The Counterfeit Father: A Tony Pandy Mystery (Book 1)

By PV Lundqvist

From the outside, 13 year old Tony looks like he has quite the life:

A whole estate to himself.

A fangirl he flirts with online.

A pet monkey. (His third!)

Until you notice the wheelchair. Or that he only speaks with his mother by intercom. Or that he doesn't seem to know who his real father is.

And now, to save his home from a mysterious trust, Tony will have to ride in a broken-down motorcycle with someone who may not be who he seems, and solve the biggest mystery of all—Who he really is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stick Raven
• Release date: Sep 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310973444

PV Lundqvist

PV Lundqvist loves his family, mini-pigs, and baseball. In that order.

Book preview

The Counterfeit Father

A Tony Pandy Mystery

by

PV Lundqvist

Text copyright © 2014 PV Lundqvist

Cover and design by Rob Peters

Published by Stick Raven. All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

No part of this book may be reproduced—by any means—without the written consent of the publisher, unless it is for the purposes of writing a review. Then short excerpts are permitted.

Any trademarks/product names mentioned in the text are incidental and should not be construed as an endorsement or critique of said product.

This is a work of fiction. The author asserts the right to claim this body of work, without qualification or explanation, and all the characters herein as a product of his imagination.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

For my father, Bob.

Nothing fake about him.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Books by PV

- 1 -

Tony Pandy had 1,086 haters on this one webpage alone.

(Call the Guinness people), he thought. That’s GOT to be a record for a thirteen-year-old.

He had to dig deep, too. Anonymous commenters on the Internet don’t upset themselves, you know. He had to resort to making anagrams of their screen names—like ‘Mark Fender’ becoming Fake Mr. Nerd, or ‘Really Clever Name’ becoming Clearly Never Male.

And those were just the ones that were allowed through.

Sometimes Tony had to pretend to be several other people to get around forum restrictions. It was work. But, come on, ‘YouAreWrong42’ needed to be slammed as Our Yawn Ogre, and ‘Bleed’nHeart’ had to be outed as a Bra Held Teen.

But what was really crazy-making was his signature move: a sudden change of opinion. He would start agreeing with his enemies and disagreeing with his allies, and then sit back and watch the angry posts multiply.

On the Internet, nobody was supposed to change their mind.

But before he posted his accomplishment on TrolledIt!—with screen shots (pictures or it didn’t happen)—he logged on to his super-secret email account.

There was a message from Juniper with a cupcake background:

Want to hang out on DC, 7pm?

LYL,

Juni

LYL = Lick You Later.

That popped the cannula right out his nose. He pinched the air tube back into each nostril.

(As if she ever would.)

DC stood for Dino Cogs, a holographic pop music group from Korea. If you imagined a boy band composed of manga characters you wouldn’t be too far wrong. On their website was a chat room where Tony had first ‘met’ Juniper.

Some DC fans had been picking on her for saying—of all things—that the animation of the bass player was far cuter than the other three members of the band. The disagreement got ugly when one of them suggested she should SUICIDE HERSELF by leaving her fan on all night with the door closed.

This guy really believed ‘fan death’ was possible.

Tony had typed into the chat box,

SWINGING IN ON A GRAPPLING HOOK MADE OF REASON.

He asked the offending fanboy, is that why so many drivers die on the highways each year? They turn on the air conditioner and suffocate? And what about air travel? Do planes leave their windows open all flight?

Fans in enclosed spaces don’t kill people! IDIOT!

Tony then declared that the bass player of the Dino Cogs was so too the cutest animation.

Because he has a mohawk. And mohawks are cuteness squared.

For that, Juni gave him a full page of:

LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL

But then she began type out questions. Like, how did he hear about the band? What’s his favorite song? Did he ever see them in concert?

Which was embarrassing for Tony. He hadn’t known what the Dino Cogs were before that day. He had only been on their site to find people to turn into poopsocks.

Did he admit that?

(Nah.)

He was a Pandy: Omitting the truth was the family way.

Tony flipped a switch and the amber battery light came on. With his good hand he grabbed the knobby joystick that controlled the motor and backed his wheelchair away from his computer desk.

And not just any ordinary wheelchair. No. There were cup holders, sheepskin upholstery, and a bin in the back like a trunk.

Tony fished a laser pointer out of the glove box hanging from the armrest and pointed at the mini fridge on the floor.

Bonaparte, six pounds of trained Capuchin monkey, chattered back a question from within his massive cage.

#$%#?

That’s right. Go get me a drink.

Bony scrambled across the metal crossbars—upside down and sideways, didn’t seem to matter to him—and arrived at the closed gate.

Tony picked up the remote control for the cage.

Hesitated.

Once past the gate, Bony was free to roam his bedroom. Anything could happen.

(Let the contest begin.)

The gate levered open and the monkey scrambled under and out.

Tony put the red dot of the laser pointer back on the little refrigerator.

The monkey wedged his finger-toes into the rubberized insulation that held the fridge door shut. He pulled on the handle. Didn’t budge.

He pulled harder.

The door flung open, smacking Bony back onto his diapered behind. The door closed on the rebound.

#$%#!

"Focus," Tony said.

He knew the monkey didn’t understand him, except for a few commands, but it was fun to pretend.

The monkey put his tiny hands back on the refrigerator handle. He pulled, he wedged, and the door swung open.

Tony put the laser dot on a soda inside. That one, he said.

Bony toppled a can out onto the floor.

No, the lemon lime.

#$%#?

Yes, yes.

The monkey hugged the soda and walked it over. He stopped, just out of Tony’s reach.

(Haggling time.)

Tony opened up a plastic container full of grapes. Held one up for Bony to see. Give me the can, and you get a grape.

The monkey looked at Tony sideways.

It was just that one time, Tony complained. What a grudge holder. He popped a grape in his mouth. "Extra joo-cy."

Bony took a step closer. Put the can down and waited.

Tony inched forward in his chair.

The monkey jumped up and down, chattering.

Okay, okay. Half now, half on delivery. Tony thumbed a grape up in the air, and Bonaparte caught it on a bounce. The fruit was too big to stuff in his mouth all at once, but he tried anyway.

Now, the soda.

Bony was looking all around like he’d never been in this room before. Or perhaps he was ignoring Tony.

Anyone’s guess.

Yoohoo, Tony said, waving a clump of grapes. "For a soooda."

That got the monkey’s attention. Hugging the soda can again, Bony wobble-walked it over to Tony.

The Capuchin lifted the can up,

Tony bent over with a grape,

and Bonaparte grabbed it, letting the can roll away.

Son of a simian!

Making his getaway, the monkey jumped on to the computer desk and proceeded to climb up the drapes to the curtain rod. A short hop landed him on a shelf where he put his butt on a pile of books: What Stupid People Believe, 101 Urban Legends for the Incredibly Gullible, and More! What Stupid People Believe: You Can’t Make This Stuff Up edition.

The Capuchin swished his tail close enough to a wall poster of a grinning Neil DeGrasse Tyson that he could have been tickling his mustache. Or, on the tail’s return swing, poking the eye of the hurricane on Saturn that Tyson was pointing at.

You can be replaced, Tony told the monkey.

No, he can’t! squawked his mother’s voice through the wall intercom. The Wish-upon-a-Star people have cut us off. Three monkeys was our limit.

Mooooom, you promised not to eavesdrop!

I wouldn’t listen if there wasn’t so much to hear.

(Hey, waitaminute.)

Tony had hacked the surveillance system that controlled the intercoms and cameras throughout the estate, effectively locking her out. A pretty good plan considering Mom didn’t know how to use redial on her phone, much less reprogram anything.

Someone fixed the intercom. But who?

The groundskeeper Tu Ngu came into the room dressed in his usual ironed, spotless khakis and collared shirt with big straw hat.

He didn’t knock first.

(Like he’s entering a men’s room.)

Where’s my little monkey? Tu asked.

(And he doesn’t mean me.)

Part of the groundskeeper’s duties was to take care of the Capuchin—such as what he was doing right now, refilling Bony’s food bowl with a yummy mix of fruit, flowers, nuts, and dead beetles.

Yes, dead beetles.

Tony pointed to the now-working intercom. That your doing?

What you expect? Tu