High-Speed Showdown (2 page)

Newcastle turned and brushed the hand from his shoulder, growling, “Too bad, because I've finished listening, Batten. I'm sick of you
and
that cute plastic necklace of yours.”

He reached out, as if to flick the ivory medallion with his forefinger. Batten took a step back, then cocked his fist to throw a punch. The people sitting at tables nearby scrambled for safety, and several chairs were knocked over.

Joe decided that the two men had to be stopped before someone got hurt. He caught Frank's eye and gestured with his head toward Newcastle.

Then, as Frank moved toward the older man, Joe stepped in front of Batten.

“Hey, pal,” he said in a soothing voice. “Let's all take it easy, okay?”

Batten's face contorted. “Sure,
pal!”
he said through clenched teeth. As he aimed a fast blow at Joe's midsection, he added, “Try taking
this
easy!”

2 Threats and Menaces

The instant Joe saw the fist rocketing toward his stomach, his hundreds of hours of training and practice in the martial arts took over. Smoothly, seemingly without thought or effort, he swayed to the left and twisted his body sideways from the hips.

The movement was just enough to allow Batten's blow to slip harmlessly past him. As it did, Joe grasped Batten's wrist in his right hand and put his left hand behind the other man's elbow. To a spectator, it might have looked as innocent as the grip Joe would have used to help an elderly person across the street. But Batten went spinning across the porch, hit the white wooden railing, and did a back flip over it into the hedge.

Several onlookers hurried over to help Batten out of the bushes. Joe stayed where he was. He figured that if he tried to help, he would simply rouse Batten's temper again. He glanced around. Frank was standing with one hand on the shoulder of the man Batten had been arguing with. The man looked at Frank and shrugged, as if to say that the quarrel hadn't been his fault.

From the door of the inn, a voice full of authority demanded, “What's going on out here?” The speaker was a man of about sixty, with thick gray hair and a white mustache. He was wearing white slacks, a blue blazer, a white button-down shirt, and a regimental striped tie. Joe noticed that his white deck shoes were spotless.

The man next to Frank stepped forward and said, “It's nothing, Gerald. Barry and I had words, that's all. Then, when these two kids tried to smooth things over, Barry got physical.” He chuckled and added, “As you can see, it didn't quite work out the way he expected.”

“Carl, I'm surprised at Barry
and
you,” the man replied. “Surprised, and very disappointed. The idea of a national champion and a leading contender for the title scrapping like a couple of fourth-grade schoolyard toughs! And in public, too. Is that the kind of image we want people to have of powerboat racing?”

“Guess not,” Carl Newcastle said, with a little shrug. He didn't sound very convinced. “Sorry.”

“Well,
I'm
not sorry,” Barry called from the foot of the steps. “I don't need you to teach me how to act, Gerald. What this sport really needs is more colorful personalities that attract the public, not more fuddy-duddy rules. As for you, Newcastle, I'll settle with you on the water, on Saturday.”

Barry turned to go, but not before he gave Joe a dirty look.

“Congratulations, brother. You really know how to win new friends,” Frank murmured.

Before Joe could think of a comeback, the man in the blue blazer said, “Am I right in thinking that you two are Fenton Hardy's boys? I'm Gerald Magnusson.”

Frank and Joe introduced themselves and shook hands with Magnusson. Then he led them indoors. As they followed him, Joe told Frank, “That turkey who tried to deck me? That must be Barry Batten. He won the national offshore title last year.”

“Oh, right,” Frank replied. “I remember seeing an interview with him on TV. He said he owed all his victories to his lucky medallion. It's a piece of whale ivory that was carved by some ancestor of his who was captain of a whaling ship.”

Magnusson took them to a small room off the lobby that was set up as an office.

“Thank you for coming by,” he said, after they all sat down. “I apologize for the greeting you just got. I'm afraid everyone's nerves are on edge.”

“Why's that, sir?” Frank asked.

Magnusson stroked his mustache with one forefinger. “It's hard to explain,” he said slowly. “In the last two days, since the racers have started arriving in Bayport, there have been several, ah, incidents. Nothing terribly startling, really—equipment breaking down when it shouldn't, that sort of thing. But the rumor has spread that someone is out to wreck the meet. I wanted your father—and since he's not available, of course, you—to find out if there's any truth to the rumor.”

“I see,” Frank said.

“I've been part of the offshore racing scene for many years,” Magnusson continued. “But this is the first time I've had responsibility for a major meet. I don't want anything to go wrong.”

“We understand,” Joe told him. “But what kind of incidents are you talking about?”

Magnusson frowned. “Well, for one thing . . . tell me what you think of this.”

He took a sheet of paper from his desktop and handed it to the Hardys. Joe peered over Frank's shoulder and caught his breath. It looked like the leaflet they had seen Connie distributing earlier, but with an important difference. At the bottom, the words
Polluters Die
were scrawled under a crude skull and crossbones.

“How did you get this?” Frank asked.

“It arrived by fax about an hour ago,”
Magnusson told him. “Somebody's idea of a joke, obviously.”

“Not a very funny one,” Joe pointed out. “Especially if somebody ends up getting hurt.”

Magnusson stood up and crossed to the window. With his back to them, he said, “You agree that I should take it seriously, then.”

“I think
we
should take it seriously,” Frank said. “Listen, sir, what do you think of this? We'll look into it, very quietly. If it does turn out to be a bad joke, fine. And if not, we'll have a better idea of what you're facing and what to do about it. Do you have a photocopier here? I'd like a copy of this.”

“Why, yes,” Magnusson said, sounding surprised. He took the leaflet and stepped outside. A few moments later, he returned with a photocopy and gave it to Frank.

“I'd rather people don't know you've been hired to investigate,” Magnusson said. “It'll only stir things up even more if they know. Is that okay with you?”

“We prefer working undercover,” Frank said.

“I'm sure you're very good at it,” Magnusson replied. “Here, I'll make out passes for you.”

He took two tags marked Staff and wrote in their names, then signed them. As he handed them over, he smiled and said, “If anyone asks, just say your dad and I are old friends. My position does carry a few privileges with it, along with far too
many headaches. Now, why don't I take you down to the dock and introduce you to a few people?”

The crowds on Water Street were thicker now. Most of the people were strolling in the direction of the exposition. Lots of them paused along the way to stare through the fence at the docked racing boats. Frank and Joe showed their new passes to the guard at the gate and followed Magnusson out onto the main pier.

“You can't imagine what a complex business it is, organizing a meet like this,” Magnusson remarked, as they walked out between the two lines of slips. “We've got almost a hundred entries, broken down into ten different classes. Most of our spectators come out to watch the really big, really fast Open Class boats. But the racers in the A, B, and C classes are every bit as important to the sport. Every bit as exciting, too, in my opinion.”

“How does it work?” Frank asked. “Do all the boats race at the same time?”

Magnusson shook his head. “No. You do see that at smaller, one-day meets. But with an event of this size, it would be too dangerous and confusing. For each class we'll run a series of heats over the next couple of days. Then on Saturday, there'll be the final of each class. The top boats will have a shot at winning prizes and championship points.”

“Prizes?” Joe repeated. “You mean, money?”

“The grand prize winner of the super boats this
year will take home a silver trophy and a check for one hundred thousand dollars,” Magnusson replied. “Of course, almost all of the others will just be taking home their memories.”

And some very hefty bills to pay, Frank thought to himself, as he looked over the sleek, powerful boats on either side of him.

Joe touched Frank on the arm and said in a low voice, “Look—isn't that what's-her-name, who plays the lead on
Brisbane Lane
?”

Frank looked. About twenty feet down the dock was a tall, slim young woman in tight blue biking shorts and a bright yellow crop top that set off her mane of tawny blond hair. She was talking to a guy of about thirty-five, with longish black hair and a neatly trimmed black beard. He was wearing very faded jeans and a Baja California T-shirt. Judging by their gestures, Frank didn't think the two were having a friendly conversation.

“If it isn't her, it's her twin sister,” he told Joe. “Susan Shire, right?”

Magnusson cut in. “That's right,” he said. “And that's Dennis Shire she's talking to. Her ex-husband. He owns a software company. They're both real enthusiasts about offshore racing. They were a terrific team when they were still together. Now they're more like not-so-friendly rivals. Here, let me introduce you.”

As they drew nearer, Frank heard Dennis say, “You wouldn't know anything about somebody
fouling up the timing of my fuel injection system, would you?”

“Sure I would,” Susan replied. Frank could hear the sarcasm in her voice. “You can't lift the hatch on an engine compartment without fouling up something. That's why, in the old days, I'd handle all our tune-ups. Remember?”

Frank wasn't sure if he should back away from this family quarrel or pay particularly close attention. These two were important competitors, after all.

“Ha!” Dennis said. “That was just to help you feel important. You'd better believe that I always checked everything out afterward.”

“Susan, Dennis,” Magnusson said. “May I—”

“In a minute,” Susan said, without looking around. “ ‘Feel important'? You pig! Have you happened to notice who's been winning races since I had the good sense to dump you? And I'm going to take the cup this weekend, too, don't worry.”

Dennis said, “Worry? Fat chance! I've got nothing to worry about if you're the competition. And the only hope you have to win is if you mess up my boat. And don't
you
worry, I'm going to be on the lookout for that.”

“Well, look out for this!” With a sudden movement, Susan put both hands on Dennis's chest and shoved. Taken by surprise, he stumbled backward a few steps. His ankle caught on the mooring line
of the nearest boat. Off balance, he fell back over the edge of the dock. His arms flailed as he tried to grab something to break his fall. Frank heard a distinct thump as the back of the man's head slammed against the pointed bow of the boat.

As Frank watched openmouthed, Dennis tumbled limply into the oil-slicked water of the boat slip. Bubbles rose to the surface as he began to sink out of sight.

3 Just the Fax, Ma'am

“Dennis!” Susan cried, clapping her hands to the sides of her face. “Oh, no! What have I done? Somebody, please,
help!
”

Frank had already ripped off his T-shirt and was yanking at the laces of his running shoes. Next to him, Joe was doing the same.

“No! I'll go in after him,” Frank said quickly. “You get ready to pull us out.”

Not waiting for Joe to reply, Frank slipped out of his shoes and ran to the edge of the dock. He made a lightning-quick judgment of distances, then jumped. He landed in the water less than a yard from Dennis, who was obviously still dazed by the blow to his head. He'd slipped just below the surface, and his eyes had rolled upward.

Two powerful overhand strokes took Frank to his side. He hooked his elbow under the drowning man's chin and took a quick glance around. Joe was lying flat on the dock half a dozen feet away, reaching out his hands to help. Frank rolled onto his back and used the frog kick to make his way toward Joe. A few more powerful kicks got him and Dennis close to the dock.

“Okay, Frank, I've got him,” Joe said.

“Great,” Frank replied as he felt Dennis's weight being lifted from him. “Watch his head. One bump like that is more than enough.”

Frank swam out of the way and saw that Joe wasn't alone. Dave Hayman, the young blond guy they'd met a little earlier, was helping lift Dennis onto the dock. A moment later Frank heard Dennis cough loudly, then gasp, “It's okay, I'm all right. Just give me a second to catch my breath.”

Relieved, Frank glanced around. He could have hoisted himself directly onto the dock, but he knew better than to try it. He really didn't want to go home with a crop of ferocious splinters. On the other side of the slip, a wooden ladder extended down into the water. He started swimming toward it, which wasn't easy with sodden jeans clinging to his legs.

Gerald Magnusson was waiting at the head of the ladder. “Well done, Frank,” he said, offering his hand. “Would you like me to find you some dry clothes?”

“Thanks, I'm okay,” Frank replied. He picked his T-shirt up off the dock and pulled it on over his head, then slipped his feet into his shoes. He felt incredibly grungy after his plunge in the harbor. All he wanted at the moment was to go home to take a long, hot shower.

Frank saw that Dennis was on his feet, though he kept one hand on Dave's shoulder for support. Susan, still pale, hurried over to him.