Megan Stine - Long Shot

Pete followed, catching up with Jupe quickly. The four jocks were pounding the sidewalk behind them, gaining fast.

“They’re going to pulverize me!” Jupe yelled, puffing as he ran.

“I’ll split off and try to draw some of them away,” Pete called.

Jupe ran as fast as he could, but he didn’t know which way to turn to find the Porsche or the parking lot. So he just bolted toward a large lawn. Almost instantly he developed a pain in his side from running. He looked back and saw that only one of the basketball players had followed Pete. That left three enormous guys breathing down Jupe’s neck.

Jupe reached a street and dashed in front of an oncoming car, then cut through an alley between two classroom buildings. But as he rounded the corner, hoping to duck out of sight, he ran smack into a group of Costa Verde students.

“Kenny! Grab that piece of dog meat!” a voice behind Jupe yelled. Jupe felt hands grabbing at him. It must have been Kenny, a guy in the crowd he had rammed into.

Jupe twisted away, but the collision had slowed him down enough so that now the three jocks were almost even with him. A moment later he felt hands grab him again. It was number 52, wearing a green Costa Verde T-shirt. He held on to Jupe and yanked him around. Then before Jupe knew what was happening, all three jocks were pushing him, punching him, and roughing him up.

Jupe struggled and squirmed, but it was no use. With three monstrous guys holding his arms and legs his judo kicks went nowhere. All of a sudden Jupe felt himself being lifted up and carried away. Where were they taking him? A moment later he found out. His attackers put him down hard, stuffing him into a wire trash basket at the corner of the street.

“That’s where you belong, Polly!” number 52 said, kicking at Jupe inside the basket.

“Yeah—stay in your cage, parrot. And try not to mess up the newspaper in the bottom of it!”

All three guys laughed, then turned around and started to walk away.

Jupe was furious, humiliated, bruised, sore — and sticky from something in the bottom of the trash basket. But before he could decide what to do, Pete pulled up in the Porsche.

“Hop in,” Pete called, lowering the electric window nearest the curb. Slowly Jupe climbed out of the trash basket, got into the Porsche, and locked the door. He sat there silently for a moment, breathing heavily and dripping sweat. Then he noticed that Pete had a cut lip and a swollen eye.

“That fourth guy gave you trouble, I see.”

Pete gave a small nod.

“Well, at least we got away,” Jupe said.

“We’re not the only ones,” Pete answered, frowning. “When I got to the parking lot, the black Thunderbird was gone. Michael Anthony gave us the slip!”

“Michael Anthony said he would call you today. So we’ve got to be here for the phone call,” Jupe said. He was busy hooking up a tape recorder to the cordless phone in Pete’s kitchen.

“But Jupe, give me a break. It’s Saturday morning,” Pete said. “I can’t wait here all day.” He looked longingly out the window at the blue sports car in his driveway. “That car’s not safe out there.”

Jupe raised one eyebrow. “What?”

“Guys were calling me all last night begging to drive it — I didn’t even know who half of them were.” Pete was obviously getting agitated because he poured orange juice in his cereal instead of milk. “I told my parents the car’s part of a case we’re working on. You know what they said?”

“What?” asked Bob.

“They asked me if they could drive it!” Pete said, taking a mouthful of the cereal. “Everyone wants to drive that car.”

“Yeah, I’ll be happy to take it for a spin while you hang around here,” Bob offered.

Pete rolled his eyes. “That car is probably the only reason you’re here today and not working at the talent agency.”

“That reminds me,” Bob said. “Sax wants to drive it, too.”

Pete was about to fling a spoonful of cereal at Bob when the phone rang.

“I told you he’d call,” Jupe said. He jumped to turn on the tape recorder. “Keep him talking as long as you can, Pete. He’s our only lead.”

Pete switched on the speaker phone so they could all listen. But it was Kelly calling from Lake Tahoe.

“The skiing is great, but I miss you, Pete,” she said. “Miss me?”

“Uh, sure,” Pete said. “But give me a break, Kel. I’ve got you on the speaker phone.”

“Oh. Hi, Bob. Hi, Jupe — I mean, Mr. Collegiate,” she added with a giggle.

Jupe snarled at the speaker phone.

“What have you been doing? Working on the Ark, Petey?”

“Nope,” Pete said, giving Jupe and Bob a wink. “As a matter of fact, I don’t even know where it is. I’m driving something else.”

“You traded cars already? That’s a record. What’d you get this time?”

“A Porsche.”

“Petey, we’ve got a bad connection. It sounded like you said Porsche.”

“1986. 911 Targa. A totally cool blue.”

“Come on, you guys. What’s the joke?”

“It’s true,” Bob said. “Pete’s got a Porsche. It’s the next installment from the guy who’s bribing him.”

Kelly was silent for a moment. “Pete, if you care about me at all, you’ll promise not to solve this case until I get home and drive that car.”

“See what I mean?” moaned Pete, looking at his friends.

“The way things are going,” said Jupe gloomily, “that’s a promise he can almost guarantee.”

At 10:15, the phone rang again. Bob answered. It was Valerie this time. She and Bob talked for about five minutes before they discovered that they didn’t know each other. Valerie had dialed the wrong number. However, they still set up a date to go see a movie.

“When I get wrong numbers, they want to sell me magazines,” said Jupe with a sigh.

A third phone call came at exactly 11:00. Jupe was nearest, so he answered. The voice on the other end surprised him. It was Chuck Harper, president of Shoremont College. The call-forwarding button on the HQ phone had bumped Harper’s call over to Pete’s house.

“Jupe, could you and your guys come to my office at four o’clock this afternoon?” Harper said.

“Of course,” Jupe said. Afterward he looked at the clock. Now they had the next five hours to wonder why President Harper sounded so worried — and why Michael Anthony hadn’t called.

For the rest of the day the phone didn’t ring. By two P.M., Pete was so fidgety he was driving Jupe and Bob crazy.

“Are you going to give up on this guy Michael Anthony, or what?” Pete asked as he repeatedly tossed the keys to the Porsche into the air and caught them again.

“I’m beginning to suspect he won’t call,” Jupe agreed. “He must have spotted us when we were tailing him yesterday.”

“What a shame,” Pete said, although a huge smile began spreading across his face. “All right, I’m out of here!”

“Drop me at Sax’s,” Bob said. “I can’t make the four o’clock meeting. Gotta work tonight and tomorrow. And Monday.”

“Right,” Jupe and Pete groaned in unison.

The three of them piled into the Porsche and drove Bob to the talent agency. Then Pete and Jupe cruised until it was time to head for Shoremont.

The administration building was empty and quiet, as usual for a Saturday afternoon. Pete and Jupe found President Harper sitting behind his desk instead of on it. He was unbending paper clips at a rapid rate and wearing a very solemn face. With him was a second man, seated in a tall-backed leather chair.

“Jupiter Jones and Pete Crenshaw, this is John Hemingway Powers,” said President Harper.