Foul Play

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “So it seems like you’re pretty up on all the money stuff, huh?” I asked innocently. “I mean, you were talking about Pinnacle football paying the bills….”

  “Listen to me, Hardy. You gotta know what you’re worth,” Flynner said seriously. “If all I knew was how to pass and how to scramble, I’d be a good quarterback. But that’s not enough. I have to think long-term. I mean, even players like me have short careers. Professional football players are washed up by the time they’re thirty-five.”

  “Maybe. But at least you’ll get to play pro,” I argued. “Some of us don’t even stand a chance of doing that.”

  Flynner narrowed his eyes and studied me for a minute. I forced myself to take a sip of Coke as if everything was normal. But the way he was looking at me … Had I said something suspicious? I was only trying to make him talk money.

  Finally Flynner grinned. “It doesn’t matter if you can’t go pro. You have to work with what you’ve got, Hardy.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m a backup kicker on a college team. That’s what I’ve got. I’m not like you. I’ll never make it to the NFL.”

  “Then you have to do your thing while you’re still in college.” Flynner said. “You have to think big, Hardy. You have to understand the big picture.”

  “What’s the big picture?” I asked.

  “It’s the business, man,” said Flynner. “Football isn’t about winning or losing. It’s about making the dough for people when you win and making the dough for people when you lose.”

  “Who makes money when you lose?” I asked. This hero-worship thing was totally working. The dude seemed ready to tell me anything I wanted to know. Under the table, I unhooked my ATAC music player/surveillance device and pressed the button to record.

  “It’s not people you know,” Flynner explained. “I’m talking about a bunch of people, all over the country, who put money on you to win or to lose.”

  “You mean betting?” I asked. “Gambling?”

  “Sure, betting. People put a huge amount of money on college games.”

  “I thought it was illegal in a lot of states,” I said.

  Flynner shrugged. “So what? Everybody does it. And if you know the people who are betting on you to lose, then you can help them out a little. For the right price.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said, playing dumb. I wanted a full confession from this loser.

  “These high rollers, these guys with a ton of money, they like to make even more money,” Flynner revealed, leaning across the table to me. “And say there’s a team that is a sure thing to win—”

  “Like Pinnacle,” I put in.

  “Right. So all kinds of people are putting their money on Pinnacle to win,” said Flynner. “But say these high rollers know for sure that Pinnacle is going to lose. They bet against Pinnacle while everyone else bets for Pinnacle. Then when Pinnacle loses, the high rollers make a fortune.”

  “Okay,” I said carefully.

  Flynner rolled his eyes. “These high rollers are willing to pay players to make it happen,” he said slowly, like he was talking to a two-year-old. “They have enough money, and they look at it as an investment.”

  “So they’ll pay a football player to make sure his team loses,” I summed up.

  “Yeah.” Flynner grinned. “And that’s the big picture. Easy money. And even a loser like you can do it—you don’t have to be NFL-bound like me.”

  “Well, you couldn’t do that,” I said. “I mean, you’d have to pretend to play badly. And then none of the NFL teams would want you.”

  “That’s true,” he agreed. “That’s why I used the money to buy myself the best NFL draft spot.”

  “What?” I cried.

  “Yeah. I have a friend who can pull strings. And he has some friends who want Pinnacle to lose the championship next week. They’re willing to pay me to do it.”

  “But instead you told your friend to keep the money in exchange for snagging you the top overall draft spot,” I guessed. “That’s the slot that gets you the most money.”

  “Yup. You catch on fast, Hardy. See, now I’ll definitely have my NFL career. And I’ll know the high rollers. They bet on professional games too. And I guarantee they’ll pay me a lot more to throw an NFL game than a college one.” Flynner stopped talking while the waitress plopped a couple of cheeseburgers down in front of us. He waited until she walked away, then he looked me straight in the eye. “You want in?”

  I almost choked on my first bite. “Me?”

  “Yeah. You seem like a good kid. And I can’t lose the whole game all by myself. You might be able to help me.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m only the backup. I won’t even be playing.”

  “Yeah, well …” Flynner gave me a wink. “You never know what could happen between now and Saturday.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Frank said when I played him the tape later. “This guy is a huge idiot.”

  “I know.” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Luis and Ken weren’t nearby. But the coast was clear—they were playing football in the common room and yelling the whole time. “He thinks he’ll get away with being a crooked player in front of millions of people. As if nobody is ever gonna find out. He thinks it’s a good plan to save money for when he has to retire!”

  “If he just played well in the championship, he’d probably get drafted to some NFL team anyway,” said Frank, shaking his head. “And then he’d make enough money to live on for a hundred years.”

  I shrugged. “He’s greedy.”

  “He’s stupid.”

  “Whatever,” I replied. “He’s the one. He admitted it, we have it on tape. Mission accomplished!”

  Frank shoved my arm. “Now you’re being stupid.”

  “Ow,” I said.

  “Flynner said it himself—he can’t lose the entire game all alone. There have to be other players in on it. And besides, it wasn’t his idea. That friend of his, the one with the inside track on the NFL draft. He’s the middle man between Flynner and the high rollers. That’s who we want. That’s the mastermind.”

  I groaned. “I thought we were done.”

  “Is practice so hard that you can’t stand another day of it?” Frank teased.

  “No,” I said. “Flynner is so obnoxious that I can’t stand hanging out with him!”

  “Well, you have to,” Frank told me. “You’ve got to find out who he’s working for.”

  6.

  Playing by the Book

  “Memorize the entire playbook,” Coach Orman said on Wednesday after practice. “I don’t mean only the plays that concern you and your position. I mean the whole thing.”

  I watched from the doorway of Coach’s office as the team mumbled and groaned. I had to admit, memorizing an entire playbook three days before the final game of the year did seem a little harsh. But Coach Orman was all about discipline, and if he wanted them to do it, there must be a good reason.

  “That’s crazy,” said Manzi from beside me. “They don’t have time to do that.”

  I glanced at the other manager. He and I had done all the cleaning by ourselves during practice because John Roque was making sure the playbooks all got printed correctly at the campus copy center.

  “It’s not crazy,” I told Manzi. “Coach probably wants to make sure they’re thinking about football twenty-four-seven. When they’re not practicing, they’re memorizing plays. It keeps them from getting distracted.”

  “I guess. He already banned them from seeing their girlfriends until after the game.” Manzi chuckled. “You should’ve heard them complaining after that announcement. This is nothing compared to it.”

  Still, the players didn’t look very happy. Between Orena’s unexpected death, the pressure of the championship, and now the added homework, they were an angry bunch of guys. That was bad news for me. When they were mad, they threw their equipment and their towels all over the place, and I had to pick everything up and organize it.


  “John is getting the playbooks ready, and he’ll deliver them to your dorms in about an hour,” Coach announced. “Hit the showers.”

  While I did the rounds, collecting all the dirty uniforms and dumping them into the laundry bin, I kept an eye on Anthony Aloia, the best receiver on the team. He was almost as big a star as Billy Flynn, but their personalities couldn’t be any more different. Flynner was always talking about himself. Loudly. And according to Joe, he didn’t have a single ethical bone in his body.

  But Anthony Aloia kept to himself. He didn’t talk much in team meetings, from what I’d seen. And he didn’t seem to have a posse on the team. He was a loner. But he seemed nice enough. He put his own uniform in the bin instead of leaving it on the floor for me to pick up. When he slammed his locker shut and turned to leave, I casually headed toward him.

  “Hey. You’re Anthony, right?” I asked. “I’m Frank Hardy. I’m the new manager.”

  “Hey, man,” he said. “Welcome.” Anthony headed for the door.

  Uh-oh. I was supposed to get him to talk. Right now Joe was way ahead of me in breaking this case. I thought fast. “I’m a big fan of yours,” I called after Anthony. Hero worship had worked for Joe. Maybe it would work for me, too.

  “Thanks,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, I think it’s the receivers who really make the team,” I told him. “No matter who your quarterback is, if you don’t have a strong receiver, then there’s no one to catch the ball.”

  He chuckled. I had him.

  “So, listen, I’d be happy to help you out with this playbook thing,” I offered. “If you want a hand memorizing it.”

  “Um …,” Anthony began.

  “Seriously, I’m very good at memorization,” I hurried on. “I tutor people, that’s my part-time job. I know all kinds of tricks to help you remember stuff.”

  Anthony frowned. “Do you want me to pay you?”

  “No!” I cried. “That’s not what I meant. I just figured I could help.”

  “Okay,” said Anthony. “When?”

  I glanced around the locker room. All the other players were on their way out, and Manzi was mopping in the showers. “How about now?” I said. “I can call up the playbook on Coach’s computer. He’s gone already.”

  “Cool.” Anthony followed me into the office and dropped onto the tiny couch. I sat at the desk and clicked on the playbook. Roque had left the file open. “Let’s start with the halfback option/twin receiver set,” I suggested.

  “The quarterback reads the defense and decides whether to hand off to the halfback or to make a play downfield to one of the two receivers on the right side of the field,” Anthony replied immediately.

  “You’re good,” I said.

  “Offensive plays I already know.” He shrugged. “It’s the defensive plays I’m not up on. Let’s do those.”

  I scrolled through the file until I reached Defense, and we got down to it. As we worked, I kept an eye on Anthony to see if he could be hiding anything. But the whole time, he was all business. A total pro. I couldn’t get him to talk about anything but football plays.

  This is a complete failure, I thought, bummed. I’m not getting any info at all out of him.

  “What’s going on?” Roque’s voice made me jump. He was standing in the doorway of Coach’s office, and he was frowning.

  “Oh, we’re just—,” I began.

  “We’re working on the playbook, what does it look like?” Anthony cut in. “Did you think you were the only one allowed in here?”

  Wow, I thought. Anthony’s tone was super cold all of a sudden.

  “I didn’t say that,” replied Roque.

  “Yeah, and you better not say it,” Anthony snapped. “If I want to be in Coach’s office, I can be. I actually score points for this team. What do you do, loser?”

  “Hey, guys—,” I started.

  “It’s okay. I’m gonna go.” Roque spun away. “You lock up, Hardy.” He hurried out, not even looking in Anthony’s direction again.

  I glanced at Anthony. He was staring at Roque’s back as if he wanted to hurl a knife at it or something.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” Anthony shrugged and turned back to me. “That dude just annoys me.”

  “Roque? How come?”

  “’Cause he’s obnoxious. Why is he even here? He doesn’t need a job. His dad is a gazillionaire.” For the first time, Anthony sounded passionate about something. Passionately angry.

  “But we don’t get paid to be managers—”

  “Still, why is he here? He’s not a player. He’s just a spoiled little rich kid.”

  “He, um, he told me he was trying to make his father happy. You know, since he’s not a player. At least he can work for the team….”

  “Typical.” Anthony snorted. “It’s all about Daddy getting what he wants.”

  “Do you know Roque’s father?” I asked. “Dr. Roque?”

  “Of course. We all know him. He’s a booster.” Anthony shoved a hand through his hair. “He’s at all the games. Every single team fund-raising event. I’m surprised he hasn’t been coming to practice this week.”

  The way Anthony said the word “booster” made it sound like a huge insult.

  “What’s a booster?” I asked.

  “A team booster. It’s like a sponsor,” explained Anthony. “People with more money than they know what to do with, so they spend it on the football team. They donate the cash to buy all our equipment and to pay the upkeep on the gym and the stadium and all.” He gave a bitter laugh. “And they pay for scholarships. If you can play, they’ll pay for your college. The whole thing.”

  “Sounds nice,” I said.

  “It’s not. Guys like Dr. Roque are so full of themselves. He thinks he can throw money at anyone and get them to do whatever he wants.”

  Now that sounded interesting. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing.” Anthony stood up and began to pace. “It’s just … these boosters. They act as if they can buy anything. Even people. And they don’t care who gets hurt because of it.”

  “Who’s getting hurt?” I asked.

  He stared at me for a second, then sat back down. “Never mind.”

  He had been about to say something important, I knew it. So I decided to press. “It sounds like the boosters only help, not hurt. Think about it. The football team is doing great. The facilities are state-of-the-art. Players get full scholarships—”

  “Yeah, well, what about Coach?” Anthony interrupted. “He’s getting hurt.”

  “Coach Orman? How?” I asked.

  “Everybody knows Dr. Roque has been trying to get Coach fired all year long. We’ve had an amazing season. We’re top ranked! But Dr. Roque wants to lose the coach who got us here.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows? They hate each other. Every time Dr. Roque is at practice, he’s always trying to tell Coach to do things differently. He even came down to the sidelines during one of the games, just to butt in.” Anthony shook his head. “The guy’s not a coach. He was a great player a million years ago, so what? Now he’s just a rich dude. He should leave the coaching to Coach.”

  “But he doesn’t get to decide, does he?” I asked. “Just because he hates Coach, that doesn’t mean he can actually fire him.”

  “Try telling that to Dr. Roque,” Anthony said. “He sure thinks it’s up to him. That’s what I’m talking about. He figures that because he buys stuff for the team, it’s as if he owns the team.”

  “But he doesn’t. He’s just donating that money to the college.”

  “I know. Still, Dr. Roque has a ton of friends on the college board. The way I see it, it’s only a matter of time before he gets his way and Coach Orman gets sacked.”

  The Monday Night Football theme rang through the air. “That’s my cell,” said Anthony. He pulled a beat-up old phone from his pocket and hit the Talk button. “Hey, what’s up?”

&nbs
p; I turned to the playbook on the computer, searching for the next play we hadn’t covered. But I was keeping an eye on Anthony, too.

  “What are you talking about?” he said, his voice agitated.

  I eased my chair around so I could see him. His face had gone completely white.

  “No!” he suddenly barked.

  This time I turned all the way. Anthony was freaking out. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and he was back on his feet. He seemed to have forgotten I was there, he was listening so intently to the person at the other end of the line.

  “Fine,” he said finally. He flipped the phone shut and gazed at it for a second.

  “Hey, man, is everything okay?” I asked.

  Anthony raised his eyes to mine. “I gotta go,” he mumbled. He grabbed his gym bag and stalked out of the office without another word.

  7.

  All About the Money

  I scanned the big reading room at the library. Every single person there was a football player. Of course, that was probably because it was winter break and most of the students were done with finals for the semester. The only reason anyone was still on campus was to see the upcoming championship game against Miller State.

  “Hey, Hardy,” Ken called from a table on the right.

  “Hey.” I wandered over. “I guess everybody’s studying the playbook, huh?”

  “Yeah. Hard to believe the library didn’t fall down from the shock of all these jocks actually entering it.” Ken grinned, and Luis laughed from across the table.

  “So you’re not usually big on the books?” I guessed.

  “Are you kidding? Football players barely even have to pass,” Luis told me. “The college board wants us here to play, not to work.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Ken. “Some of us also want good grades so we can have a future. You can’t play football forever.”

  That’s just what Flynner said, I thought. “You guys seen Flynner?” I asked.

  They both looked at me strangely. “Yeah, he’s in the back,” Luis said. “What are you, his best friend now?”

  “I’m just a fan,” I told my suitemate. “Later.”

  I headed for the back of the reading room. Flynner sat at a table twenty feet away from everybody else. There was one guy with him. A glance at his face told me he was Marco Muñoz, the best running back on the team. I recognized his face from the ATAC dossier. Score. Frank and I had been meaning to investigate that dude.