Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Running on Empty (4 page)
They headed for the door. Frank held his breath, hoping his bluff would work.
"Hey, wait a minute." Cronkite nervously laughed and put himself between the Hardys and the door. "I didn't say you couldn't help somehow. I just needed to be sure, that's all."
Neither Frank nor Joe returned the detective's plastic smile.
Cronkite stared at them for a few seconds, sighed, then raised a finger. "Rule Number One: I'm in charge and you follow my orders. Rule Number Two: When in doubt, refer to Rule Number One. Do we understand each other?"
"Clearly," Frank said.
"All we want to do is find our friend," Joe added.
"Okay," Cronkite replied without hesitation. "How is Smith going to contact you if he needs you?"
Frank pulled the beeper from his belt and held it up.
"These modern horse thieves have it easy," Cronkite said, back to his cynical self. "I've got an undercover officer who hasn't been able to get on the inside of Smith's gang yet." Cronkite paused. "Emerson Sauter. A rookie, but a good cop."
"A rookie?" Frank couldn't believe it.
"I wouldn't be choosy about my partners, young man," Cronkite replied, one eyebrow cocked. "Officer Sauter was especially chosen for this assignment. You'll find out why tomorrow. Know where Royce's Garage is located?"
"We can find it," Joe said.
"That's right - you're 'detectives.' Report to the officer for further instructions at oh-nine-hundred hours, sharp!"
"Does he use an undercover name?" Frank asked.
"He?" Then Cronkite laughed. "Oh, no, he uses his real name."
Frank wondered what Cronkite thought was so funny, but dismissed it as part of the detective's strange sense of humor.
"You'd better introduce us by our aliases," Frank advised.
Cronkite nodded as he opened the door. "I still can't believe I'm putting my career into the hands of a couple of junior detectives from Bayport. What a world!"
***
After a fitful night's rest, the Hardys were up early, heading for Royce's Garage on the other side of Southport. The hotcakes they had ordered for breakfast had been cold and doughy, and Joe was irritable.
Joe turned the van into the driveway of a run-down building sitting far back off the main road. Various car parts littered most of the driveway, ROYCE'S GARAGE was painted across the large front window.
Joe had to jockey the van around the trash.
"This is it? This is the big undercover operation?" Joe stared in disbelief.
Frank sat up. "Looks more like a war zone than a repair shop."
"I don't think they put a lot of money or planning into this," Joe said with a groan.
"Let's meet this Sauter character and see what he has to say for himself."
Because the bay doors were shut, Frank and Joe walked into the garage's outer office. Joe tried an inner office door, but it was locked.
The walls of the outer office were cluttered with hot-rod posters and personal photographs. Joe checked out several of the photos. Many were of a pretty girl and classic fifties cars. The girl looked about seventeen or eighteen, her long red hair framing a beautiful face and green eyes. Joe fell in love immediately.
"Out here," Frank said. "There's a mechanic under a car in one of the bays."
"Officer Sauter?" Joe asked as they approached the mechanic.
No answer. They knew he wasn't asleep; they could hear him tinkering under the car.
"Officer Sauter," Frank called out. "It's Frank and Joe Davis. Detective Cronkite called you last night about us."
Still no answer.
"Rudeness seems to be this police department's primary attitude," Joe quipped. "Hey!" he shouted as he kicked the greasy boots of the mechanic.
The mechanic yelled and whipped out from under the car on the wheeled crawler, leaping up with lightning speed.
Instinctively, Joe cocked his fist to protect himself. He pulled his punch when He saw that the mechanic was a girl.
What Joe didn't realize soon enough was that she had flung a heavy pipe wrench straight at his head!
"Look out!" Frank shouted as he shoved Joe aside.
The heavy pipe wrench bounced on the floor.
Joe cocked his fist, ready to punch the mechanic.
"Try it, jerk, and you'll end up eating concrete," the mechanic threatened in a soft but stern tone.
Joe stared at the mechanic. She was in a defensive karate stance, posed to strike, her baseball cap turned around backward.
"Come on, macho man," the young woman challenged. "You started this - let's see if you can finish it."
"Wait a minute," Joe protested, his hands raised. "I'm not going to fight a girl."
The young woman's green eyes flared. "My gender has nothing to do with this. I'll use you to mop up this floor."
"What's your problem?" Joe looked to Frank for help, but Frank only seemed amused by his younger brother's predicament.
"I'll tell you what my problem is," the young woman said slowly. "I just spent the better part of two hours making delicate adjustments to this car's transmission, and your little kick caused me to slip and knock it all out of whack. That's my problem!" The woman pulled a rag from the rear pocket of her coveralls and began wiping red transmission fluid from her hands. "But I guess an ape like you wouldn't know about such things."
"Wait a minute," Joe began. He glanced at the name stitched over the coveralls's pocket - Emmy. Emmy? "Emerson Sauter? You're a mechanic? I mean, you're a woman?"
"I'm a cop, too. Got a problem with that? You two from Cronkite?"
"Yes," Frank said, trying not to smile.
"Look, if I'd known you were a woman, I wouldn't have kicked you," Joe explained. He turned to Frank. "Whoever heard of a girl named Emerson?"
Emmy took off her cap, and her red hair fell to her shoulders. The girl in the photos, Joe realized.
"It just so happens," Emmy finally replied, "that my father named me after Emerson Fittipaldi, the Brazilian race car driver. Not that it's any of your business."
"Look, we're sorry," Frank apologized, stepping between Emmy and Joe. "I'm Frank Davis. You've already met Joe." Frank stuck out his hand, and Emmy shook it firmly. "Did Cronkite tell you about us?"
Emmy stomped over to a large stainless-steel sink and began washing the grease from her face and hands.
"Yes. And I'll tell you both right now, I don't like this arrangement. The last thing I need to do is baby-sit a couple of teenagers."
"Don't worry about us," Joe said.
"I have to worry about you. My life may depend on it." Emmy towel dried her hands. "Let me tell you two this." She was addressing Joe more than she was Frank. "Cronkite has given me full discretion in this case. What I say goes."
Frank's beeper sounded in a rapid series of staccato chirps, and all three jumped.
"What's that?" Emmy asked, distrust in her voice and eyes.
"Smith," Frank explained. He shut off the beeper.
"I'll call and find out what he wants," Joe volunteered.
"Phone's on the desk," Emmy shouted after Joe. She threw the garage bay door open and stepped outside.
"Cronkite should have told us a little more about you," Frank said.
"Why? Would you have objected to working with a woman?" Emmy leaned against a sleek red and black fastback coupe.
"No. And don't be so defensive." Frank suddenly realized why he was beginning to like this rookie cop - she reminded him of Callie. The same sparring with Joe, the same quick temper, the same pretty face.
Emmy shifted. "Sorry."
"I know we haven't started out on the right footing. Let's begin again." Frank straightened to his full height. He stuck out his hand. "Hi. I'm Frank Davis, undercover car thief and all-around good guy."
Emmy stared for a moment, then laughed. She grabbed Frank's hand and shook it. "Hi, Frank. I'm Emerson Sauter, your boss."
They both laughed.
Joe was annoyed as he joined them outside. He didn't see anything funny.
"The final test," he said to Frank, ignoring Emmy.
"Test?" Emmy asked.
"We're not full members of Smith's little club yet," Frank explained. "We've got to boost one more car and then he'll make us full partners."
"Not 'we,' " Joe said. "Me. Smith wants me to prove I can pull off a job in broad day light."
"I don't think it's smart for you two to be stealing cars," Emmy said flatly.
"Got it covered," Joe said. "I called Uncle Ed, and he's lending us his own car to rip off. A brand-new Cadillac."
"Wow!" Emmy exclaimed.
"Uncle Ed's willing to give up his dealership to get Chet back," Joe replied. To Frank he said, "I'll need you to drop me off at Smith's."
"No, wait," Emmy spoke up as they headed for the van. "Joe, you take the van to Smith's. Frank, help me check out a salvage yard I think is fencing Smith's chopped parts."
"Okay with me," Frank replied to Joe's questioning glance.
Joe didn't like the idea of being separated, and he didn't like being bossed around by a woman.
"All right. I'll meet you back at the motel." With that, Joe hopped in the van and peeled out of the driveway, dodging various piles of junk.
"A real hothead," Emmy said.
"He's just anxious to find Chet. So am I," Frank replied.
"I don't blame you. I know what it's like to have someone you love taken away from you so suddenly, so violently."
Frank was startled by the faraway, painful tone in Emmy's voice. He was ready to ask her about it when she turned and walked toward the office.
"I've got to change. You wait in the car."
***
They headed out of Southport on a road that led into the country. Emmy had slipped into faded blue jeans and an old bowling shirt with Royce's Gear Heads and Gutter Balls embroidered on the back, and a bowling ball smashing into a set of pistons.
"I'm sorry if I seemed so defensive back at the garage," Emmy said. "I suppose it irks me just knowing you two have gotten into Smith's gang when I've been trying for six months."
"Beginner's luck," Frank said.
"Not from what Cronkite told me about you two."
Frank didn't know why, but he was embarrassed. In many ways, Emmy was a lot like Callie.
"Where are we going?" Frank asked.
"Paradise Salvage," Emmy replied. "Although I haven't been able to prove it, I think Max Elburk is moving chopped parts through his salvage hotline."
"Salvage hotline?"
"Nearly all the salvage yards across the nation are linked by a special computer hotline. If someone comes in needing a special part and a salvage yard doesn't have it, a manager gets on the modem with his fellow junkers. In a matter of minutes, he has the part ordered and shipped from one of his buddies' salvage yards."
"I didn't realize junkyards were so high tech."
"To you they may be junkyards, Frank, but those rusting old heaps of wrecked cars are lined with pure gold Emmy turned off the paved highway and onto a dirt road, dust flying into the air.
A large two-story barn sat on the edge of the front section of the salvage yard. The barn was dotted with orange and pink and purple and yellow painted flowers. Large white peace symbols from the sixties danced between the flowers. A wooden sign painted in bright pink letters announced Paradise Salvage.
Emmy laughed at Frank's stunned expression!
"Did I forget to tell you that Max Elburk is a little strange?" she asked as she parked the car.
"How strange?"
"Strange," Emmy replied. "All we have in the files is that Max Elburk once designed computer software, and then about a year ago, he got fed up with his suits and ties and oxford shoes. He bought this salvage yard, grew his hair long, and started chanting and meditating."
"Chanting?" Frank asked, stepping from the car.
"He claims it calms him down, puts him in touch with the 'universal soul.' "
They stepped into the front office, which was at the front of a house. Emmy hit the bell on the counter several times, its ring echoing off the walls.
"What's that?" Frank asked, alarmed.
From somewhere behind the house came a steady, persistent humming and crunching.
"That's Max's crusher," Emmy replied. "It flattens cars into thin steel wafers or squeezes them into metal squares."
Moments later Max Elburk burst through the beaded curtain that separated the office from the rest of the house.
Emmy hadn't exaggerated Elburk's appearance. Frank had to keep from snickering at the middle-aged hippie.
Elburk's long, stringy gray hair reached his shoulders. Wire-rimmed glasses that were tinted purple sat perched on his thin nose and contrasted with his orange and yellow tie-dyed T-shirt.
"Emmy! I thought I heard someone. I was in back, chanting. How you doing?" Max Elburk drawled.
"Great," Emmy replied. "How about yourself?"
"I feel better now."
"Hope we didn't interrupt your meditating," Frank said.
Elburk shot a questioning glance at Emmy.
"This is Frank Davis, an old friend. Frank, this is Max Elburk."
Frank stuck out his hand. "Good to meet you."
"Pleasure," Elburk said, slapping Frank's hand instead of shaking it.
Emmy smiled and said, "Hey, Max, I'm replacing a tranny on a Vette, and I need a plate that isn't cracked or burned. Got one on hand?"
"Uh, don't think so," Elburk said slowly, his forehead wrinkled in thought.
Frank was impressed with Emmy's knowledge of mechanic slang. A tranny was a transmission. A plate was a clutch plate. He was beginning to understand why Cronkite had selected this particular rookie for the chop shop undercover operation.
"You sure?" Emmy pleaded. "I really need it. I need to have the Vette finished by this afternoon. I could look in the parts barn if you're too busy."
"No, no, that's okay. I'll check it out for you. If I don't have it there, maybe I can get it over the wire." Elburk disappeared through the beaded curtains.
"We may be out of luck, Frank," she said after Elburk had left.
"Why?"
"Chet's car was a Vette, right?"
"Right."
"I was hoping that if Smith was using Max to fence his chopped parts that - "
"Perhaps Smith brought the parts from Chet's car here," Frank finished.
"You're a fast learner, you know that?" Emmy's green eyes showed admiration for Frank.
Frank felt himself blush.
"However," Emmy said, "either he's holding out or he just doesn't have any. Which means he may not be fencing Smith's parts for him."
"If he is fencing for Smith, he may know where Chet is."
"Maybe." Emmy sighed. She walked over to a battered couch, sat down, grabbed a well-worn hot-rod magazine, and flipped through the pages. "This may take a while."
Frank leaned against the counter. He didn't like standing around while his best friend was in danger.
Frank decided to look around Elburk's house. He knew Emmy wouldn't like the idea, so he slowly walked backward, hoping not to distract her attention away from her magazine. He glanced through the beaded curtains and silently slipped through the opening.
He thought he was safe inside when he heard a pair of menacing growls. He turned his eyes to his right. Just inside were two massive black mastiffs crouched in an attack stance, their black lips pulled back over large, sharp yellow teeth. Frank knew that one move on his part would be excuse enough for the dogs to attack.
"Now what are you going to do, Detective?" asked Emmy somewhere behind Frank. Frank heard the beaded curtain rustle. Emmy stood beside him. Frank could see she had her arms folded and stood casually, as though nothing was wrong. "Believe it or not, their names are Peace and Love. They'll attack you, all right, unless you're properly introduced to them. Peace! Love! Take it easy!"
To Frank's surprise, the dogs relaxed, wagged their tails, and bounced over to Emmy, who knelt down and rubbed their heads.
Frank took a long-awaited breath. "You three act like you're old friends."
"I've been out here so often looking for old car parts that we've gotten to know each other quite well." Emmy stood. "And now, Frank Davis, I'd like to introduce you to Peace and Love. Boys, meet Frank Davis."
The two mastiffs looked at Frank, their heads turning from side to side.
"Go ahead, Frank. As long as you know the heel command, they're harmless."
Frank slowly stretched out his hands and patted the dogs on their heads. The dogs wagged their tails and tried to lick Frank's hands.
"I knew you three would make good friends." Emmy turned and walked back into the office, leaving Frank alone with the dogs. Frank glanced at the dogs and quickly followed.
Max was just coming through the front door as Frank entered the office.
"Oh - Max," Emmy said, covering for Frank. "I was just showing Frank your sixties record collection."
Max eyed Emmy.
"Yeah," Frank said. "You've got some cool old albums." Frank noticed that Max's T-shirt and jeans were now dirty, his face sweaty, and his hands greasy.
"Sorry, babe," Max said as he walked around the counter. "No such thing. I'll put a request out over the hotline. Want me to call you later?"
"Yeah, I guess." Emmy sighed. Her hunch hadn't panned out. "Come on, Frank."
"Be cool, you two," Max said with a cheerful wave.
"That's that," Emmy blurted out as she peeled away from Paradise Salvage.
"Maybe he was just playing it cool," Frank said to console Emmy. "A Vette is stolen and chopped Friday night. You come looking for Vette parts Tuesday. Max may be a little weird, but he doesn't seem stupid."
"Maybe you're right."
The fastback suddenly leapt forward in a burst of speed, pressing Frank back against his seat.
"Hey!" Frank shouted. "Slow down!" His eyes widened as they neared the paved intersection.
"I can't," Emmy yelled. "The pedal's stuck."
Frank watched as Emmy tried to pull the pedal up with her foot. It wouldn't budge. The car was approaching the intersection at ninety miles per hour.
Emmy pounced on the brakes with both feet. The car jerked as it slowed down, but sped up again as the brake pedal sank to the floor.
"Brakes are gone!" Emmy shouted.
The intersection loomed before them like a black ribbon of death.
Emmy stomped on the emergency brake pedal. Nothing happened.
"Look out!" Frank shouted.
Emmy swerved the car to the left to avoid a semitractor trailer. The car fishtailed out of control. Emmy did gain control just as they were headed for a narrow bridge.
"Get the ignition, Frank!" Emmy yelled.
Frank knew what Emmy wanted him to do. By shutting off the engine, the power would be cut off, and the car would eventually slow down. Emmy couldn't do it: She needed both hands on the steering wheel to control the rampaging car.
He stripped off his shoulder seat belt, reached over, and shut off the engine, quickly flipping the ignition switch backward to accessory so the steering wheel wouldn't lock.
The high-pitched roar of the car's runaway engine died, and the fastback became strangely silent.
Emmy gasped. Frank followed her terrified gaze. They were approaching one of the small bridge's concrete pillars at ninety miles per hour!
