Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Running on Empty (2 page)
***
"You two plan on moping around all day like you did all weekend?" Aunt Gertrude asked on Monday morning as she sipped her coffee in the Hardy kitchen.
After seeing Callie off on Saturday morning, Frank had tried to contact Chet, but Mrs. Morton explained that he had gone to Southport to tell his uncle Ed about the stolen Corvette. He thought he'd stay all weekend and work on Monday, too.
"We'll meet Chet when he gets off around five," Joe said, finishing off the last of the bacon. Then to Frank he said, "Maybe we ought to snoop around the repair and body shops here, see if we can pick up information about a chop shop "Good idea," Frank replied, pulling the van's keys from his pocket.
They were nearly out the door when the phone began ringing.
"I'll get it!" they shouted simultaneously, elbowing each other as they raced to the phone.
Aunt Gertrude beat both of them.
"Hello," she said, then listened intensely. "Excuse me? Who? Uncle Ed? We don't have an Uncle Ed - "
"It's for us, Aunt Gertrude," Frank said as he took the phone from her. "Thanks." He smiled. Aunt Gertrude disappeared. Frank put the phone to his ear. "Hello?"
"Is this Fenton Hardy?" Frank could tell the man on the other end was frightened, almost hysterical.
"No. This is Frank Hardy, his son."
"I need to talk to Fenton Hardy. Please! It's an emergency."
Frank could tell Joe was anxious to know about the phone call and punched the intercom button. "Mr. Hardy is out of town," Frank said.
"I must talk with Mr. Hardy!" the man sobbed. "My nephew, Chet Morton, has been kidnapped!"
"Kidnapped?" Joe shouted into the phone's intercom.
"I don't know. I'm not sure," Uncle Ed replied. His voice revealed that he was confused as well as terrified.
"Calm down, Mr. Brooke. What makes you think he's missing?" Joe asked quickly.
Mr. Brooke sighed. "Chet showed up at work Saturday morning and told me about the stolen Corvette. He felt so guilty. I told him it wasn't his fault. He's such a good kid. I've known him since he was - "
"What happened to Chet?" Frank interrupted.
"He felt he had to do something. I told him to let the police handle it. He's such a responsible young man. Once, when he was younger, he broke an expensive - "
"Chet, Mr. Brooke," Joe said, controlling his impatience. "What happened to Chet?"
"Yes, I'm sorry. It's just that I'm so worried about him." Mr. Brooke paused. He took a deep breath.
Finally Mr. Brooke began. "Chet said the police all but closed the case on the Corvette, that it was probably stolen by some chop shop operators and was now in parts. He told me not to worry, that he would find the choppers and turn them over to the police. He left my office before I could stop him."
"What makes you think he's been kidnapped?" Frank asked.
"Chet called last night and said he had found two men he believes stole the Corvette. He was going to get the evidence and then call me this morning. But he never did. I did get a call from someone saying he had Chet this morning. That was all he said. I guess I'll get another call."
"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."
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 man 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?"
