Running on Empty

by Franklin W. Dixon

  "Who were the two men?" Joe asked.

  "A body shop owner named Butch Smith and a kid named John Drake."

  "Did you call the police?" Frank asked.

  "No, I can't do that." The man's voice reached a fevered pitch. "I know those two. They'll hurt Chet. Snake - he calls himself. Drake the Snake - used to wash cars for me. I fired him several months ago for stealing tools. Smith used to live in Southport about five years ago, and he just returned when he was paroled seven months ago."

  "He's an ex-con?" An awful thought crept to the forefront of Joe's mind and was soon confirmed by Mr. Brooke.

  "Yes. Even before he went to prison, he had a nasty reputation. If he has Chet, he won't hesitate to hurt him if he thinks the police are involved. That's why I want to hire Mr. Hardy - to find Chet before Smith does something terrible to my nephew." He sobbed.

  "Dad's out of town, Mr. Brooke, but Joe and I can handle the case," Frank said.

  "No. No!" Uncle Ed shouted. "I don't want you boys involved. I feel bad enough about Chet and if you two get involved - "

  "We've handled tough guys before," Joe interrupted. "Chet's our best friend. You can't expect us to just drop it."

  A dead pause filled the air, the only noise the hissing of the phone line.

  "Okay." Joe thought he heard a sob.

  "Where can we find Smith and this Snake character?" Joe asked without hesitation.

  ***

  "There it is," Frank said. He pulled the van into a parking lot stuck between a car wash and an old brick building. David's Den was hand-painted in bright Day-Glo orange on the faded white bricks.

  Half the size of Bayport, Southport lay midway between New York City and the Hardys' hometown. The Hardys had been to Southport only a couple of times, but they knew the city well enough to find their way around.

  Uncle Ed, as he insisted the Hardys call him, had explained that Snake could usually be found at David's Den, a pool hall and video arcade used as a hangout by Southport's more unsavory characters. He gave the Hardys a complete description of Snake. Frank decided that it would be best if he and his brother posed as car thieves and had Mr. Brooke get them a room at a motel.

  "Hey, slow down," Frank shouted as Joe jumped from the van and all but ran toward the pool hall.

  Joe stopped and placed his hands on his hips.

  Frank ignored Joe's impatient stare. "We've got to play this slow and easy. You overact and Snake'll know we're not really car thieves."

  Joe turned, and the Hardys strolled into David's Den.

  Inside, they had to let their eyes adjust to the dimness of the pool hall. The large open room was crammed with pool tables. Video machines lined the walls. Each table had a single long fluorescent lamp hanging a couple of feet above it. Smoke and dust floated in the light and gave the place a dirty, sinister look.

  The crack of pool balls bounced off the walls and sounded like rifle shots. Only half the tables were occupied, most by single players.

  Joe sauntered toward a table and then over to a video machine. He dumped two quarters in one of the video machines and began playing the game. Frank leaned against the machine and scouted the room.

  "See him?" Joe whispered.

  "Not yet," Frank replied.

  Without trying to look too obvious, Frank checked out the players. Toward the back of the room, almost hidden by the dimness of the room and the other players, was a figure who matched the description Ed Brooke had given them over the phone.

  The young man looked to be six feet and weigh no more than 150 pounds. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt and ragged skintight jeans. Half of his thin, pinched face was covered by large teardrop sunglasses.

  The young man leaned into the hazy fluorescent light - Frank knew he was their man. On Snake's left shoulder was a tattoo: a coiled rattlesnake, its mouth open wide, its fangs dripping with venom and blood. Below the snake, a curled banner proclaimed Born to Die, just as Uncle Ed had said there would be.

  "He's in the back," Frank said.

  Joe turned slightly and looked at Snake. He spotted the tattoo. "You're right. Let's do it."

  They walked slowly from video game to video game, pretending to look at each one before moving on. When they reached the game closest to Snake's pool table, they stopped.

  Snake was getting ready to fire the white cue ball down the length of the table toward the black number-eight ball that sat centered in front of a corner pocket. He hit the cue ball, and it rocketed down the table in a white blur. Frank grabbed the cue ball just before it could strike the eight ball.

  "Hey, man!" Snake protested in a whiny voice. "That was a clean shot."

  Frank knocked the eight ball into the hole with the cue ball and then dropped the cue ball into the pocket.

  "Scratch, man. You lose," Frank said coldly.

  "Hey!"

  Joe stood next to Snake. "Your name Snake?" he asked, his tone menacing.

  "Drake the Snake, man. Who wants to know?"

  "Your new business partners," Frank replied.

  "Wh - what?" Snake stammered.

  "Outside," Joe hissed.

  Snake gripped the cue stick with both hands, as if to swing it.

  "I'll swat you like a fly," Joe growled.

  "Hey, take it easy, Joe," Frank said. "Snake here doesn't want to cause any trouble." He smiled at the thin young man.

  Snake threw the stick onto the table. "What do you two want?"

  "Just to talk," Frank said, still smiling. "Could be some money in it for you."

  "So? Talk." Snake sat on the table's edge.

  "Out back," Joe ordered with a nod of his head.

  Snake shrugged and headed toward the back door. Once in the alley, Snake turned and faced Joe with clenched fists.

  Joe took a defensive karate stance. "Take your best shot."

  "Hey, guys," Frank began as he moved between Joe and Snake, "is this any way to start off a partnership?"

  "What partnership?" Snake asked, keeping his fists clenched, his eyes on Joe.

  Frank elbowed Joe back a step. "You see, Snake, my brother and me got us a neat little gig in Bayport. So good in fact, that we don't need or want any outsiders interfering with our business."

  "Hey, man, I don't even know you dudes,' Snake cried.

  Joe pounded and rubbed his knuckles into his left palm. "Someone's been ripping off cars in Bayport, our cars."

  "What cars?" Snake's voice began to quiver.

  "Expensive cars," Frank replied. "Like the neat little maroon Corvette we had our eyes on last Friday when someone boosted it. You."

  "What about it?" Snake's voice cracked.

  "We don't like creeps moving in on our territory." Joe made a grab for Snake, but was stopped by Frank.

  "Take it easy, Joe. Snake seems to be a reasonable person." Frank winked at his younger brother. They had played the "good guy-bad guy" routine before and were good at it.

  "Yeah?" Joe growled. "Well, I don't have time to mess around." He grabbed Snake's arm and stood toe to toe with Snake. "Stay out of our territory, understand?"

  Frank was about to separate Joe from Snake, playing the good guy, when a gruff voice spoke up from behind them.

  "Need some help, Snake?"

  Frank and Joe spun around. An older man stood just outside the rear door of the pool hall, a steel blue .45 automatic at his side.

  Joe let loose of Snake. Snake walked to the older man and stood behind him.

  "They were going to kill me," he lied.

  "Yeah?" replied the man. He raised the .45 straight out in front of him, chest level, and cocked back the hammer. "Well, let's see if we can't do something about that."

  Chapter 4

  The alley was too narrow and empty for Frank and Joe to jump to the side for cover. The end was several yards behind them.

  "Kill us now, man, and you'll be passing up an opportunity to get rich," Frank said as calmly and casually as he could under the circumstances.

  "Really?" the m
an said, chuckling.

  "Blow 'em away, Butch," Snake ordered, a sudden bravado in his voice.

  "Shut up, you wimp," Joe spit out at Snake, who shrank even farther behind Smith.

  "Take his advice, Snake. It's a good thing I was coming in just as these two were taking you out the back door." Smith waved the .45 between Frank and Joe.

  "I mean it," Frank continued. "We can make you a deal that you can retire on."

  Smith hesitated, his eyes showing that he was interested. "Go on."

  "I'm Frank Davis. This is my brother, Joe."

  "Is that supposed to mean something?" Smith sounded bored.

  "We know you boosted that Corvette in Bayport last Friday," Frank said.

  Smith turned on Snake. "Been running your big mouth again, like you did to that Morton kid last night?"

  Snake backed up, his hands raised. "N - n - no."

  Frank and Joe exchanged knowing glances. Chet had found the right thieves.

  "Yeah, he did," Frank called out, turning Smith's attention back to them. He decided to play a hunch. "You've hit our territory three times in the last two weeks."

  Smith unlocked the hammer of the .45 and lowered it gently. "Your territory? I don't remember seeing any signs declaring Bayport a closed city."

  "We've been boosting the hottest cars in Bayport for over a year," Frank said. "We've gotten used to the money. Your three heists the last couple of weeks have left our pockets a little empty."

  "And we don't like it," Joe added.

  "Just blow 'em away, Butch," Snake insisted.

  "Shut up," Smith growled, and he elbowed Snake - hard.

  Ed Brooke was right. Smith's temper was lightning quick and violent. The Hardys would have to be very careful.

  Smith turned back to Frank and Joe, the .45 at his side.

  "So. What's this plan that'll make me rich?"

  "Not here," Frank said, chuckling. He nodded to Frank. "You come with me and Snake." He glared at Joe. "You follow. Try anything funny and Frankie here will eat a bullet."

  "No problem, man," Joe said.

  A few minutes later Frank and Joe stood in the middle of a large warehouse that had been converted into a makeshift garage. They both scanned the area, hoping to find a sign of Chet.

  Along the walls were torches and welding tanks filled with oxygen and acetylene - gases that when combined made for a flame hot enough to melt the toughest metals, especially the steel used in cars. Air compressors, air drills, metal cutters, and socket wrenches completed the arrangement. Several vats large enough to hold fenders and engines sat at one end, fifty-gallon drums labeled Solvent sat next to them. By the smell, Frank could tell that the vats held an acid toxic enough to melt paint and burn down serial numbers.

  Joe was disappointed that the Vette wasn't around. He did notice a makeshift office in a back corner of the warehouse. A good place to hide a kidnap victim. He nudged Frank and nodded toward the office.

  "Cool place you have here," Joe said.

  "It does the job," Smith replied. He sat on one of the drums. He pulled the .45 from his pants and pointed it at Frank. "Okay, smart guy. What's this plan?"

  Frank tried to look unnerved. He crossed his arms and sighed.

  "My brother and me have a sweet little thing going in Bayport. Plenty of rich kids driving expensive cars. The pickings are easy. The only problem is that we've had a hard time moving cars. No one wants to take a chance on buying a hot car in one piece."

  "I still haven't heard anything to interest me enough to keep me from plugging you and your brother," Smith said.

  Snake let loose with a loud cackle that echoed throughout the warehouse.

  Joe curled one end of his lip and growled. Snake coughed and moved behind Smith.

  Frank ignored the two. "Here's the deal. We can bring in more bread by chopping our cars. The problem is we don't have the funds to start our own shop - "

  "So you want to use my little business here," Smith interrupted.

  "Exactly. We boost the cars from those Bayport brats, chop 'em here, and split the proceeds."

  "And what do you figure would be a fair split?"

  "Seventy-thirty."

  Smith laughed loud and hard.

  "What circus did you two clowns escape from?" He shook his head. "No way. I've got the shop, I got the equipment, I got my man Snake here who can boost any car, and I got it easy. Why should I take on two punks who just waltzed in off the street?"

  "Because you're not a fool," Joe spoke up. "What my brother and me are offering you is too good to pass up, and you know it. Snake may be a good thief, but he's two cylinders short of full power. It won't be long until the Bayport police catch him and your little operation goes up - kaboom!" Joe made an exploding gesture with his hands.

  "We know every little street and alley and escape route in Bayport," Frank added.

  Smith sat silently, clutching and unclutching the .45 with nervous agitation. His expression was blank. Frank and Joe weren't sure what his reaction would be.

  "You've got a point," he said after several tense moments. Smith stood, thrusting the .45 into his waistband. "Before we finalize this deal, you two have to pass a little test."

  Frank smiled. "Name it," he said with confidence.

  "Let's see how good you are. Joey here can stay and keep me and Snake company while you find a nice little expensive car to boost. Bring it back here without getting caught, and we'll see about finalizing the deal."

  "That's all?" Frank asked.

  "No. If you're not back here in fifteen minutes, I'll assume you got caught or can't do the job and Joey here - well, let's not think about that."

  "I'm not going to be a hostage," Joe said angrily.

  "Did I say anything about a hostage? You're just a little insurance to make sure your brother doesn't blow it." Smith tossed a small plastic black box to Frank. "Garage door opener," he explained. He glanced at his watch. "Now you've got fourteen minutes and twenty seconds."

  "See you in ten," Frank smirked as he strutted through the door.

  Once outside, Frank quickly walked several blocks and then hailed a taxi. Two minutes later, he stepped from the taxi into the high-priced restaurant district of Southport, the parking lots bulging with expensive cars ranging from Cadillacs to Sterlings.

  Frank knew the type of car that would best impress a chopper like Smith - a high-profile speedy sports car with high resale parts.

  He casually crossed the street and entered a parking lot from the shadowy side of the restaurant, away from the parking valet who stood out in front of the driveway.

  He strolled up to a midnight blue Porsche, using his peripheral vision to keep track of the valet and anybody else who might see him.

  In a few seconds he was sitting in the Porsche's red leather front seat, its engine rumbling to life. He kept the lights off so as not to attract the valet's attention and slowly pulled the car out of its parking space. He guided the car toward the rear of the parking lot, away from the valet and traffic of the restaurant.

  He let the car hop the curb and then gently accelerated forward. The last thing he wanted was to attract attention. This was no time to be stopped by the cops.

  Suddenly the bright red and blue lights of a police cruiser filled the Porsche's small compartment. The ghostly cry of a police siren pierced the air.

  Frank glanced at the speedometer to make sure he wasn't speeding. The dash was dark.

  The lights! He had been so intent on going unnoticed that he had forgotten to turn on the lights once he had hit the brightly lit street.

  He pulled on the light switch and mashed the accelerator to the floor. The Porsche jumped forward, and the rear wheels screamed as raw horsepower was unleashed.

  In the rear-view mirror, Frank could see the cruiser lurch forward, nudging closer to the Porsche. He shoved the gears into high and the smaller, swifter car soon outdistanced the police cruiser.

  He pulled into an alley, and a second later slippe
d out onto a parallel street. He headed for the garage and was relieved to hear the police siren moving farther and farther away from him.

  ***

  Joe sat on a rusty oil drum, avoiding the hard eye Smith was giving him. They said little to each other since Frank had left. Snake had whined, and Smith had ordered him to move a stack of tires to the other side of the garage.

  Joe jumped as the warehouse suddenly echoed with a loud grating sound as the garage door began to rise. It had risen only four feet when a midnight blue Porsche burst through the narrow opening and screeched to a halt. Immediately, the garage door began to close again.

  Frank jumped from the front seat, beaming with a big grin. He looked at his watch.

  "Ten minutes and fifteen seconds exactly," he announced. He tossed the remote control to Smith.

  Smith whistled. "Not a bad haul on such short notice." He paced around the Porsche. "I'm impressed, Frankie."

  "You okay?" Frank asked Joe.

  "Yeah. Just a little stiff," Joe replied. "We had a swell time." Noticing that Smith was distracted by the Porsche, Joe leaned closer to Frank and whispered, "You found it where Uncle Ed said it would be?"

  Frank nodded and winked. They had anticipated that Smith would want some proof that he and Joe were honest-to-goodness car thieves, and what better way to prove this than to "steal" a car. Uncle Ed had willingly given up one of his finer cars in the hope that Chet would be found.

  "You two staying somewhere?" Smith asked as he joined them.

  "Yeah. The Southport Motor Inn," Frank replied.

  "Good." He handed Frank another small black plastic box. "Here's a beeper. I'll call when I want you and Joey to make another hit."

  "I thought we passed the test," Frank protested.

  "One test does not a partnership make. After all, I don't know if Joey knows the difference between a clutch and a steering wheel. But you, Frankie, are aces as far as I'm concerned."

  "Okay," Frank said reluctantly. "Just one thing before we leave."

  "What?"

  "Don't call us Frankie and Joey again. Call us Frank and Joe or just call us Davis."

  Smith's high-pitched roar of laughter echoed off the brick walls of the warehouse.