Alberta the Brain

They call me Alberta the Brain. My name isn't Alberta, but I've got a heckuva brain, and it's telling me that if you put a name on the glass door of your office and that office is at the wrong end of town, it'd better not be your real name.

I'm a private eye, or at least that's what it says on my business cards. Truth is, I'm a nerd. Don't believe me? Check out the wall be- hind me; all those framed "outstanding student" plac- ards and state Knowledge Bowl patches. And because I don't get many cases, I have time to spend acquiring more wall art, if you will.

This guy was kinda scruffy, camel-hair overcoat, looked a bit lost, the sort of visitor that makes me dive for my little pearl-handled bodyguard. But he sounded like a reasonable bloke, so I took him up on his offer - help his team get the first- place title at a Knowledge Bowl meet. What was in it for me? Credibility, noto- riety, and free cookies. I've got more of the first two than I know what to do with, but there's not much I won't do for a snickerdoodle. Venue was an old church - empty, which made sense considering that it was Tues- day morning. But, as prom- ised, the competition trickled in - nothing too intimidating, but it never hurts to keep your guard up.

First round was a writ- ten round. The four of us gathered around a table and tore through that packet of questions like kids at Christ- mas. When we finished, we slipped a fellow our answer sheet. About five minutes later, he wandered back to- wards our little cluster, read- ing a newspaper.

"41," he mumbled, not looking up. "Next highest was 37. You'll be in Room One with Clarkston's One and Two teams."

The guy who hired me casually dropped a twenty on the floor.

"Which team got the thir- ty-seven?" he asked.

But the man with the paper had already picked up his money and walked away.

It turned out that had been Clarkston Two, which didn't make much difference as Clarkston One proceeded to cream us in the first oral round, 15 to 14. (I suppose that's not quite creaming, but given my high hopes it felt utterly devastating.) "Well, hello there," said an oily-smooth male voice from behind me as I drowned my sorrows in watery punch and oatmeal raisin crumbs.

I flipped around. He was wearing a letterman's jacket - Dayton High School.

"So you're this Alberta girl I've heard so much about," he said.

"So you'rehellip;uhhellip;who are you?"

As it turned out, he was the captain of Dayton One, and neither his spiffy jacket nor his radio-host elocution could save his team from grisly defeat at our hands, 26 to 10, in the second oral round. Clarkston Two, in the same room, only garnered nine points.

We went into the final round with an 11-point lead over our old friends Clarkston One. At one point, they were four points away from taking the whole thing. In the end, though, we walked away with a 12-point margin of victory and a nice even hundred for a total score.

But I have a feeling we haven't heard the last from Clarkston - or Dayton, for that matter. The former may be out for revenge - the lat- ter, who knows?

So if the fellow in the camel-hair overcoat comes calling again, I'll be ready.