard.

The Gables lived next to the Mitchells. Their yard was overgrown. The grass was up to Toby’s knees. There were weeds everywhere. It was the perfect place to pretend to look for a small dog.

Toby spent an hour kicking bushes. He checked his phone. It was getting late. The sun was going down. The heat was breaking.

He went back inside. He ate dinner with his parents. He ate macaroni and cheese. He did not speak. He went to his room. He waited.

At two in the morning, Toby opened his window. The night air was thick. The crickets were loud. He took his drone out of its case. It was a cheap quadcopter. He had modified the camera. He had removed the infrared filter so it could see in the dark.

He turned it on. The rotors spun up. They buzzed like a giant angry wasp. He launched it out the window.

He sat on his bed. He held the controller. He stared at the screen. The image was grainy and green. He flew the drone over the rooftops. He flew it toward the Gable yard. He wanted to get some aerial footage to show Mrs. Mitchell. Proof of his investigation.

He hovered the drone over the tall grass.

He saw movement on the screen.

Toby leaned closer. He squinted. Someone was in the Gable yard. It was a man.

Toby lowered the drone. The camera focused.

It was Mr. Mitchell.

Mr. Mitchell was wearing sweatpants. He was holding a shovel. He was digging a hole in the dirt behind the Gables' broken shed.

Toby held his breath. His stomach turned over. He watched the screen. Mr. Mitchell dropped the shovel. He reached down. He picked up a large, black plastic bag. It was the size of a human torso. He dragged the bag into the hole.

He picked up the shovel. He started throwing dirt over the bag.

Toby’s hands started to shake. He hit the record button on the controller. The red light blinked.

He was looking at a murder. He was sure of it.

Mr. Mitchell finished burying the bag. He wiped his forehead. He looked around. He did not look up. He did not see the drone in the dark sky. He walked back to his own yard. He disappeared into his house.

Toby brought the drone back. He caught it outside his window. He turned it off. His bedroom was totally silent. He sat on his bed. His heart was hammering against his ribs.

He had a dead body on camera.

He thought about his PC build. A dead body was worth way more than fifty dollars an hour. A dead body was worth a graphics card. It was worth two graphics cards.

The Night Vision Drone

Toby did not sleep. He sat at his slow, terrible computer. He plugged the drone’s memory card into the reader. He waited four minutes for the folder to open. He clicked on the video file.

The video was dark. It was grainy. He dragged it into a free editing software. He boosted the contrast. He turned up the brightness. He zoomed in on the black plastic bag.

He watched Mr. Mitchell drag the bag into the hole.

Something ripped.

Toby paused the video. He leaned his face close to the monitor. The corner of the black plastic bag had caught on a rock. The plastic tore open.

Toby stared at the tear. He expected to see a foot. He expected to see a hand.

He did not see a hand. He saw a leaf.

It was a large, thick, purple leaf. It had strange yellow spots on it.

Toby frowned. His jaw dropped. He felt a heavy block of disappointment in his chest.

"Plants," Toby whispered to the empty room. "He is burying plants."

He opened a web browser. He took a screenshot of the purple leaf. He ran it through a reverse image search. He waited for the slow internet to load.

Results filled the screen.

It was a Ghost Orchid. A very specific, highly illegal, genetically modified variant of a Ghost Orchid. They were imported from South America. They were banned in the United States because they carried an invasive fungus. They were worth thousands of dollars on the black market to wealthy collectors.

Mr. Mitchell was not a murderer. He was a botanical smuggler. He was using the empty Gable yard as a stash house.

Toby leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes. It was not a murder. But it was still a federal crime. A federal crime was just as good.

He opened a blank document. He started typing. He used a professional font. He wanted to sound like a corporation. He did not want to sound like an eleven-year-old boy.

He typed fast. The mechanical keyboard clacked loudly in the quiet house.

DEAR MR. MITCHELL. I'M A REPRESENTATIVE OF AN INDEPENDENT AUDITING FIRM. WE HAVE REVIEWED YOUR RECENT AGRICULTURAL IMPORTS. WE HAVE VIDEO EVIDENCE OF YOUR UNLICENSED EXOTIC FLORA.

He stopped. He deleted the last sentence. It sounded too nerdy.

WE HAVE YOU ON TAPE BURYING THE ORCHIDS. WE REQUIRE A CONSULTING FEE TO KEEP THIS INFORMATION PRIVATE. THE FEE IS FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS.

He thought about the PC parts. He changed the number.

THE FEE IS EIGHT THOUSAND DOLLARS.

Toby smiled. He typed out the instructions for a cryptocurrency transfer. He had set up an anonymous wallet three weeks ago just in case he ever needed to extort someone. He printed the letter. The printer churned and ground the paper out.

He folded the paper. He put it in a blank envelope.

He waited until the sun came up. He walked down the street. The air was already getting hot. The dew was drying on the grass. He walked up to the Mitchells' mailbox. He slid the envelope inside. He put the red flag up.

He walked back home. He sat down at his cardboard desk. Lily was already there. She was pouring more powder into her pitcher.

"You look tired," Lily said.

"I'm expanding my business," Toby said.

He waited. He checked his phone every ten minutes. He watched the crypto wallet application. It stayed at zero.

At noon, his phone buzzed. It was not the crypto wallet. It was a text message from an unknown number.

I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO USE CRYPTO. I HAVE CASH. WHERE DO I BRING IT.

Toby stared at the screen. Adults were so incompetent. He typed a reply.

THE COMMUNITY CENTER. THE TRASH CANS BEHIND THE BUILDING. ONE HOUR. PUT IT IN A BAG.

He stood up.

"Watch the desk," Toby said to Lily.

"Pay me," Lily said.

"I will give you ten percent of my next contract," Toby said.

He walked down the street. The community center was three blocks away. It was a brick building with a large parking lot. There was a row of green plastic trash cans behind it.

Toby hid in the bushes near the trash cans. The bushes were full of thorns. They scratched his arms. The dirt smelled like old grass clippings. He waited.

Fifteen minutes passed.

A car pulled into the parking lot. It was Mr. Mitchell’s silver sedan. The car stopped. Mr. Mitchell got out. He looked terrified. He was sweating through his polo shirt. He was holding a blue canvas duffel bag.

He walked over to the trash cans. He dropped the bag on the ground. He practically ran back to his car. He drove away.

Toby smiled. It was too easy. He started to crawl out of the bushes.

A sharp whistle blew.

Toby froze.

A woman marched around the corner of the building. It was Brenda.

Brenda was the president of the Homeowners Association. She wore a bright yellow visor. She wore white tennis shoes. She had a silver whistle around her neck. She was always angry.

Brenda marched straight toward the trash cans. She stopped. She looked down at the blue duffel bag.

"Littering," Brenda said loudly to herself.

She reached down. She unzipped the bag.

Toby held his breath. He watched through the leaves.

Brenda looked inside the bag. Her eyes went wide. She gasped. She reached in and pulled out a stack of hundred-dollar bills.

"Good heavens," Brenda whispered.

She dropped the money back in. She zipped the bag up tight. She looked around the empty parking lot. Her face turned red.

"Drugs," Brenda said. "This is a drug drop. In my neighborhood."

She grabbed the handles of the duffel bag. She hoisted it over her shoulder. She marched away. She did not leave it for the police. She took it with her.

"No," Toby whispered.

He watched his eight thousand dollars walk away. His knee was pressed hard into a sharp rock. The pain was sharp. He ignored it. Brenda was stealing his extortion money. He had to get it back.

The Tupperware Infiltration

Toby knew Brenda’s house. It was the largest house on the cul-de-sac. It had fake columns in the front.

He walked up the driveway. There were six cars parked out front. They were all mid-sized SUVs. The front door was wide open.

Brenda was hosting her annual summer Tupperware party.

Toby stood on the porch. He could hear them. There were at least a dozen women inside. They were laughing. The sound was loud and sharp. The air coming out of the open door smelled like vanilla candles, cheap white wine, and bleach.

Toby dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled through the front door.

The entryway was covered in shoes. There were sandals and heels. Toby pushed them aside. He crawled behind a large potted fern. He peeked into the living room.

The room was packed. Women were standing around a giant kitchen island. The island was covered in plastic containers. There were pink bowls and green lids. Brenda was standing at the head of the table. She was holding a clear plastic pitcher. She was talking loudly about airtight seals.

Toby scanned the room. The blue duffel bag was not in the kitchen. It was not in the living room.

Brenda had hidden it. She was probably waiting until the party was over to call the police. Or she was going to keep it. Toby did not trust Brenda.

He crawled along the baseboards. The carpet was thick and scratchy against his palms. He moved toward the hallway. He slipped past a woman holding a plate of tiny sausages. She did not look down.

He made it to the hallway. It was darker here. There were four doors.

He opened the first door. A bathroom. Empty.

He opened the second door. A guest bedroom. Empty.

He opened the third door. It was the master bedroom.

The blue duffel bag was sitting on the center of Brenda’s massive bed.

Toby stood up. He walked toward the bed. He reached for the handle of the bag.

"What are you doing?" a voice asked.

Toby spun around.

Kyle was standing in the doorway.

Kyle was Brenda’s son. He was fourteen. He was wearing a black t-shirt. He had messy hair. He was eating potato chips out of a silver bag. He looked bored.

Toby’s heart slammed against his ribs. His throat went dry. He was caught. If Kyle yelled, Brenda would come in. Brenda would call his parents. His parents would ground him until he was thirty. He would never get his computer.

Toby did not panic. He breathed in. He looked at Kyle. He noticed Kyle’s dirty socks. He noticed the chip crumbs on his shirt. He knew things about Kyle. Everyone in the neighborhood knew things about Kyle. Kyle got bad grades. Kyle broke mailboxes with a baseball bat. Brenda yelled at Kyle constantly.

"I'm saving your life," Toby said. His voice was completely flat.

Kyle stopped chewing. He frowned.

"What?" Kyle asked.

"Your mother," Toby said. He stepped away from the bed. He walked toward Kyle. "She is planning to send you away."

"Shut up," Kyle said. He crossed his arms. The chip bag crinkled loudly. "You're lying. You're stealing her stuff."

"I'm an investigator," Toby said. "I intercept communications. I read the emails."

Kyle shifted his weight. His eyes darted to the side. He was nervous. "What emails?"

"The military camp," Toby said. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. He opened a blank text message. He started typing rapidly with his thumbs.

"She is not sending me to camp," Kyle said. His voice cracked slightly.

"It is not a regular camp," Toby said. He kept typing. He did not look up. "It is the Fort Stone Disciplinary Academy. In Idaho. You sleep on rocks. They wake you up with hoses. They do not allow potato chips."

Toby finished typing. He changed the contact name to 'Brenda'. He held the phone up to Kyle’s face.

Kyle squinted at the screen.

The fake text message read: YES I WILL PAY THE DEPOSIT. COME GET KYLE ON MONDAY. HE NEEDS DISCIPLINE.

Kyle’s face went pale. The potato chip bag slipped from his fingers. It hit the carpet. Chips spilled everywhere.

"No," Kyle whispered. "She threatened it. I thought she was joking."

"She is not joking," Toby said. He put the phone back in his pocket. "The extraction team is coming on Monday. They will take you in a van."

Kyle started to breathe heavily. He looked terrified. Humans were so easy to manipulate when they were stressed.

"What do I do?" Kyle asked. He grabbed Toby’s shoulders. His hands were greasy. "You have to help me."

"I can cancel the transfer," Toby said. "I can hack into the Fort Stone database. But I need a distraction. I need your mother out of this house. Right now. I need access to her main computer router."

"A distraction," Kyle repeated. He nodded slowly. His eyes were wide. "Okay. Yes. I can do that. I can make a huge distraction."

"Make it loud," Toby said.

Kyle turned around. He ran down the hallway. He did not look back.

Toby waited in the bedroom. He listened. He heard Kyle’s heavy footsteps hit the kitchen floor. He heard the back door slam open.

He waited three minutes.

Then, he smelled the smoke.

The Juice Box Ultimatum

The smell was sharp and toxic. It smelled like burning plastic and old garbage.

A woman in the living room screamed.

"Fire!" someone yelled. "The dumpster is on fire!"

Toby walked out of the bedroom. He walked down the hall. He looked into the living room.

It was chaos. The women were running toward the front door. They were dropping plastic bowls. A bowl of spinach dip hit the floor and shattered. The green slime splattered across the white tile. Brenda was blowing her silver whistle. Her face was purple.

"Everyone out!" Brenda screamed. "Get the garden hose!"

They trampled each other to get out the front door.

Toby walked back into the master bedroom. He grabbed the handles of the blue duffel bag. It was heavy. He dragged it off the bed. It hit the floor with a heavy thud.

He dragged the bag down the hallway. The house was empty now. Everyone was in the front yard, screaming at the burning dumpster.

Toby walked through the kitchen. He saw a silver platter on the counter. It was covered in deviled eggs. They were sprinkled with paprika. Toby was hungry. He picked up the platter with his free hand.

He walked out the back door. He dragged the heavy bag across the grass. He held the platter of eggs level. He walked through the gap in the fence. He walked toward his own house.

He reached his driveway.

Mr. Mitchell was standing there.

Mr. Mitchell looked terrible. His polo shirt was soaked with sweat. His hair was sticking up in wet clumps. He was holding a metal crowbar. He looked wildly at Toby.

He looked at the blue duffel bag.

"You," Mr. Mitchell gasped. He pointed the crowbar at Toby. His hand was shaking. "You're the blackmailer. A child. A literal child."

Toby did not stop walking. He dragged the bag up the concrete. The nylon scraped loudly. He set the platter of deviled eggs down on his cardboard desk.

Lily was sitting in the lawn chair. She looked at Mr. Mitchell. She looked at the crowbar.

"Are you going to hit my brother?" Lily asked.

"I'm going to get my money back," Mr. Mitchell said. He stepped forward. He looked angry. He looked desperate.

Toby reached into his pocket. He pulled out a juice box. It was fruit punch flavor. He peeled the tiny plastic wrapper off the straw. He stabbed the straw into the foil circle.

He took a sip. He looked at Mr. Mitchell.

"You can take the bag," Toby said. His voice was calm.

Mr. Mitchell lowered the crowbar slightly. He looked confused. "I can?"

"Yes," Toby said. He took another sip of juice. "But if you do, I will press send on an email. The email is addressed to the Internal Revenue Service."

Mr. Mitchell froze. The color drained from his face.

"I was doing a background check on you," Toby said. "To ensure you could pay the fee. I found a shell corporation registered to your home address. It is called Gable Imports. You claim zero income. But you have a mortgage of four thousand dollars a month. You're hiding your money in offshore accounts. You're committing tax fraud."

Mr. Mitchell opened his mouth. No sound came out.

"The dark web is very easy to navigate," Toby said. He slurped the last drop of juice from the box. The plastic box made a loud, hollow rattling sound. "The IRS pays a whistleblower reward. It is thirty percent of the recovered taxes. I calculate my reward would be roughly forty thousand dollars. If you take the bag, I will take the forty thousand."

Toby dropped the empty juice box onto the driveway.

Mr. Mitchell stared at the juice box. He stared at Toby. The crowbar slipped from his hand. It clattered against the concrete.

"Who are you?" Mr. Mitchell whispered.

"I'm a consultant," Toby said. He picked up a deviled egg. He ate it in one bite. "And I have your dog in my basement. That will be an additional one hundred and fifty dollars."

Mr. Mitchell closed his eyes. He let out a long, broken sigh. He reached into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet. He pulled out three crisp fifty-dollar bills. He handed them to Toby.

Mr. Mitchell turned around. He walked down the driveway. He looked like a ghost. He walked back to his house. He did not look back.

Toby folded the bills. He put them in his pocket. He looked at the blue duffel bag. Eight thousand dollars.

"That was intense," Lily said. She reached over and took a deviled egg from the platter.

"Business is intense," Toby said.

He unzipped the duffel bag. He pulled out a stack of hundreds. He tossed it onto the cardboard box.

"Your cut," Toby said.

Lily grabbed the money. She smiled.

Toby looked down the street. The smoke from the dumpster fire was turning the sky gray. The sound of fire truck sirens echoed in the distance. He thought about his computer. He thought about the cooling system. He thought about the graphics card. He was going to build the fastest machine in the city.

He sat back down in his nylon chair. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. The sun was hot, but he did not care. Summer was just beginning, and the neighborhood was full of houses, full of secrets, just waiting to be cracked open.