Megan Stine - Long Shot

“Let’s get over to the workshop and hook you up,” Jupe said.

Two hours later Pete turned off the Pacific Coast Highway at a scenic overlook. He talked the whole time he pulled into the parking lot, giving a full description for Jupe’s benefit. Jupe was squeezed into the trunk of the big Cadillac with a radio receiver tuned to the same frequency Pete was broadcasting on. The trunk lid was tied to look like it wouldn’t stay closed. In fact, it was tied that way so Jupe could get some air.

“Jupe, I hope you can hear me. Man, with this microphone and transmitter taped around my chest, I feel like I can’t breathe. There are a couple of cars parked here. One’s a Porsche 911 Targa. It’s blue and it’s bad. There are a few people looking around. One guy’s standing by himself without a camera. I bet that’s our guy. He’s medium height. About thirty, maybe. Aviator shades. He’s wearing a blue business shirt with a tie. He’s got the sleeves rolled, and he’s looking right at me now. I’ll try to let him do most of the talking. I stopped the car. He’s coming this way. Here I go.”

Pete stepped out of the car, tossing his sunglasses on the seat behind him.

“Hi, Pete,” said the man, slipping off his sunglasses and holding his hand out. Pete shook it, noticing the man had blue eyes.

“You want to talk in the car or look at the scenery?” the man asked.

“Uh, outside,” Pete said,

“Fine,” said the man, putting his sunglasses back on and walking back toward the railing overlooking the Pacific Ocean. “Let me say a couple of things. First, we think you’ve got the potential to become quite a basketball player.”

“You’ve been talking to Coach Duggan?”

The man smiled. “Maybe the first thing I should have said was not to ask me any questions, Pete. I’m going to tell you everything I want you to know.”

Why’s this guy so calm? Pete wondered. I guess he’s done this a hundred times.

“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.”