Dare to read: Нэнси Дрю и Братья Харди
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ПРИЯТНОГО ЧТЕНИЯ!
Franklin W. Dixon
The Hardy Boys: Undercover Brothers: Volume Three
Boardwalk Bust
Copyright © 2005 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Atac Briefing for Agents Frank and Joe Hardy
Mission: Investigate and put a halt to the recent rash of jewelry store robberies. Potential danger on the ground and in the air.
Location: Ocean Grove, NJ.
Potential Victims: All jewelry store owners in and around Ocean Grove.
Suspects: Undetermined. Ocean Grove is full of tourists who are just passing through.
This mission requires your immediate attention.
This message will be erased in five seconds.
In Too Deep
Being buried alive is no fun. No fun at all.
Let me set the scene:
A waterfall of corn was raining down on me. The grains felt like millions of BBs as they bounced off my head. A mountain of grain was rising like sand dunes all around me.
It was at least ten feet deep. It had the consistency of quicksand. I was sunk into it almost up to my knees, and it was trying really hard to suck me down. Meanwhile, the falling grain was sending up a billowing cloud of dust. I was totally choking on it.
Nice, huh?
It was mostly dark inside this grain bin, except for a distant square of light high above that threw faint shadows here and there. Corn was pouring through the hole—coming through the conveyor belt that a certain bad guy named Bill Pressman had started.
His intention?
To kill me and Frank.
Why?
That’s a long story.
But right now we were in trouble. I could just make out my brother Frank. He was about twenty feet away from me, but it might as well have been twenty miles. He was well out of reach, and buried even deeper than I was.
“Joe!” I heard him yell over the roar. “Where are you?”
“Over h-here!” I shouted back, choking on the dust. “We’ve got to do something!”
“No, duh. Ya think?”
“Okay, genius,” I said. “What’s your brilliant plan?”
And, as usual, Frank had one. Over the years, I’ve come to count on his uncanny ability to pull impossible right out of his ear.
“Joe, you’ve got to get out of here and shut off the conveyor!”
Uh, hel-lo. Anyone see me stuck in a pile of corn?
“I’m up to my knees in corn, bro,” I said. “How am I supposed to do that?”
“Hey, I’m up to my chest! Just figure out a way—you’ve got to get over to that ladder… up there on the wall.”
“Are you kidding me? I can hardly move—”
“J-Joe,” he gasped, “I feel like I’m gonna be ccrushed if it gets much higher…. It’s … gonna have to be you.”
I could tell he wasn’t joking now. Desperately, I tried to wiggle free. I swung my body back and forth. When I had a little play, I shifted my weight to my right leg, which was on the low side of the corn pile, and twisted myself loose. Then I rolled over, so I was lying with my back against the ever-shifting mountain.
That way I could do things like breathe and see. All right, so it wasn’t so hard.
Meanwhile, the corn kept raining down, adding to the pile. The dust made it hard to see anything.
“Okay,” I shouted. “Now what?”
“Shine your flashlight on me.”
I pulled out my light wand—sort of a combination laser cutter and flashlight—and pointed it at him. I could make out Frank now. He was holding up a pretty sweet gadget of his own.
“Use this grapple line,” he said. “Catch!”
He tossed it to me.
Luckily, I didn’t miss it. It would have been buried under the corn for sure.
By this time I’d gotten Frank’s intention. I aimed his gizmo at the ladder and fired. The strong nylon line shot out and wound itself around one of the rungs of the wooden ladder. The hook at the end of the grapple dug into the wood.
I pressed another button on the handy-dandy contraption, and it reeled itself back in, drawing me forward. I was pulled up the slippery slope, gliding with ease.
Before I knew it, I was on the ladder, climbing free of the death trap that still held my brother.
I kept climbing until I got to the door in the wall. The door was locked, of course— from the outside.
These guys thought of everything.
“I’ll just use my laser cutter,” I said, pocketing the grapple line and pulling out my other gadget.
“No!” Frank screamed. “Joe, grain dust is highly flammable—explosive, even! You’ll blow us both to smithereens!”
“Hmmm,” I said, stuffing it back in my pocket. “All righty, then. No lasers.”
I tried brute strength instead. Luckily, the lock was old and rusty, and it popped after five or six solid hits from my well-developed shoulder.
“Yes! Hang in there, Frank—I’ll just be a second.”
I scrambled down the ladder attached to the outside of the grain bin. As soon as I hit the ground, I hustled over to the switch that shuts off the conveyor belt. The machinery ground to a halt.
There.
I was surrounded by an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of my own heart pounding.
Luckily, Farmer Pressman seemed to be nowhere in sight. I realized with a sharp pang that he was probably gone for good, escaping justice in spite of all we’d done to catch him.
But there was no time to think about that now—I had to help Frank. I just hoped he was still breathing.
Along the side of the grain bin, I spotted a strange-looking yet familiar device. I recognized it from a newspaper article I’d read the week before. It was one of those new safety devices—what did they call it?
Oh yeah, a grain rescue tube!
But there was a complication. Between me and the rescue tube stood a cow. And not just any cow, but the cow that had kicked me in the eye just about an hour before.
Don’t even ask. I was lucky it didn’t blind me, and I’d be luckier still if I didn’t have a black eye to show for it.
I yelled at the cow to move, but she didn’t seem to get it. Cows are not the brightest.
Finally I lost my temper. I ran at the cow and shoved her out of the way.
“Moooo,” she complained.
But at least she didn’t kick me this time.
I hooked the two halves of the rescue tube to the grapple line. Then I climbed to the top of the ladder, pushed the button on Frank’s gizmo, and dragged them up after me.
Inside, the grain was no longer pouring off the conveyor belt. But Frank was now buried up to his neck, and I had to be careful coming near him. One false move and I could have set off an avalanche, burying Frank in corn. Once I had the two halves of the rescue tube in place around him, I hammered down both sides with my fists, so that Frank was surrounded by a sort of plastic cocoon.
“Now start scooping out the grain,” I told him.
“Can’t,” he gasped. “Can’t move. Can barely… breathe….”
I could see that the remaining grain inside the tube was squashing him pretty good. I realized I was the one who was going to have to get that corn out from around him and give him the space to haul himself out. So I hurried back outside, found a small shovel, took it back inside, and started digging him out.
Finally, after about fifteen minutes, Frank was able to wiggle himself up by the handles and get out. “I’m never eating popcorn again,” he told me as we climbed the ladder out of there.
“No cornflakes for me.”
“Corn muffins?”
“No way.”
“I’m with you, bro.”
We planted our feet on solid ground, and boy, did it ever feel good.
“No corn chips either.”
“Okay,” said Frank. “Glad we’ve got that straight. Now let’s go get our bikes. We’ve still got a criminal to catch.”
Ride Like the Wind
We peeled out of there on our motorcycles, Joe and I, leaving a cloud of dust behind us.
We raced down the farm’s driveway—really more like a long dirt road—zipping past the cornfields of Pressman Acres toward the main road.
The corn really was “as high as an elephant’s eye,” but Farmer Pressman, that no-good crooked slimebucket, was not going to be around to reap the benefits. That is, not if the sheriff had done his job and set up the roadblock like I told him to.
I couldn’t really get a good breath till we were back on the asphalt of the main road again, tooling toward home.
About those bikes of ours.
Just so you know, these are not just ordinary sport bikes. They’ve got 600 cc engines, huge twin caliper brakes, digital gauges, titanium-tipped exhaust pipes, twin front ram-air scoops—and that’s just for starters. Add in a few nifty little trick gadgets straight out of James Bond, along with a whole lot of style—like the flaming double red Hs painted on the sides—shake well, and you’ve got yourself one outstanding ride!
I looked to my left at Joe and felt a rush of joy go through me.
We’d almost been buried alive in that grain bin.
Breathing was good.
When Joe saw the flashers up ahead, he shot me a look—I could see the surprise on his face even under the visor. I just nodded, trying not to be too much of a wise guy. But it was me, after all, who’d insisted on putting that phone call in to the sheriff—just in case we were walking into a death trap (which it turned out we were).
Joe had called me a wimp for bringing in the police. Now I was tempted to rub it in—but I controlled myself If you’re intelligent, like me, you don’t bait people—especially when they’re muscle-bound and temperamental, like Joe, and thus likely to knock you flat on your rear.
We slowed down as we passed.
Three squad cars were blocking the road, and Pressman’s huge SUV was slung sideways in front of them.
There were skid marks where he’d hit the brakes. Soon there would be burn marks on his wrists, too. Those nylon handcuffs were chafing him as he sat with his back against a tree, trying unsuccessfully to work himself free.
Joe and I didn’t stop to chat. We had been working undercover on this case. It wouldn’t look good for the local sheriff—or for ATAC—if the newspapers found out that a couple of high school kids were involved.
This wasn’t Bayport, after all. It was western New Jersey, and I doubt if they’d ever heard of Frank and Joe Hardy, “amateur teen detectives,” around there.
It was just as well if the police took all the credit. ATAC is allergic to publicity. And as card-carrying members of ATAC—American Teens Against Crime—so are we. As we roared by the roadblock, Joe gave the sheriff a little salute. I didn’t want to look like a jerk, so I saluted too. The sheriff smiled and waved.
Farmer Pressman saw the exchange, and it must have dawned on him who the guys under the visors were, because his eyes lit up like fireworks.
“Hey, you lousy kids!” he screamed.
The rest of what he said I couldn’t hear. Sport bike engines are really loud, especially when you gun them. I really didn’t want to hear what he had to say, though, to tell you the truth. It wasn’t going to be anything nice.
We left him to choke on our dust, and to meditate on the fact that crime doesn’t pay.
I could tell Joe was laughing by the way his chest was bobbing up and down. It was funny now, sure—but I myself wasn’t ready to start joking about it. We’d come pretty close to getting smothered.
Very uncool. Pretty soon Joe stopped laughing. His eye was probably starting to hurt where that cow kicked it. Talk about embarrassing.
For the rest of the ride back to Bayport, we just concentrated on the highway and the wind in our faces.
Of course, at that point, we would have settled for a beat-up old Volvo. Anything was better than eating corn dust. It was good to be alive and on the way home.
We pulled into the driveway and parked behind Dad’s old Crown Vic—the one he took with him when he retired from the police force.
It’s an oldie but goodie, if you know what I mean. It’s still got all the super-charged extras police cruisers have (and some others that they don’t).
Dad was leaning against the fender with his legs and arms crossed and a sarcastic expression on his face. He’d been waiting for us.
“Well, nice of you two to show up. I was beginning to worry about you. What in the world happened?”
“We were reaping what we sowed,” Joe said with a grin, shaking the last stray grains of corn out of his pants.
“Lucky you didn’t meet the grim reaper,” Dad answered. I could tell he was not amused. He stood up and started walking over to us as we put our kickstands down and our visors up.
“I just got a call from Chief Collig. He says the sheriff over in West Hoagland, New Jersey, reported the capture of a major drug smuggler.”
Dad came up right between us and stopped. He crossed his arms again and continued, “This guy was a well-known local farmer, apparently. That factoid rang a bell. I remembered something about you two going off to visit a farm somewhere.” He looked at Joe, then at me. “Do you boys have something you want to tell me?”
Joe and I couldn’t help grinning at one another. “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’re untraceable.”
“Nice work,” Dad said, finally giving us a smile. “Glad you’re okay. Now go inside and get cleaned up. Your mom and Aunt Trudy have been waiting for you, and you look like something the cat dragged in.”
Dad really does worry about us. It’s not because he doesn’t think we can handle ourselves in a tight spot. He knows we can.
It’s just that he knows he’s responsible for everything.
He’s the one we took after, the one who taught us everything we know—up to a point. He’s the one who inspired us to become amateur detectives years ago, when we were still little kids.
But most importantly, he’s the one who founded ATAC and made us its first two agents. So like I say, it’s not that he doesn’t trust us—it’s that he hates putting kids in harm’s way. Especially his sons.
“Oh, and also,” Dad added, “Trudy said something about sheets.”
Sheets?
“Ugh,” Joe said, putting a hand to his forehead. “I forgot—it’s our day to help with the folding!”
Oh, right.
Joe and I exchanged a quick look.
Our clothes were a mess, all ripped. I had scratches all over my arm from fending off Farmer Pressman’s Dobermans. And Joe had the beginnings of a really magnificent black eye.
No way did we want to face Mom—and especially not Aunt Trudy—when we looked like we’d just been through a torture chamber.
Dad was staring at Joe’s black eye now. He put a hand up to it. Joe flinched at the touch.
“What happened, son?”
Joe hesitated, so I just jumped in.
“He got kicked by a cow.”
“Shut up,” Joe muttered, shooting me a look.
“A cow?”
“I … thought it would be a hoot to milk it,” Joe said with a sigh. “You know, we were just hanging around in the barn, waiting for this scuzzball to show up…”
“Well, you’d better get in there and wash up before your mother and aunt see you like that,” Dad said. “That way, you won’t have to explain any of this.”
We started for the kitchen door.
“And Joe—you might want to do something about that eye. You don’t want to go telling people you got in a fight with a cow and lost.”
“Dad’s right,” I said. “You might want to put some makeup on it.”
Joe scowled at me. “Do I look like I would wear makeup?”
“Suit yourself,” I said with a shrug.
We went into the house through the kitchen door. There are back stairs from there that lead up to our bedrooms—and, more importantly, the bathrooms.
We tiptoed our way along and were almost around the corner to the stairs when we heard Aunt Trudy’s voice booming out from the living room.
“Frank! Joe! I hear you clomping around in there!”
She came into the kitchen with Playback on her shoulder.
Playback is our pet parrot, and he loves to perch on Aunt Trudy’s shoulder and nibble on her earlobe. It’s probably because she lets him get away with it.
Aunt Trudy doesn’t have any kids of her own, and she sure doesn’t spoil us, ether—but I’m telling you, as far as she’s concerned, that parrot can do no wrong.
The funny thing is, when we first brought Playback home she hated him. She was totally grossed out by the way he pooped all over everything.
But one thing about our Aunt Trudy—she’s a tough old bird. Tougher than Playback, anyway. Before too long, she had him toilet trained! No lie. That bird would not poop anywhere but in his cage, and from that time on, he was Aunt Trudy’s baby.
“Got a good lie?” Joe whispered to me.
“I’ll make one up.”
“Oh, my goodness!” our mom gasped when she came into the kitchen and saw us.
“Holy mackerel!” Aunt Trudy nearly dropped the folded sheet she was holding.
Playback whistled long and low. “Aaawrk! Bad boys! Bad boys!”
“Joe! Your eye!” Mom said. “What in the world happened to you two? And no crazy made-up stories this time.”
“Well,” I began, “we kind of got caught in this grain bin… doing some research on farm safety devices…”
“Yeah!” Joe chimed in. “It’s an over-the-summer school assignment!”
“Grain bin?” Aunt Trudy repeated. “Summer assignment? Ha! A likely story. They were probably at it again, Laura—chasing after another gang of crooks!”
“Now, Gertrude,” our mom said, putting a calming hand out. “Don’t condemn the boys before you check the evidence.”
She went over to Joe and gently picked off a few grains of corn from his collar.
“See? Corn. They’re obviously telling the truth this time.”
“Hmph,” Aunt Trudy said. “Don’t tell me. Evidence or no evidence, I know these two, and they’ve been up to no good.”
“Crime-fighting isn’t exactly being ‘up to no good,’ Aunt Trudy,” Joe said.
Aunt Trudy raised one eyebrow, and Joe stopped right there.
“You’d better get yourselves cleaned up,” she said. “These sheets will be all wrinkled by the time they get folded.”
“Hop to it!” Playback squawked. “Hop to it!”
We ran up the stairs and got washed and changed as fast as we could, then came back down and started folding the sheets.
This has been a regular drill around our house since Joe and I were five years old. Every Saturday, Mom and Trudy wash the sheets, and Joe and I fold them. At this point we could do it in our sleep.
Still, Aunt Trudy never stops telling us how to do it just right. She’s a laundry fanatic, coaching us like we’re medical students doing our first brain surgery. Everything has to be done exactly her way.
“Pull on it—no, not like that… that’s better. Left front corner over right rear, now right front over left rear… and make sure the corners match up!”
Et cetera.
After a half dozen or so sheets, we were just about done folding when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it!” Joe said, eager to be the first one out of there.
Too late.
I had already beaten him to it, dumping the sheet in his arms and heading for the front door.
“Hey!” I heard him shout behind me.
I opened the door—to find a Girl Scout, of all things.
“Hi!” she said, flashing me a big smile that showed off her very shiny metal braces. She had to be at least thirteen, maybe closer to fifteen. Kind of old for a Girl Scout…
“Wanna buy some cookies?” She held out a box of Thin Mints.
“Um, no thanks,” I said. “I think we’ve still got a few boxes from the last time. Hey, come to think of it, weren’t you just here last month selling cookies? I thought it was a once-a-year kind of thing.”
“Oh!” she said, her cheeks reddening. “Well, that was, um, another Girl Scout troop. Yeah, that’s right. Our troop does it a month later.”
She laughed nervously.
“Oh, yeah? How come?”
“Um, just to be different?” She shrugged her shoulders and giggled some more. This was getting weird.
I had half a mind to say, “No, thanks” again and get it over with. We had enough Girl Scout cookies in the pantry. But this girl was pretty cute—even with her braces. And when cute girls smile at me, it always makes me nervous. I kind of choke up and, well… I start acting like a complete moron.
“Hmmm,” I said. “How about some vanilla Trefoils?”
“Um, no,” she said, shaking her head. “We’re out of those. Try these Thin Mints instead.” Again, she thrust the box of cookies at me.
“No, really,” I said, pushing them away. “I don’t even like chocolate and mint together. It’s… not my thing.”
“Frank?” I heard Aunt Trudy calling. “Are you coming back in here? These sheets aren’t going to fold themselves.”
“Coming, Aunt Trudy!” I turned back to the Girl Scout. “Look, I’ve gotta go,” I said. “Sorry. Maybe next time.”
“You dummy,” she said, freezing me in mid-turn.
“Huh?”
“Just take them, okay?”
“I don’t underst—”
Before I could finish, she shoved the dreaded box of Thin Mints into my hand.
“ They’re not cookies, doofus,” she whispered, widening her eyes and staring at me.
“Not … cookies?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Ooooh. Okay, then,” I said, getting it at last. “Sorry. I’m a little dense sometimes.”
Especially around girls.
“Bye!” she said, giving me a wave and another big metal smile.
“Good luck.” I opened the box, just to take a peek. Sure enough, there were no cookies inside. Instead there was a video game CD, with a label that read: BOARDWALK BUST.
Good luck?
Hmm. Maybe Joe and I were going to need it.
Turns out our cute little friend was no Girl Scout—she was from ATAC. And she had just brought us our next case.
Shore Thing
I was in the living room, trying to do, by myself, what is impossible to do without someone else helping you: fold a queen-size fitted bedsheet.
And where was Frank? At the front door, talking to some girl.
I could hear them from the living room—when Playback wasn’t screeching, that is. That parrot was busy using his feathers to mess up the sheets we’d already done.
His idea of fun.
It’s a strange thing about Frank and girls. They make him go all weird. He starts acting like a complete geek, which is not normally him. Well, maybe it is, just a little—but not as much as when girls are around.
Funny thing is, it seems to make the girls like Frank more than ever.
It gets me crazy sometimes. Frank can’t dance, has no smooth moves, no dimple in his chin, no big muscles. All of which I’ve got in spades, by the way. But that doesn’t seem to matter at all. Girls like Frank’s bumbling shy act better.
I just don’t get it.
Finally, Frank came back into the living room, and we started folding sheets again.
“What was that all about, dear?” Mom asked him.
“Girl Scouts,” Frank said, looking at the floor. “Selling cookies.”
“Well, I hope you didn’t buy any,” Aunt Trudy said. “Why, they were here just last month. I think it’s nervy. How many cookies do they expect one household to buy?”
“Aaarrck!” Playback started in. “Get lost! Scram! Fuggedaboudit!”
“I didn’t buy any,” Frank said. Then he noticed we were all staring at the box of Thin Mints sticking out of the back pocket of his cargo pants.
“Oh… these were a… uh… a free gift!”
“ Free gift? ” Aunt Trudy said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, now, that’s different!” She smiled. “Frank, why don’t you put them out on a platter and let’s all have some?”
“Cookie! Cookie! Playback wanna cookie!” the parrot screeched, flapping his wings.
The panic in Frank’s eyes was plainly visible, but he was looking at me. His back was to Trudy and Mom—and it was a good thing, too.
Obviously, he needed my help. I didn’t know why, but I knew enough not to ask.
“Hey, Frank,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Don’t you and I have to finish that farm project for school? You know, write up the report?”
“For school?” Aunt Trudy said, raising her eyebrow so high it was halfway up her scalp. “It’s July!”
“It’s part of our summer project,” I explained. “We have to do a blog. Daily entries. And we’re way behind, aren’t we, Frank?”
“Uh… yeah!”
“Hmmph.” Clearly Aunt Trudy didn’t buy it.
Lucky for us Mom was there. “Oh, let them go, Trudy,” she said. “Can’t you see they’re tired of folding?”
“It’s all that amateur detective nonsense,” Trudy grumbled. “I don’t know why you put up with it. If they were mine—”
“I know, dear,” Mom said in the most soothing voice you ever heard. “It’s just awful. You boys are going to cut down on all that amateur sleuthing, aren’t you? Promise me.”
“Sure, Mom,” we both said, crossing our fingers behind our backs. “You bet.”
“All right, then, go on,” she said. “We’ll see you at dinner.”
“Liar! Liar! Pants on fire!” Playback squawked as we ran up the back stairs to Frank’s room.
That parrot is gonna get it one of these days, I swear. He’s just lucky I’m a bird lover.
“Greetings, and welcome to Ocean Point, your very own paradise on the Jersey Shore!” Frank and I sat glued to the computer monitor as the CD came on.
At first it looked like a typical travel advertisement aimed at potential tourists—except that it was computer animated, like any video game.
Our “host” was a voice-over, and the pictures showed a boardwalk crowded with happy beach-goers. There were people eating ice cream cones, cotton candy, and hot dogs. Little kids raced around in their bathing suits playing tag. In the background was the beach, with surfers riding the waves and swimmers bobbing up and down in the water.
Then the whole picture went to static. When it came back into focus, we were staring at the face of Q.T., the director of ATAC.
“Hello, boys,” he said, not smiling. (Q.T. never smiles.) “Unfortunately, there seems to be a bit of trouble in this particular slice of paradise. Trouble in the form of a rash of burglaries.”
The monitor showed pictures of broken display cases, shattered plate glass, and bits of gold and silver scattered around everywhere.
“In the past month three jewelry stores in town have been broken into, causing heavy losses to the stores’ owners. More serious, though, is the effect a crime wave could have on a beach resort like Ocean Point. The tourist season is just starting. You boys have got to stop these jewel thieves in their tracks before they scare the tourists away.”
“Some time on the beach sounds good,” I said to Frank, but he wasn’t listening.
When he’s concentrating, nothing breaks through to him.
“In recent years, Ocean Point has become a haven for young people like yourselves,” Q.T. went on. “And since the heal police seem to be stymied, I thought we’d put you two on the case. You’ll find some spending money and one or two other things we thought might come in handy. Good luck—and you know where to reach me if you run into any trouble you can’t get out of.”
“Yeah,” I said, “how come we didn’t try that when we were in the grain bin?”
“No cellular service,” Frank reminded me, his eyes still glued to the monitor. “Dead zone.”
Dead zone.
Yeah, I’d say that grain bin was a dead zone, all right. We were lucky to have those gadgets on us.
“As you know, this CD will reformat to an ordinary music CD in five seconds. Your mission, as always, is and must remain top secret.”
Frank and I silently counted to five. Sure enough, the picture went to a neutral background pattern, and music by the Surfaris started blaring out of the speakers. If Mom or Aunt Trudy had happened to open the door and peek in, everything would have looked normal—and that was the idea.
“Hmmm… jewel heists, eh?”
I reached into the cookie box and pulled out a nice-sized wad of cash. “Yes!” I said, starting to count it. “There’s a good $500 here! You and I are gonna have a partaaay on the beach!”
Frank gave me a smile and shook his head.
“Born to be wild,” he said, and shook out the rest of what was in the box.
There was a cheap disposable camera and a night vision telescope that collapsed down to the size of a shot glass.
“Hey, this is pretty cool,” Frank said, playing with the scope.
Then he spotted the PDA. “Sweet!” he said, picking it up and turning it on. “Here we go. We’ve got all the names and addresses of the jewelry stores that have been hit, and some others that haven’t been—yet.”
He scrolled down and whistled. “Wow! Two hundred thousand dollars worth of stuff stolen from one store alone!”
“I’ve got a great idea,” I said, hefting the wad of cash. “You and I could ride our bikes down there, but…”
“Yeesss?”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to feel sore all over… and we’d be sitting in Sunday traffic for hours and hours….”
“So…?”
“Well, we’ve got enough money that we could fly down there,” I suggested.
Oh, yeah—by the way, Frank and I are certified pilots, another one of the cool pluses of being ATAC agents.
“I don’t know, Joe. That money has got to last us for who knows how long.”
“Dude, how long could it possibly take to round up a gang of jewel thieves?” I said.
“And anyway, the sooner we get there…”
“Okay.” Frank gave in. “I guess you’re right. I am sore all over. Flying down will be relaxing.”
“Exactly!” I said, slapping him—gently—on the back. “Now you’re getting into the beach party spirit!”
“There’s just one problem,” Frank said, looking up at me.
“Yes?”
“How are we going to explain this to Mom and Aunt Trudy?”
I thought for a minute.
“Easy,” I said. “We’ll lie through our teeth.”
Lies, and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them
When Joe says, “We’ll lie through our teeth,” he means I’ll lie through my teeth.
Joe’s a terrible liar. I don’t know if he’s just too honest, or just a bad actor. All I can say is that somehow, whenever we have to fib our way out of—or into—a situation, it’s always me who winds up doing the talking.
I’ve come to accept this. I used to fight it, but eventually I realized it was no use.
If we wanted our parents to let us fly down to the Jersey Shore for a few days of unsupervised “rest and relaxation,” I was going to have to come up with a good line of baloney. No way could we risk revealing our true purpose.
There’s a very good reason why ATAC is top secret, see. If bad guys knew about it, they might try to get even with us agents—or even our families. On the other hand, you can’t get information out of someone who doesn’t know anything. So the fewer people who are in on the secret, the better.
Not that Mom and Aunt Trudy don’t get suspicious sometimes.
It goes back to the days when Joe and I were kids, solving cases we weren’t supposed to even get involved with. We got pretty well known there for a while, but ever since Dad created ATAC, we’ve tried to keep our activities quiet.
That means a whole lot of lying to everyone we know, except Dad. I don’t like it, and neither does Joe, but it’s the price we have to pay if we want to fight crime in a big way.
So the next morning I had my bag of lies all ready to go.
“Um, Mom,” I said as I toyed with my scrambled eggs, “Joe and I would like to go down to the Jersey Shore for a week. Could we go?”
“By yourselves?” Aunt Trudy broke in. She was sitting between us, looking from one of us to the other like we were out of our minds.
“I don’t know, Frank,” Mom said. “You boys just got back from a trip, and now you want to go away again so soon? Fenton, what do you think? Shouldn’t they be spending more time at home?”
Dad lowered his newspaper—the one he likes to hide behind whenever there’s a family dispute—and looked straight into my eyes.
I tried to signal him that this was important.
He seemed to get it. Turning to Mom, he said, “Well, dear, it is the summertime, after all. I think the boys are old enough to go to the beach on their own.”
“Probably get themselves into more mischief,” Aunt Trudy grumbled.
Aunt Trudy loves us, but she’s always afraid we’re going to get hurt. And I guess she has reason to be nervous. Joe and I have gotten into more dangerous situations as kids than most people do in their whole lives. “And how are they going to get there?” she continued. “Not on those motorcycles, I hope! Do you know how dangerous those things are? And look at the way they looked last night!”
“It’s true,” Mom said, balling her napkin up into a knot. “Fenton, they only just got back—why do they have to leave again? Can’t it wait till next week?”
I gave Dad another look. This couldn’t wait.
He cleared his throat. “Um, actually, I’ve got the wood for the new backyard fence being delivered next week I was hoping the boys could help me with that. This week would be better.”
“Well,” Mom said, turning to me and Joe, “I hope at least you won’t take your motorcycles this time. I’d feel better if you gave them a rest for a while.”
“We won’t, Mom,” I promised. “Right, Joe?”
“Nope,” he said, giving her a smile and crossing his heart.
“They still have buses that go down there from the city, don’t they?” Mom asked.
“Um, actually,” I said, “we thought we might fly down.”
I’d been saving this information till we got permission to go. Now I sprung it on them, knowing full well how they’d react.
“Are you serious?” Aunt Trudy said.
“What? We’re licensed pilots,” Joe pointed out.
“Yes,” Trudy agreed. “But that doesn’t make you good ones.”
“Now, Trudy,” Dad said, “I’ve flown with the boys, and they’re both perfectly fine pilots.”
“Then why is it that every time they fly, something terrible happens?” Trudy asked.
“Mayday! Mayday!” Playback screeched, flapping his wings. “SOS! We’re going down! Mayday! Mayday!”
“Shhh!” Trudy silenced him, giving him a cornflake. “Last time they flew a plane, as I recall, there was engine trouble—or at least that’s what the story was.”
“It was engine trouble, Aunt Trudy,” Joe said.
“Really? Well, it just so happens Adam Franklin is an old friend of mine. He swore up and down that he’d looked over that engine six ways from Sunday before you boys took the plane up.”
Joe and I exchanged a glance. We knew we were caught in a lie. That plane hadn’t had engine trouble—it literally had a monkey wrench thrown into it. And it wasn’t Adam Franklin, our trusty airplane maintenance man, who’d thrown it.
“And then there was the time before that. What was it, a mysterious hole in the gas tank?”
“Look, it’s probably just a run of bad luck,” said good old Mom. “I know my boys, Trudy, and they’re certainly not reckless pilots.”
“So it’s settled then?” I jumped in, before anyone could say anything else about our flying skills.
“Just be careful,” our dad said, putting a merciful end to the discussion. “You boys have enough money for your trip?”
I thought of the cash that had come in the cookie box. I also knew that, thanks to ATAC, the flight down to Ocean Point would be covered separately.
“We’ll be fine,” I said.
“All right, then,” Mom said. “When do you mean to go?”
“Right after breakfast,” I told her.
Joe had already shoveled his breakfast down his gullet. I now followed suit, and we got out of there. We had a mission to start, and I didn’t want to have to tell any more lies—at least not to our family.
As we left the kitchen, I heard Playback serenading us, displaying his usual sense of humor.
“Mayday! Mayday! We’re goin’ down, boys! SOS!”
“You sure she’s fit to fly?” I asked Adam Franklin as we climbed aboard our two-passenger Piper—Joe at the controls, me sitting behind him to navigate. We’d called about an hour ahead so he could get our plane ready.
“Oh, you bet!” Adam said, taking off his Red Sox cap and scratching his bald head. “Last time your Aunt Trudy gave me what for about it!”
“Hey, that’s ancient history,” I said. “Don’t worry about it, Adam. Let’s focus on this time.”
“No prob,” he said, giving us a wave and patting the silver side of the plane. “She’s in perfect shape. Weather’s good too. You boys have a nice flight. Take my word for it, it’ll be a safe one—long as you don’t do any loop-de-loops.”
Soon we were airborne and headed south.
We picked up the Jersey Shore at Sandy Hook and kept it in sight as we went. We passed over Long Branch, Monmouth University, and the Shark River Inlet.
It was right about when we hit Long Beach Island that the fog bank rolled in from out of nowhere.
Within the space of two minutes, we were flying totally blind, relying only on our dashboard compass for direction. These little one-engine jobs don’t have radar, in case you were wondering. You’re basically not supposed to fly them in bad weather.
“Where did this stuff come from?” Joe asked, frowning at the fog. “I thought Adam said the weather was going to be fine.”
“You know Jersey. If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute.”
“I know our luck with airplanes,” Joe replied. “And so does Aunt Trudy.”
“Just keep us headed the right way,” I told him. “This can’t last long.”
Mmm hmm. Famous last words.
The fog lasted for a good ten minutes. And when we finally came out of it, there was another plane coming right at us.
Beach Bound
“Bank left!”
I didn’t need Frank screaming in my ear to know what to do. In that moment I was all instinct. I pulled on the throttle and my stomach turned as we banked hard left—so hard that we were upside down for a moment before we came back around.
“Whew!” I said. “That was close!”
“Too close,” Frank agreed. I could feel him grabbing my leather jacket for all he was worth. He was holding on so tightly that I couldn’t move to maneuver the plane.
“Dude, let go of me,” I said. “I’ve gotta fly this thing.”
He let go, but the plane kept bucking.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Frank looked behind us, then yelled, “There’s something caught on our tail!”
Just for a second, I risked letting go of the controls to get a look.
Sure enough, there was a big piece of cloth caught on our tail. It was flapping wildly in the wind, dragging the back of the plane down. If we didn’t get it off, and quick, it was going to make us stall out.
Not good.
Neither of us needed to say anything. We both knew we had only one option—one of us had to climb out onto the fuselage and pull the cloth free, or we were going to take a fatal dive into the Atlantic Ocean.
“I’ll go,” I said.
“No! You stay put—just try and keep us steady.”
Before I could argue with him, Frank pulled back the cockpit cover and climbed up and out, onto the top of the fuselage.
I couldn’t bear to watch, and anyway, I had to keep the plane sure and steady so he didn’t fall off. We were a good thousand feet up, and as good a high diver as Frank is, there was no way he could have survived a plunge like that.
I happen to be a crackerjack pilot, but this plane was getting almost impossible to control. (You try keeping a small airplane steady with someone climbing on it!) The closer Frank got to the tail, the more he was throwing off the plane’s balance, and the harder my job was getting.
I felt a sudden easing of the drag, and a minute later Frank tumbled back into his seat behind me. “Whew!” he said. “That was exciting.”
“What in the world was that thing?”
“One of those banners—you know, the ads planes fly back and forth over the beach?”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “That plane that almost hit us…”
Now it was clear what must have happened. We’d avoided hitting the plane, but the banner it was trailing got snagged on our tail. We were just lucky it had snapped off the other plane, or it could have dragged both aircraft down.
“It took a little chunk out of our tail,” Frank told me. “How’s she flying?”
“Not too bad,” I said, “but we’d better take her down before we lose anything else.”
“Where are we?” I looked around and saw the familiar shapes of Atlantic City’s many casinos in the distance. “There you go.”
“Atlantic City? But that’s forty miles from—”
“I know, dude,” I said. “We’ll just have to get there some other way. I’m not risking it. We’ve had enough excitement for one flight.”
He didn’t argue. I guess we were both a little shell-shocked. First the grain bin and now this—and all in the space of twenty-four hours!
We finally landed at the Atlantic City airport and phoned Adam to let him know what had happened. Adam’s in on the ATAC secret, luckily. He said not to worry about it, that he’d take care of it with a few phone calls.
Now the only problem was how we’d get to Ocean Point. We’re not old enough to rent a car, and our bikes were back in Bayport. Being stranded in Atlantic City with a bunch of cash may be some people’s idea of a good time, but we had a mission to accomplish in Ocean Point, and no way to get there.
“How ’bout a taxi?” Frank suggested. He pointed to a row of cabs parked outside the terminal building.
“No way,” I said. “Ocean Point is forty miles from here. Do you know how much that would run us? We’d be blowing a big chunk of our budget before we even got there! And I am primed for some serious spending.”
Just then I felt somebody tapping me on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, son,” a deep, booming voice said. “Did you say you needed a lift to Ocean Point?”
I turned around and took a good look at this human megaphone. He was a big, brawny guy—I guessed about fifty years old, six feet, maybe 230 pounds, with a bushy head of brown hair that was getting gray around the temples.
This guy looked like he spent most of his time out in the sun. His tanned face brought out the whiteness of his big teeth when he smiled. The smile looked like a professional dental job—a really expensive one.
“Yes, sir,” Frank said. “We were headed there in our plane, but we had a little trouble with it.”
“Oh yeah? What sort of trouble?”
I told him about our near miss.
He shook his head and frowned. “Mmmm, yeah. Some of those banner pilots are real cowboys,” he said. “You boys are real lucky to be alive.”
“You can say that again,” I said.
“Name’s Bump,” he said, holding out his hand. “Bump Rankowski.”
I shook it, and he nearly crushed my hand in his grip. Whoa. This guy was strong.
“Joe Hardy,” I said. “And this is my brother Frank.”
“Good to meet you, Frank,” Bump said, crushing Frank’s hand in turn.
I flexed my own, just to make sure it wasn’t broken.
“So you say you’re headed to Ocean Point? Well, that’s where I’m headed too—just got clearance from the tower. Would you like a lift? No charge.”
To tell you the truth, getting back in a plane just then was the last thing I wanted to do, and I’m sure Frank felt the same. On top of that, we didn’t know this guy from a hole in the ground, and who could tell what kind of pilot he was?
On the other hand, if he wasn’t a terrific pilot, either of us was plenty good enough to help him correct a mistake or get out of a jam.
Besides, what better choice did we have? Opportunity was knocking, and we weren’t about to let a lucky break go by.
“Excellent!” Frank said.
“Sweet,” I agreed. “You’re sure it’s not—?”
“No problem,” Bump said. “I’ve got me a four-seater. Unless you’ve got company, I count three of us. You ready to fly?”
He gave us another dazzling smile and put a powerful arm around each of our shoulders. “Come on—she’s parked right outside.”
“This is really great of you, Mr. Rankowski,” Frank said.
“Please, call me Bump. Nobody calls me by my last name. Not once we’ve shook hands.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, “Frank said, “how did you get—”
“The name Bump?” he finished, laughing. “ That’s how—check her out, boys. She’s good for a bump or two, all right!”
Removing his arms from around our shoulders, he pointed to a Day-Glo red Cessna parked across the runway. The teeth and eyes of a great white shark were painted on the sides.
“Awesome!” I said, going over to take a closer look. “Oh, man! This thing rocks!”
“Meet Jaws. She’s my pride and joy,” Bump said, patting the side of the plane. “Go on, hop in.”
“Whoa,” Frank said, admiring the instrument panel. It was all sporty; all the dials were phosphor white.
We got strapped in while Bump started going through his preflight checklist. “My birth name was Arnold,” he said, “but I never liked it. So when people started calling me Bump, I let ’em.”
He started the engine. “So, what brings you boys to Ocean Point? Little vacation?”
Frank gave me a look of caution—like I didn’t know to watch what I said. I mean, give me a break! “Fourth of July weekend,” I said. “Gotta hit the beach, right?”
“You bet!” Bump said. “You look like you could use a break, Joe. Get punched in the eye, did you?”
“Um, sort of.”
“Kicked, actually,” Frank volunteered.
I kicked him in the ankle to keep him from saying anything else about it. “It’s a long story,” he said, wisely leaving it at that.
“Well, anyway, you can’t find a better beach than Ocean Point. Best spot on the whole Jersey Shore—and I oughta know. After all, I’m the mayor.”
“The mayor?” Frank said, sitting bolt upright in his seat. “Wow!”
“Yup, that’s me—live and in person.”
Bump gunned the engine, and we started taxiing down the runway. The noise was deafening, but Bump had the kind of voice that can cut through anything—a politician’s voice. “Lived in Ocean Point all my life. You want to know something about the place, I’m the guy to ask.”
Frank and I exchanged a quick look. This was a perfect chance to start our investigation—but we had to be careful. Bump Rankowski seemed like a friendly guy, all right, but as the mayor of a town with a crime wave, he might be sensitive to certain kinds of questions.
We sat back and waited till Bump got us airborne. He did a slow turn, and we headed back north, keeping the shoreline on our left. There was no trace of the fog bank that had nearly killed us.
“Boy, the weather sure changes fast around here,” Frank said.
“You got that right,” Bump said. “Gotta keep your eyes open when you’re flyin’ the beach.”
“Flying the beach?” I repeated.
“I’m a banner pilot too,” Bump said. “I own a six-plane outfit. You see a banner being flown this week, it’s probably me or one of my boys.” He pointed to a big white button above his head. “See that? That unfurls the banner.”
“You own the company?” I asked.
“That’s what pays for things like this baby.” He patted the ultra-high-tech dash- board with its expensive wood and gold trim. I thought of the pilot who’d nearly killed us less than an hour ago.
“You weren’t up flying today, were you?” I asked.
“Naw, not with the fog,” he said. “I grounded my entire fleet at four o’clock when we got the forecast…. Oh, I get what you’re thinkin’! No, it wasn’t me, or any of mine. Ha! That’s funny!” He laughed hard, slapping his knees.
It wasn’t that funny.
“Are there other companies that fly the beaches?” Frank asked.
“Oh, yeah. There are three or four outfits that run advertising up and down the shore. Some of ’em will hire any old pilot too—sounds like you boys ran into a real cowboy.”
“I don’t think he saw us coming, any more than we saw him,” Frank said.
Bump shook his head in disgust. “He shouldn’t even have been up there. Once fog rolls in, it’s way too dangerous—well, I guess I don’t have to tell you that!” He laughed again. “Listen, I’ll try to find out who it was. Can’t let him get away with shenanigans like that.”
I hated to see somebody get fired, especially since there was no way it was intentional. “Aw, that’s okay,” I said. “I think we’d rather just let it go….”
“Now, you just leave it to me,” Bump said, turning back to look at us. “It’s my job to keep my town safe, and that’s what I’m gonna do.” He nodded slowly. “I know people, and I can get things done. You just watch me.”
There was something about the way he said it that gave me a chill. Underneath his friendly politician act, I could see that Bump Rankowski wasn’t somebody you’d want to cross.
The sun was setting, and lights were coming on all along the shore. “There’s Ocean Point now!” Bump said, pointing to a cluster of lights in the distance. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
We nodded in agreement, staring down at the town as we approached. I could see a boardwalk with lots of stores, restaurants, and attractions. There was even a small pier with rides and arcades—sort of a miniature version of Seaside Heights or Asbury Park.
“Looks like a good time,” I said, giving Bump a wink.
“Oh, you boys are gonna flip for it,” he assured us. “No place like it.”
Frank cleared his throat, and I knew what was coming. “Um, didn’t I read something somewhere about some robberies happening there recently? What was it, jewelry stores?”
I could see Bump’s face freeze into a mask. His smile was still in place, white as ever, but his eyes had changed somehow. Behind them, the wheels were working.
“Oh, that,” he said, forcing a laugh. “Just a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of thing. You know, people come into town from all over. Once in a while, there’s bound to be a bad apple.”
“Right,” Frank agreed, but I could tell he was starting to get suspicious.
SUSPECT PROFILE
Name: Arnold “Bump” Rankowski
Hometown: Ocean Point, New Jersey
Physical description: Age 48, 6′, 230 lbs., ruddy complexion, deep suntan, graying hair, always smiling, big teeth.
Occupation: Mayor of Ocean Point
Background: Wealthy entrepreneur/ politician who was born in Ocean Point and wound up as its mayor. Never married. No children.
Suspicious behavior: The sense that he’s got a secret.
Suspected of: Is he hiding what he knows about the jewel thefts?
Possible motives: Saving his town’s reputation, maybe?
“Has the thief been caught yet?” Frank asked.
“Not yet,” Bump said, staring straight ahead as he pointed us toward the landing strip. “But we’ve got the best police department on the whole shore, and they’re on the case. Don’t you boys worry. Ocean Point is as safe a spot as you’ll ever find.”
He brought us in for a perfect landing, and we taxied to a stop outside the small terminal building. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll drive you to your hotel. Where are you staying?”
“Well, we hadn’t figured that out yet,” I said. “Any suggestions?”
“Are you kidding?” he said. “I’ve got a million of them.”
He drove us to the Surfside Inn, just half a block from the boardwalk. “Here you go,” he said, pulling over. “Best spot in town if you’re on a budget—and most kids your age are.”
“Thanks, Mr. Rankowski,” Frank said. “I mean, Bump.”
“Don’t be strangers, now. If you need anything, you can find me at City Hall, over on Main Street.”
“Well,” Frank said, as Bump pulled away in his big black Lincoln. “That was interesting.”
“Weird,” I said. “What did you think of our new friend?”
“He’s definitely a politician,” Frank said. “You’ve got to take everything he says with a grain of salt.”
“Did you see how he froze up when you mentioned the robberies?”
“Definitely.”
“I guess he’s not happy that the news is getting around.”
“Would you be, if you were the mayor?”
“Good point,” I said. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m beat. Let’s check in, get some supper, and hit the sack.”
“What, no partying?” Frank said, giving me an elbow in the ribs.
“Shut up,” I said.
Ocean Point
I woke up the next morning when the sun rose over the horizon and shone right smack into my face. It glinted over the ocean, magnifying the light till it was blinding. There was no way to keep on sleeping.
“Oh, man,” I said to Joe, who was holding his pillow over his head to keep the light away. “You forgot to close the curtains!”
“ I forgot?” He threw his pillow at me. I threw mine at him.
“Close the curtains,” he said.
“Me? Why me? You’re closer to the window.”
“Because, dude,”
Joe groaned. “I hurt all over.”
“ You hurt? Hey, I’m the one who almost got crushed in that grain bin!”
“Big deal,” Joe said. “I’m the one who got kicked by a cow!”
“I’m the one who went out on the wing of the plane!”
“Okay, okay,” Joe said, hoisting himself up and going to close the curtains. Half a minute later he was back in bed and passed out.
Despite my victory, I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I took a hot shower instead. It took some of the soreness out of my muscles. Then I went downstairs to check out the scene.
It was a gorgeous summer morning. The hotel was only half a block from the boardwalk. In between was a miniature golf course, already packed with kids and their parents.
It was a little early for swimming, but by ten o’clock, lots of people would be on the beach and in the water. It was going to be a hot one.
I had some pancakes at the restaurant up the block, then went back up to the room to wake Joe. Time was a-wasting. We had to get started if we wanted to nail our serial jewel thief.
Joe was already up, out of the shower, and in his bathing suit. “Time to check out the scenery!” he said. “I’m feeling irresistible today. Hey, how does my eye look?”
“Better,” I lied. “It barely shows. Still, you’d better come up with a good story to explain how you got it.”
“Whatever I do come up with, you’d better back me up.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Come on, let’s hit the beach.”
“Joe, don’t you think we’d better do some investigating first? I mean, we’re here on a case, remember?”
Joe gave me a look. “All work and no play makes Frank a dull boy.”
“How ’bout we go to the jewelry stores that got hit, and see what we can find out?” I suggested.
“Later,” Joe said, admiring himself in his new bathing suit. “Gotta take a swim first.”
“Joe …”
“Maybe do a little surfing … we could rent boards….”
“Joe …”
“Hey, there’s information to be dug up on the beach, too, right? Right?”
I sighed, shook my head, and went to get my suit on.
There’s no arguing with Joe sometimes. Like when the surf looked this good.
Hang on, I’ve got to step in.
In his heart Frank knew I was right. There was no better way to get the lay of the land than to go out and do what everyone else was doing.
In Ocean Point that meant swimming. It meant surfing. It meant beach volleyball, cruising the boardwalk, hitting the arcades and amusement park rides, finding cool junk and funky T-shirts in the gift shops and stores. It meant checking out the side- walk artists and performers who were everywhere in this honky-tonk beach town.
And ah, yes, taking in the bikini parade. Awesome.
It meant eating at pizza joints and soft ice cream stands, hot dogs and pretzels and cotton candy…
Suddenly I realized I hadn’t eaten breakfast. “Frank,” I said. “Let’s stop and get something to eat.”
“No thanks,” he said. “I already ate.”
“Huh? When was that?”
“While you were sleeping.” Frank can be so annoying sometimes.
“You didn’t bring me anything back?”
“I didn’t know what you’d want.”
Yeah, right. “Okay, well, I’ve gotta eat something. Now. ”
“Whatever,” he said.
We went outside and headed for the boardwalk. Right away I spotted a sign that read: SALTWATER TAFFY—HOMEMADE!
Sounded good to me. I always like to sample the native cuisine. We started heading over.
Over at the amusement park on the nearby pier, we saw some kids screaming on the Ferris wheel. There was a tattoo parlor called Rat-a-Tattoo, and a sign that read: FREAK SHOW—TICKETS $10!
As we entered the saltwater taffy place, we saw this guy behind the counter who—I swear—looked like he was made out of saltwater taffy. He was fat, and flabby, and bald, and slightly green. He was reading the morning paper.
“Hi, I’d like some taffy,” I told him.
He lowered his paper and slid off his stool. “What flavor you want?” he asked. He had an accent—Russian, it sounded like.
“I don’t know… the pink,” I said.
“Strawberry… good choice. How much you want?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Enough for breakfast.”
He didn’t bat an eyelash.
With a big, scary-looking knife, he sliced off a piece of the sticky stuff, slipped it into a plastic bag, and handed it to me. “Six-fifty,” he said.
While I was fishing out my wallet, Frank asked him, “Is there really salt water in saltwater taffy?”
The guy smiled. His teeth were all rotted out and black, naturally.
“Nah!” he said. “Good question, though. Most people assume it’s made out of salt water. Americans, they aren’t very curious. You’re a smart boychick.”
“Smart what?” Frank said.
“Boychick. Russian for boy. So you want some taffy too?”
“No, thanks,” Frank said. “My brother’s the one with the sweet tooth.”
“Smart kid,” the man said, chuckling. “Thinks about his teeth, they shouldn’t get cavities.”
He turned to me. “You should be more like your brother. Maybe then you won’t get black eye.”
“How do they make taffy?” Frank asked him, before I could tell the guy where to get off.
“ They? I make it! Right here in the store.”
He pointed to a big machine in the back of the shop that was churning a load of gooey green taffy in spirals, over and over and over again. “That’s how we do it. Gotta spin for four hours to get the right softness. You buy it in supermarket, it’s not the same thing.”
“I bet it isn’t,” Frank said, looking at the man’s newspaper. “So, what’s all this about robberies in town? Any idea who’s behind it?” Frank asked, pointing at the front page.
Now I saw why he’d been wasting his time on this slob. Frank never stops thinking.
“If you ask me, everybody here has racket. This is just the same thing, only big- time. Everybody is con artist.”
I bit my lip. What were Frank and I, if not con artists? Making people believe we were just here for a little fun in the sun, while all the time we were really tracking down a brazen thief?
While they were talking, I was trying to break off a piece of taffy to start chewing on. It didn’t want to stop stretching, though, and pretty soon I was fighting with it, backing up toward the window.
Suddenly something grabbed me by the hair.
“Aaargh!”
“NO!” the taffy man shouted. “Don’t go there! You’ll get stuck!”