The fairgrounds were swarming with workers running to and fro. The sound of hammers, saws, and power drills was ever present. Shaggy pressed against a wall as two large men carrying a ferris wheel strut bumbled past, nearly side-swiping him. Velma ducked around a man hauling a tub of oil towards a stack of deep fryers and caught up to Shaggy.

"Like, this place is really moving," he said, impressed. "You can barely tell half of it fell over last night."

"They're trained professionals, Shag," Velma said matter-of-factly. "They have their job and we have ours. Let's keep moving before someone drops a bag of cement on our heads."

It took the duo a few minutes to weave and bob their way around the flurry of activity and make it to their destination. They stood next to each other looking up at the death threat painted on the wooden wall. A man in blue overalls with a paint roller was absent mindedly covering it up with white paint.

"He's getting rid of the evidence!" Shaggy exclaimed.

"Hey!" Velma shouted, straining to be heard over the sound of twenty different conversations happening all around her, "what do you think you're doing?"

The man turned to face her, noticing the two of them for the first time.

"Uh…" The man glanced from the paint roller in one hand to the paint can at his feet. "Is this a trick question?"

"That there's evidence of a crime! Several crimes, even!" Shaggy said. "And a dognapping!"

The man shrugged.

"Look," he said, "I just do what Jack tells me. You wanna fight about it? Go fight him, guy. He'd love the challenge."

Velma scowled at him, her temper clearly flaring.

"Fine," she said. "We will. But when he agrees with us, you'll be sorry."

"Velma-"

Shaggy wanted to give Velma a quick rundown on his own experience with Big Jack but Velma had already stomped off. Shaggy sighed. He didn't remember her being this mercurial, even when they were kids. Perhaps she had been, but he certainly hadn't noticed.

He hadn't been a great judge of character when he was younger. He could count on both hands the number of times a murder had lured him into a trap with the promise of a salami sandwich. His face went red at the thought.

It was certainly odd to be working a case with Velma without someone at the helm giving orders. Someone who always kept their cool in the worst situations and always had a plan. Someone tactical, with foresight and leadership skills.

Then again, even the best leadership skills in the world couldn't stop a bullet.

Shaggy shook his head, trying to remain focused. He sighed and stalked off after Velma.

Velma, it seems, had already singled out the biggest man in the work crew whom she had rightly guessed to be Big Jack. She was talking to him excitedly and gesturing wildly. Jack, Shaggy was surprised to see, seemed to be smiling. The big man leaned back against a wheelbarrow and crossed one leg over the other, casually.

"You might be right," he was saying as Shaggy arrived. "But I got a job to do, ya know. I can't exactly tell my crew t' stop doing the work that gets us that sweet, sweet cashola. Seems like a lose-lose to me. What exactly do I get out of it?"

"I already said," Velma huffed, "you get to help us stop the Phantom. Isn't the knowledge that you brought justice into this world its own reward?"

Jack just grinned.

"A man's gotta make a livin'," he said, totally placid. "I can't just have ya taking bucks out of my bank account on account of what 'dat idiot Lillard is getting himself in to. Not my business, no how."

"But it's making your work harder!" Velma insisted. "This Fairground Phantom character is literally making you work more! Isn't that a downside?"

Jack threw back his head and laughed. It was a deep, rumbling kind of laugh, one you'd expect from a man as mountainous as he was.

"I get paid by the hour. And," he added with a wink in his eye, "I'm union. Now, if you don't have anything else to discuss, you should stop holding up my work day."

Velma looked as though she were about to say something she'd regret, bit her tongue, then turned towards Shaggy, thinking better of it.

"Come on, Shaggy, this big oaf is of no help to us."

Jack noticed Shaggy standing nearby for the first time and raised his eyebrows.

"Wait wait wait-" he said, holding up one hand, "you're with him? The beanpole?"

"And? So what if she is?" Shaggy said with a bravado he wasn't sure he felt.

Jack seemed to take his time with that question. He looked Shaggy up and down for the second time in as many days from Shaggy's mop of unruly hair, to his goatee, to his bellbottom slacks. He scrunched up his mouth, deep in thought.

"You know, string-bean," he said slowly, "you ticked me off good an' royal yesterday. You know that?"

Shaggy's eyes narrowed. Jack stood back up, towering over him with an unreadable look in his eyes. He stepped closer to Shaggy, who tried not to flinch.

"You got a lotta nerve swankin' on in here like you own da place. Lotta nerve."

Jack leaned down towards him, bending over slightly so that they were almost eye level. Shaggy could smell cigar on the man's breath, that same cheap scent from last night. His legs clenched involuntarily, bracing for the sprint that was sure to come as Jack took a swing at him.

Instead, Jack's face broke into a wide grin.

"I like you, kid," he said, leaning back. "You got guts. Not too many people unafraid to tangle wit' a guy my size. You look scrappy. You a fighter?"

"I've been in a few," Shaggy admitted. Scrappy, huh? Not a way he'd choose to define himself, but he decided to take the compliment.

"I can tell," Jack said approvingly. "I like your style."

Shaggy decided to push his luck.

"Do you, uh, like my style enough to tell us what on earth is happening around here?"

Big Jack looked thoughtful. His eyes went up and away, like he was looking at something off over the horizon.

"... Maybe," he conceded. "But I ain't have a clue what you're looking for. There's a weirdo dat shows up every night, knocks over our stuff, paints some messages on the wall about how we're all doomed or whatever the hell, then effs off into the night. Pisses me the hell off."

"I thought you didn't care about the Phantom?" Velma said, confused.

"You know, for most jobs, I wouldn't be bothered. I've seen weirder stuff than this Phantom, believe it or don't. But uh…"

He leaned in close, almost whispering. Shaggy had to move closer to hear him over the commotion.

"We don't get paid unless we finish dis whole project on time. At the rate we're going, we're probably fine. Probably. But…"

"But there's a chance you'll fail, and Lillard won't have to pay you!" Velma said, eyes lighting up like lucky sevens on a Las Vegas slot machine.

"Bingo," Jack said, and crossed his arms.

"Like, is that why you were fighting with him before?" Shaggy asked.

Jack cocked his head to the side, looking miffed.

"Well, no, now that you mention it," he said. "Truthfully, it was something else entirely. How much do you know about architectural engineering?"

Shaggy's mouth opened and closed but nothing came out. He shrugged, not knowing what to say.

Velma, however, raised her hand like a student in a classroom.

"I know a fair bit," she volunteered. "I read a few books on it a while ago, for fun."

"For fun?" Jack seemed startled.

"Yes," Velma said without a touch of self-awareness. "I'd say the only downside to Falling Waters is the fact that it's too big to fit in a museum of art."

"Damn," Jack whistled, "you know Wright? Well I'll be a monkey's uncle."

"A gorilla, maybe?" Shaggy suggested. Jack shot him a look that made Shaggy feel like he'd just sucked on a lemon.

"Well," Jack said, "maybe I judged you too a bit too quickly. Come with me. I got somethin' t' show ya."