Long Shot - Stine Megan - Страница 11

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• 11/22
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“When we meet or when I phone you — and that won’t be often, you’ll know me as Michael Anthony.” The man laughed. “It’s a name I’m using just for fun, because Michael Anthony was a character on an old TV show. He worked for a very rich man who gave people checks for a million dollars. Anthony was the messenger, and he was never allowed to tell anyone who was sending the money.”

“Uh — huh,” Pete said.

“I’m working for someone, too, Pete, and I’m never going to tell you who, and you don’t ask, right?”

“Uh — huh,” Pete said again.

“Good.” Michael Anthony took out a pack of gum. “I quit smoking,” he said. “Want a stick?”

Pete shook his head no — then yes. Maybe he could get the guy’s fingerprint. Probably Jupe wouldn’t have thought of that.

No luck. Michael Anthony held out the pack for Pete to take his own stick.

“This someone is willing to pay you a lot of money to play basketball for Shoremont. You’re the kind of player Shoremont really needs. We know you’re interested because you’ve already accepted our first two payments. Well, to tell you the truth, four thousand dollars is chicken feed.” Pete gulped and almost swallowed his gum. “But you’ll never know how much your next payment will be. That’s one of my employer’s rules. But I’ll tell you this: the better you play, the bigger the payoffs.”

“And that’s it? I just play basketball?” Pete said.

“The rules are simple.” Anthony raised a finger for each one as he listed them. “You play like a star — that’s first. You keep your grades up. We can’t always help you in that department. But sometimes we’ll tell you what courses to take. You never discuss our arrangements with a living soul — not your family, not your friends, not anyone else on the team. And you never try to find out who I am or who is sending you the money. What do you say?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” Pete said, following Jupe’s instructions. Jupe had said to drag it out as long as possible. But Pete could tell Michael Anthony was getting impatient.

“Pete, you’ve had enough time to think about it,” said Anthony, increasing the firmness in his still-calm voice. “Well, think about this: Every kid who plays college ball hopes he gets into the NBA. That’s the only big money chance a basketball player has. And you know how many of the thousands and thousands of college players get into the NBA each year?”

“A hundred?” Pete guessed. “Fifty. Not much of a chance to make the big bucks, is it? If you’re smart, you’ll make your college career pay off. And I’ve got a hunch you’re smart, Pete. Now, I’ve got a basketball team to recruit. Are you on the team or not?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Pete said. “Can I let you know for sure in a few days?”

Michael Anthony chewed his gum for a minute. “It’s a big step, an important decision.” He put his arm around Pete’s shoulder and turned Pete away from the ocean, until they were facing the cars in the parking lot again. “See the Porsche?”

“The Targa?”

“Yes. It’s not brand new.”

“I know. It’s an ’86, right?”

“Right. Pete, here are the keys.”

Pete looked down. The sun flashed on silver keys lying in Michael Anthony’s palm.

 “What do you mean?” asked Pete, his heart shifting into a higher gear.

“The car’s yours, as a loan right now. But it could be yours to keep, and I think you know what I need to hear for that to happen, Pete,” said Michael Anthony, shaking Pete’s hand again, “I’ll call you tomorrow for your answer. Have fun.”

“He’s walking away, Jupe,” Pete announced softly. “Slow. No hurry. Like he’s got nothing in the world to worry about. He’s getting into a new T-Bird. I can’t see the license. I’m going over to the Porsche. No, I forgot. I’m coming to untie the trunk.”

After Michael Anthony drove off, Pete rushed over to the Ark and let Jupe out of the trunk. “I heard every word,” Jupe said. He took some deep breaths of the ocean air.

“Jupe, come on,” Pete said, rushing over to the blue sports car. “Come on. Do you believe this car? Do you have any idea what this is?”

“Of course. An expensive bribe.”

“Okay, you can say that now, but wait till you ride in it!” Pete said,  opening the driver’s side door and looking in. “Oh, Jupe. Oh, Jupe. Come on. Get in. Let’s go for a ride!”

“Pete, are you nuts?” Jupe said. “He’s getting away. We’ve got to follow him!”

“Follow him?” Pete asked. Jupe’s words weren’t making any sense.

“Michael Anthony,” Jupe said. “We’ve got to find out where he’s going.”

“Oh, right, sure, no problem, great, okay, get in,” Pete said. Now there really was a reason to drive this beautiful car. “No, wait!”

“Wait? But he’s getting away!” Jupe said, running to the passenger side.

Pete ran back to the Ark and grabbed his sunglasses and driving gloves. “Okay, let’s go,” he said. He started the 247-horsepower engine with a roar.

“What about the Ark?” Jupe said.

“Let it rust!” Pete yelled.

Pete and Jupe sat in the idling Porsche at the scenic overlook.

“He’s getting away!” Jupe cried. “Drive!”

“Hold on,” Pete said, staring at the car’s instrumentation. “I’m figuring out where everything is.”

Jupe pointed in broad gestures and sounded like a kindergarten teacher. “This is the steering wheel. That’s the gearshift, and down there is the gas pedal. I suggest you use them!”

Pete ignored him as he tried out every button and switch on the dashboard. “Jupe, do you know why lots of people wrap their new Porsches around a tree the first day they get it? They think driving this car is like driving any other car.”

Jupe shook his head sadly. “Now I know why police departments never buy Porsches. If they did, they’d never go anywhere and never solve a case — exactly the predicament we’re in.”

Suddenly the car lurched forward with such force that Jupe felt welded to the leather seat. Tires spun, spitting gravel at first and then digging in and launching the car like a rocket out onto the Pacific Coast Highway.

“Wow!” Pete said, steering and shifting gears in quick, precise movements. “I just barely stepped on the accelerator.”

The blue Porsche buzzed down the curving road and kept accelerating as Pete wound out each gear. Jupe watched the traffic ahead. One second a car was in front of them. A blink later it was behind.

“I wanted you to catch up with Michael Anthony — not beat him to wherever he’s going!” Jupe said.

“What?” asked Pete. He was in another world.

“What color is his car?” Jupe asked.

“Oh. Black Thunderbird. Brand new,” Pete said, bringing the Porsche safely down to the speed limit.

Jupe leaned forward and checked the glove compartment, the ashtray, and the map pocket on the door. “There’s no registration,” he reported. “Not a scrap of evidence that anyone owns this car or has even driven it before. We’ll have to run a check on the license plate. Maybe that will tell us who Mr. Anthony really is — or who he works for. Although something tells me that name probably has been well camouflaged.”

“There he is up ahead,” Pete said.

“Stay far back,” Jupe warned when he spotted the black car. “We don’t want him to know we’re following him.”

“Yeah, no prob,” said Pete. “I just hope he drives around forever. Is this car heaven or what?”

For a moment Jupe let himself sink into the firm padded seat and imagine the faces of all his Rocky Beach friends as he and Pete drive by. He could just see their looks of disbelief and envy.

“Hey — he’s turning,” Pete said, snapping Jupe back into the chase. “Right into Oceanside Country Club.”

“Well, this is interesting,” Jupe said. “The most exclusive country club in the area.”

“Jupe,” Pete said, braking at the start of the long, winding driveway that led to the country club, “what do we do now? They’ll throw us out.”

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