Joe reached into the carton and pulled out a small pad of paper. The pages were perforated halfway along their length, and about a third of the pages already had the lower part torn off. On each of the stubs was scrawled a three-digit number.
“So that’s it,” Joe said out loud. No wonder Gus didn’t care that much whether he sold any ice-cream cones to kiddies.
He replaced the pad in the carton and closed the freezer, then turned to leave. But as he did, he felt the truck rock to one side. He knew what that meant. Gus had climbed back into the driver’s seat. The only way out was past him. Joe was trapped.
12 Taken for a Ride
* * *
Joe stood perfectly still, even though he knew that all Gus had to do was turn around to see him. Any noise, any movement might alert Gus that an intruder was in the truck. Yet Joe knew he had to get out of sight—and fast.
Joe looked around, scanning the crowded space for a place to hide. He thought he spotted a gap between the frozen custard machine and the rear wall of the van. Could he possibly squeeze himself into it? He had to take the chance.
Joe lifted his left foot, moved it toward the rear of the truck, and set it down as delicately as if he were walking through a flowerbed full of rare blossoms. Shifting his weight, he took another careful step, then another. He was more than halfway to the niche behind the custard machine when the truck shook from the vibration of the starter motor. The noise of the engine would cover any he made. Joe dashed across the last few feet and flattened himself against the wall.
With a jolt, the Freddy Frost truck started to move. Joe tried to think calmly about his situation. Yes, he was hidden for now. But the next time Gus made a stop and came into the back, he would be bound to spot Joe. And once he knew that Joe had been inside the truck, he would guess the rest. Joe and Frank would lose a precious advantage. No, if possible, Joe had to keep his intrusion a secret.
What if he jumped from the truck the next time it stopped for a traffic light? But the service window was shut. The only ways out were the two sliding doors in the front. Joe couldn’t imagine how he could slip out through one of them without being spotted.
Joe took a deep breath. If he couldn’t sneak out, he would have to do it another way. At the next stop, he would creep up behind Gus, knock him out, and run. Gus would certainly know that someone had been in the truck, but he wouldn’t know who.
From somewhere behind the truck came the insistent sound of a horn. Joe tried to ignore it. Then something clicked in his mind. The honking made a pattern: short-long-long-long. He knew that. It was Morse code for J—J for Joe? he wondered. Yes! Frank was right behind the truck, about to make a move.
Joe braced his arms against the van wall and the side of the custard machine. The sound of the horn was moving up alongside the truck now. Gus leaned on his own horn. Tires squealed as the truck’s brakes locked in a panic stop. Joe had been expecting something along those lines. Even so, the shock pitched him forward. His head banged against the metal side of the custard machine.
Dizzy, Joe surged forward toward the front of the truck. Gus was out on the street, shouting and shaking his fist. Frank had leaped out of the blue car, which was in front of the van, blocking its way.
Joe, bent double, slipped out the right-hand door of the Freddy Frost truck and between two parked cars to the sidewalk. Once there, he straightened up and ran out into the street again, as if he were just arriving.
“Hi, Frank,” he called. “Any problem?”
Frank shook his head. “Nothing we can’t handle,” he said.
“Get that crate out of my way, or I’ll move it for you!” Gus yelled.
Frank looked over at Joe and said, “Not very original. I heard better back in fourth grade. Didn’t you?”
Joe studied Gus’s reddening face for a moment. “Uh-huh,” he said. “In a minute he’ll start calling us names. Then when that doesn’t work, he’ll probably stamp his foot and tell us we’ll be sorry.”
“Okay, that’s it!” Gus sputtered. “You are going to be sorry!”
Frank gave a satisfied nod. “You called it, Joe,” he said. “Come on, let’s go, before we fall asleep from boredom.”
Joe started toward the blue car, past Gus, who made a gesture as if to grab him. Joe stopped and looked him in the eye. Gus’s gaze fell first. Joe walked on, while Gus shouted insults at him.
They drove off, and Frank said, “I hope that comedy was enough to keep him from wondering where you showed up from.”
“It was probably enough to keep him chewing nails for the next week,” Joe replied. “Or until he realizes that we just cracked this case. Which I think we did.” He told Frank about what was inside the Cherri Cola carton.
Frank glanced over at him with a puzzled expression. “So, what’s their scam?” he asked.
“They’re running a numbers racket out of the Freddy Frost trucks,” Joe said. “Don’t you see? People bet money on a three-digit number. If their number comes up, they win. If it doesn’t, they don’t.”
“I know that,” Frank said. “But there’s nothing illegal about that. You can play the numbers anyplace that sells lottery tickets.”
“Sure, and plenty of people do,” Joe replied. “But the lottery commission takes a big cut of the prize and then reports it to the tax authorities. So lots of serious gamblers would rather use a private numbers operation. The payoff is better and you don’t have to pay taxes on it. And that is very definitely illegal.”
“So that’s why all those adults were waiting in line for the Freddy Frost truck,” Frank said. “Illegal gambling. And the Starz are right in the thick of it. No wonder they wanted to scare Chet out of his job. They were afraid he’d catch on to what they were doing.”
“What I’m wondering,” Joe said, half to himself, “is whose idea was it? Who’s in charge? Not Gus, that’s for sure.”
“Marlon, do you think?” Frank replied. “He’s the only one in that bunch who’s got the smarts.”
“Maybe,” Joe said. “But what about Sal, the foreman at Freddy Frost? He’d be in the best spot to run an operation like this. That would explain why he turned against Chet. And don’t forget McCay. There’s nothing that says a writer can’t be a crime boss in his spare time.”
Joe stopped at the next gas station. While he filled the tank, Frank used a pay phone to call home to see if they had any messages. When Frank returned to the car, he looked puzzled.
“McCay called,” he reported. “I called him back. He wanted to pass along something he just learned from one of his sources.”
“What?” Joe asked.
Frank scratched his chin. “Well, apparently two gangs in towns near here just signed a peace pact. The Gutfighters and the Gimps.”
“I’ve heard of the Gimps,” Joe said.
“You won’t hear of them anymore,” Frank said. “They changed their name. Now they’re the Mad Martians. And the Gutfighters changed their name, too, to the Comets.”
“I think I liked Gutfighters better,” Joe said. “You didn’t say anything to McCay about the numbers racket, did you?”
“Are you kidding?” Frank replied. “As far as I’m concerned, this information-sharing deal is strictly a one-way street, at least until I have a few more reasons to trust him.”
At the next corner, Joe said, “Let’s go talk to Dad. If the numbers racket is at the center of this case, I think we need to call in a consultant.”
They returned home and found Fenton Hardy in his study. He was reading and highlighting a report from a Florida lawyer who sometimes did assignments for him. When Frank tapped at the door, Fenton looked up and said, “Come on in, boys.”
Frank and Joe sat on the old leather couch near the wall of bookshelves that held their father’s impressive collection of crime literature.
“We’ve been working on a case at school,” Frank began. “And we think we’ve found a connection to a numbers operation.”
“Interesting,” Mr.
Hardy said, putting down his pen. “And unusual.”
“Why’s that?” Joe asked.
“Numbers isn’t the huge business it was before the government started its own version,” Mr. Hardy said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s a street-corner operation. To make out well, you need to have both brains and deep pockets.”
“But you’ve told us lots of times that in gambling, the guy who runs the game always wins,” Frank said.
Mr. Hardy smiled. “And so he does. Look at numbers. The winning number is usually based on something random, such as the amount bet at a particular racetrack. The odds that any given three-digit number will come up are roughly one in nine hundred. If you bet a dollar and you hit, the operator pays you seven hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Wait a minute,” Joe said. “If the odds are nine hundred to one, but the payoff is seven hundred and fifty to one, that means the operator rakes off about a hundred and fifty dollars for himself. Sounds like a good deal to me.”
“Of course it does,” Mr. Hardy said. “It’s a very good deal. If you have enough people betting, and they spread out their bets, you make out very well indeed—in the long run. But let’s say that one day, a popular number like 777 hits. All you took in was a few thousand dollars. But you owe your customers ten thousand, maybe even ten times that. If you have a big organization with lots of resources, you can ride it out. If not, you’d better be prepared to get out of town very fast, go very far, and stay gone for the rest of your life. Which may not be that long.”
“Hmm,” Frank said. “I see what you mean. It doesn’t sound like the kind of racket a gang of high-school students could break into.”
“Not without some important adult backing, no,” Mr. Hardy replied. “I’m sorry if I’ve ruined your theory about this case.”
“I wouldn’t say you’ve ruined it,” Joe said, getting to his feet. “But you’ve sure given us a lot to think about.”
• • •
“Frank,” Aunt Gertrude said, “you look like someone who could use another piece of my strawberry-rhubarb pie.”
Frank looked across the dinner table at Joe and smiled. “No, thanks, Aunt Gertrude,” he said, placing his fork on his dessert plate. “It was terrific, though.”
As he and Joe were getting up to help clear the table, the doorbell rang.
“You get it,” Joe said. “I’ll finish up here.”
Frank went to the front door and looked through the peephole. Callie was standing on the doorstep, glancing nervously over her shoulder. Frank tugged the door open and said, “Hi. Come on in.”
“I would have called,” Callie said. “But I figured you’d be home, and I didn’t think this should wait.”
Frank ushered Callie into the living room, where Joe joined them.
“I just saw Stephanie,” Callie told them. “She was too afraid to be seen with me anywhere in Bayport, so we met at the food court of the mall over near Shore Haven.”
“What did she tell you?” Joe asked eagerly.
“Well, first of all,” Callie said, “the big reason she broke up with Dino is that the Starz were getting involved in some kind of illegal activity. She wasn’t sure what, but she knew she didn’t like it.”
“Just as we suspected,” Frank said with a nod.
“There’s something else, too,” Callie said. “I don’t think she meant to tell me this, but it slipped out. It’s supposed to be a really deep secret.”
“Well?” Joe asked. “What is it?”
Callie twisted her fingers together. “According to Stephanie, the Starz are getting together with a lot of other teen gangs around here. They’re going to become a kind of super gang.”
“We heard something about gangs just a few hours ago,” Frank said. “Two gangs that made peace and then changed their names.”
“Did you hear anything about their having one ringleader?” Callie asked.
“No, nothing like that,” Joe replied. “Why?”
“Because Stephanie let something slip,” Callie said. “When she realized that she’d mentioned the name to me, she got so pale that I was afraid she was about to faint.”
“One superleader?” Frank asked. “You mean like Marlon?”
Callie shook her head. “No. Somebody much nastier and more powerful than him. Somebody they know only as the Lunatic.”
13 Supergang
* * *
“The Lunatic!” Joe exclaimed. “Sounds pretty crazy to me.”
Frank threw a sofa pillow at him. “This is serious,” he said. “Callie, what else did Stephanie tell you?”
Callie shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing, really,” she said. “I think she was sorry she’d agreed to meet me. Deep down, she half-wishes she could make up with Dino. But if he ever found out she talked to me about Starz business, he’d never look at her again.”
“She doesn’t know how lucky that makes her,” Joe said.
Frank and Callie pretended not to hear him. “Did she say anything else about this person named the Lunatic?” Frank asked. “Anything at all?”
“Not a word,” Callie replied. “I’m telling you, she was scared to death that she’d even mentioned the name to me.”
“I guess we know what our next job is,” Frank said. “To uncover the real identity of the Lunatic.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Joe pleaded. “This has been a long day, and we still have to do the dishes and finish Aunt Gertrude’s strawberry-rhubarb pie.”
• • •
Gradually Joe became aware that someone was shaking his shoulder. He partly opened his eyes and groggily said, “Wha—?”
“Get up,” Frank said. “We have to be at the Coffee Spot by seven-thirty.”
“Huh? Why?” Joe managed to say through the fog of sleep.
“We need to talk to Con Riley,” Frank explained. “But we don’t want him to know we need to. So we’re going to run into him accidentally while he’s having his usual coffee and doughnut before he goes on duty. Get it?”
“Got it,” Joe said, throwing the covers back and sitting up. “But I wish he went on duty at ten instead of eight.”
The Coffee Spot was located in downtown Bayport, just around the corner from police headquarters. At that hour Joe had no trouble finding a parking place right in front. Through the window, he could see Officer Con Riley at his usual table, leafing through the paper. When the Hardys came in, Riley looked up and nodded to them.
“Rising early, aren’t you, lads?” he said. “Not up to anything, I hope.”
Joe and Frank got doughnuts and juice at the counter and carried everything over to Riley’s table. As Frank and Riley chatted about the latest multimillion-dollar sports contract, Joe kept listening for an angle.
On the drive over, he had agreed with Frank that he would find a way to steer the conversation around to the topic of teen gangs. But how, without being obvious?
Finally jumping into the conversation, Joe said, “Too bad so much money goes to big-time pro sports. What if they used more of it to support local athletics? It would give kids something positive to do, instead of getting involved in gangs and stuff.”
Riley raised his eyebrows. “You think so?” he said. “I’m all for more local sports, mind you. But in my experience, the punks who join gangs don’t have the sense of hard work and discipline you need to succeed in team sports.”
“Still,” Frank said, “you have to admit that gangs do attract some kids who could have gone in a better direction.”
Riley paused to dunk his doughnut in his coffee and take a bite. Then he said, “I’m no expert. But it seems to me that once gangs reach a certain size and influence, a lot of kids join just for their own safety. They don’t see any other choice. And confidentially, I’m afraid we’re getting close to that point right here in Bayport and the whole area.”
“Really?” Joe said. “I know they’re a problem, but I didn’t realize they were that big a problem.”
“There’s
a reason for that,” Riley said. “I see the statistics every week, so I know. Gang membership around here is climbing fast, but there hasn’t been any increase in gang violence. If anything, it’s dropped. You’d think the rumble has gone out of style.”
“Why?” Frank asked.
Riley shrugged. “A lot of the credit should probably go to an outfit called Teen Peace, run by a woman named Hedda Moon. It has a short-term contract with the town to work with teen gangs. I’m not usually a big fan of do-gooders, but whatever she’s doing, it seems to work. Word is, the other towns around here and even the county and state are very impressed by the results. I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t pour more money into the program.”
“We’ve got more gang members lately at our school,” Joe remarked. “Some of them don’t seem so peaceful.”
“The Starz, you mean,” Riley said. “Yeah. Don’t worry, we’ve been keeping an eye on them. But the word is, they’re not such a bad bunch. They’re starting to turn in a more positive direction.”
Joe choked back the words that rose to his lips. Was operating an illegal numbers game a more positive direction? And what about the intimidation and violence against him, Frank, and their friends? What was so positive about that?
“How’s your friend Chet doing?” Riley continued. “The one who’s driving a Freddy Frost truck? Any more adventures like the other day?”
“Oh, he’s okay,” Frank said. “Starting out on a new job’s always tough, though. His latest worry is that he doesn’t think his boss, Sal Vitello, likes him.”
Riley laughed. “Tell him from me that your boss doesn’t have to like you, as long as he’s fair.”
He folded his newspaper and pushed his chair back from the table. “Well, I’m off to the salt mines,” he said. “Nice of you guys to drop by. And whenever you’re ready to tell me what’s going on between you and the Starz, give me a call.”
The Mark of the Blue Tattoo Page 8
