William Arden: Hot Wheels

“Okay,” Maxim said grimly. “Let’s go.”

“If the car is stolen, Sergeant,” Jupiter said, “and Ty is telling the truth, then Tiburon’s brother isn’t going to admit anything around the police.”

“Well, we’re sure not letting him go alone,” Maxim said.

“You go first, Cassey,” Detective Cole said. “Do exactly what you would do if you didn’t know we were watching. Jupiter and Pete will go with you. Say they’re friends you brought so you’d have a ride back. We’ll stay out of sight and watch.”

Ty nodded, then jumped back into the little 450SL convertible. Pete and Jupiter headed for the black Fiero that Pete had rebuilt almost from scratch. Pete hadn’t had the time or money to fix the dents or paint it, but its engine was in top shape.

They followed Ty out of the salvage yard. The police came last in an unmarked Dodge Aries.

They drove across town to the west side, down near the harbor. The address Ty said Tiburon had given him turned out to be a bodega — a Latino grocery store — in the small Rocky Beach barrio. The barrio was an area of small, brightly painted house’s and gardenlike Mexican cafes, mixed with run-down motels and seedy cantinas.

Faded black lettering on the bodega door said that Jose Torres was the proprietor. Ty parked the Mercedes in front of the store. Pete parked behind him. The two detectives hung back, out of sight. A small crowd had already gathered around the gleaming 450SL as Ty got out.

“I’ll stay and watch the cars,” Pete said.

Jupiter followed Ty into the bodega.

Inside, a few customers inspected the exotic fruits and vegetables — mangoes, papayas, frijoles, jicama, tomatillos, and rows of hanging green, red, and yellow chili peppers. The slim, dark man behind the grocery counter looked at them coldly. They were not his usual customers. Ty gave him his best smile and a friendly nod.

“Mr. Torres? We’re looking for a guy named Tiburon’s brother.”

“So?” the man said. He was about five feet eight, scrawny looking, with a big Adam’s apple like a skinny-necked rooster. His dark eyes were almost as black as his hair. He looked at Jupiter and then back at Ty.

“Tiburon paid me to drive his brother’s Mercedes down from Oxnard,” Ty continued. “This was the address he gave me.”

Torres shrugged. He turned and yelled into a back room, “We know any guy name of Tiburon? Maybe his brother?”

Two young, tough-looking Latin men came out of the back room. They were not friendly. Only one spoke. “No one like that, Joe.”

Joe Torres turned back to Ty.

“Guess not, amigos. We don’t know anyone like that.”

Ty wasn’t smiling now. “But you’ve got to! Tiburon gave me this address. His brother’s car is outside!”

Torres shook his head and laughed. “Man, you’re a loco Anglo. Who owns a car like that in the barrio, eh? You’re crazy, amigo.”

Ty suddenly lunged across the counter and grabbed Torres by the shirt. “You’re lying, you hear? Tiburon told me to come here!”

“Hey!” Torres tried to push Ty away, but Ty was stronger than he looked. Torres couldn’t shake loose. “Nacio! Carlos!”

Before the two younger Latinos could move, Sergeant Maxim and Detective Cole hurried into the store and pulled Ty off. Jupiter guessed they had been listening on a supersensitive sound detector like the one he’d bought for the team.

Torres jumped back and glared at Ty.

“You’re really crazy, Anglo!”

“Crazy,” Sergeant Maxim said, “and a thief. Put the cuffs on him, Cole. We’re taking him in.”

Ty stood there stunned as Cole snapped the hand-cuffs on his wrists. He looked at Jupiter and shook his head — saying he hadn’t stolen the Mercedes — as the two detectives led him out.

They put Ty in the back of their car. With a heavy steel mesh screen between the front and rear seats, and no inside handles on the rear doors, Ty was trapped in a cage.

Sergeant Maxim drove Ty away. Cole followed in the Mercedes. On the sidewalk, Joe Torres stood behind Jupiter and yelled after the cars.

“Stupid, crazy Anglo!”

The two younger Latinos from the store, Nacio and Carlos, stood in the doorway watching Jupiter. Pete called from the Fiero, “Let’s get out of here, Jupe.”

But Jupiter faced Torres.

“You know, Mr. Torres, I wonder how Ty even knew this address unless someone gave it to him.”

Torres glared at him. “Get out of here, kid.”

“I mean,” Jupiter said, “he’s new in town today from way back East.”

Torres’s face darkened in anger. “You got a real big mouth, you know? Hey, Nacio! Carlos! We got to teach this bigmouth kid a lesson!”

The three men advanced menacingly toward Jupiter.

“Smart-Mouth Kid,” Joe Torres Said, Shoving Jupiter backward on the sidewalk.

“I think — ” Jupiter protested.

Torres shoved him again. “Don’t think, kid. You gonna get in real trouble with that big mouth.”

Behind the bodega owner, Nacio and Carlos grinned nastily. But as Torres extended his hand to shove once more, Jupiter suddenly went into the migishizentai judo move — feet a foot apart, right foot forward.

He caught Torres’s shirt in his hands, pulling him off balance. He turned around and threw the bodega owner over his right side, slamming him down on the sidewalk like a sack of flour in an o goshi body drop.

Torres howled in pain as he hit the hard concrete. He lay on the sidewalk, stunned. Nacio and Carlos stood paralyzed.

Jupiter didn’t wait for them to recover from their shock. He raced to the Fiero. Pete had the motor running and the door open. Jupe jumped in and they roared away.

“What a great throw!” Pete said as he drove the Fiero out of the barrio.

“The o goshi.” Jupiter laughed. “We practiced it all last week in judo class.”

“Judo’s good, but karate’s got more power.”

“When I get my weight down on the new diet, I’ll learn karate too.”

Pete said nothing. Jupiter’s diets were a never-ending joke. One appeared, and was dropped for a new one, faster than Pete or Bob could keep track of. But Jupiter didn’t appreciate cracks about his weight or his diets, so Pete and Bob usually kept their remarks to themselves.

“You think that Torres guy is lying, Jupe?” Pete said instead.

“I’m sure of it. And that means Ty is probably telling the truth. We have to get Ty out of jail to help us investigate and clear him.”

“We better get Bob, too,” Pete said.

When they reached the salvage yard, they hurried into their headquarters trailer to call Bob.

The old house trailer had once been buried under mounds of junk to hide it, but when Jupiter computerized the salvage yard inventory, the guys had cleared away the junk and opened it up. They’d installed an electronic lock, a burglar alarm, a counter surveillance unit against electronic bugs, two computers, and an air conditioner.

Bob’s mother told them Bob was working at his job at Rock-Plus talent agency, so they called there. They got the agency’s answering machine. For a few seconds all they could hear was loud rock music. Then Bob’s voice, straining to be heard over the beat, told them to leave a message.

“He’s probably out looking for some band’s drummer,” Pete said. “He says all drummers are crazy.”

“We’ll try again later,” Jupiter said. “Right now, we’d better go and talk to Aunt Mathilda about Ty.”

They headed across the yard to the office. Aunt Mathilda looked up anxiously as they entered the crowded little cabin.

“Where’s Ty?” she asked.

“They took him downtown to be booked, Aunt M,” Jupiter answered.