Megan Stine - Long Shot

“Okay, we’re up by two,” said Coach Tong. “Now — pressure defense, no cheap fouls, and don’t give them an easy basket.”

The team clasped hands and charged back onto the court.

But as soon as play resumed, Pete knew that Wolfford wasn’t ready to roll over and play dead. Wolfford threw the ball upcourt and scored an easy lay-up to tie the game. Then they stole the ball right back from Rocky Beach, and held it. They were eating up the clock and trying to take the last shot.

“Stay cool! Stay cool!” Bill Konkey shouted to the team.

Finally, with only seconds left to play, a Wolfford player took a shot at the basket and missed. Konkey got the rebound and passed it to Pete.

The crowd was going nuts, screaming the count-down. Time was almost out. “Three... two... ” Pete dribbled, but there was no time to pass. So he went for a desperation move. He leaped into the air and heaved the ball sidearm as hard as he could.

And then to his utter amazement he watched the ball smash into the backboard, bounce off the front rim of the basket, and — somehow — drop through the hoop! The buzzer rang before anyone could believe their eyes. Pete had won the game from two feet past center court!

His team swarmed around him, pounding him, lifting him up and carrying him back to the locker room. The Wolfford crowd was still stunned silent. Pete wanted to find Traut, to get in his face, but he was carried away too fast.

The victory celebration was going to go on all night, but Pete didn’t want any part of it. All he wanted was to shower quickly and then go find Traut. He waited for him in the dark parking lot outside the gym. “Hey,” he said when Traut came out. For a moment Traut looked surprised. “What’s your problem?” Pete asked. “Who told you to come after me?” Traut said nothing and glared at Pete. “Come on, buddy. No officials, no time-outs now,” Pete said. “So you tell me what was going on in there, or I’ll show you the real meaning of the words ‘personal foul’ !”

“Bug off,” Traut said. He shoved Pete into some cars and tried to get past him.

Pete bounced back and shoved Traut. Recovering quickly, Traut threw a punch that caught Pete right in the gut.

For an instant Pete could hardly breathe. The wind was knocked out of him. It only lasted an instant, though. Then he flew into action. “Hi — yaaaaa!” Pete karate-kicked Traut, sending him flying onto his back on the hood of a car. Traut kicked back, his legs flailing like a child’s. Pete grabbed Traut’s ankles, yanked him forward, and then threw him over his left shoulder in one smooth, twisting motion.

Nothing like knowing karate, Pete thought as he looked at Traut lying on the ground. None of Traut’s tough-guy moves, now or during the game, could stand up to the karate skills Pete had developed over the years. Traut knew it, too, because he just lay there, even though he wasn’t really very hurt. He could get up, but he didn’t want to.

“Okay,” Pete said. “Now tell me. Who told you to do a number on me? Come on, slimeball. The truth!”

“I don’t know,” Traut said weakly.

Pete reached down and jerked Traut up by his shirt. “The truth!”

“I don’t know, I swear. The guy wouldn’t tell me his name. Not his real name, anyway,” Traut said. “He just gave me two hundred bucks and told me to rough you up during the game. And he gave me a letter to deliver to you. I didn’t even read it.”

“What do you mean, ‘not his real name?’ ” Pete demanded, giving Traut a yank to put him back on his feet.

“I mean he gave me a phony name. He admitted it,” Traut said. “What was it?” Pete asked.

“Michael Anthony.”

Very late that night Jupe, Bob, and Pete sat in the crowded fluorescent-light fantasy of Hank’s 24-Hour One-Stop, one of Rocky Beach’s more unusual hangouts.

Pete was hunched over a soda and Hank’s sandwich of the night. After midnight the sandwich was free with an extra-large soda, but it was made of leftovers from the day shift. Tonight it was a meatloaf and tuna salad combo.

While he ate, Pete told Bob and Jupe about the Wolfford game, Traut’s vicious attacks, and the karate fight in the parking lot. Then he drank all 32 ounces of his soda in one gulp.

“I was parched,” he told Jupe.

“Dehydrated,” Jupe corrected. “You lost a lot of fluid in perspiration during the game. I know how you feel.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” Pete said with a laugh. “You were the parrot at the Shoremont game tonight. Did you learn anything new?”

Jupe shook his head glumly.

“Forget the case for a few minutes, okay?” Bob said. “We’re here to celebrate Pete’s big win!”

“This place is definitely beyond weird,” Pete said, looking around Hank’s. “Why is almost everyone wearing black?”

“It’s Wednesday, Pete,” explained Bob. “It’s one of Hank’s deals. Wear black on Wednesday, you get a ten percent discount.”

“How do you know so much about this place?” Pete asked.

“I’ve been here after late-night recording sessions,” Bob said. “That’s when I found out it’s the best place to wait for the first edition of the morning paper. It’ll be here by two in the a.m. Hank guarantees it.”

“You really think there’ll be a story about me in the paper?” asked Pete.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Jupe said, yawning. “It’s a long shot, Pete.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Bob said. “I’m telling you, Pete, if your winning basket was only half as long as you say it was, it will make the papers. It’s too good not to.”

“I think the most notable event of the evening was the note in Pete’s locker,” said Jupe. Bob and Pete groaned.

“Well, the note was interesting to me because it signals that Barry Norman is still trying to scare us off the case,” said Jupe. “He knows we’re closing in on him.”

“Not fast enough,” Pete said, returning with another large soda. “I want to get that guy off the streets.”

“That would be easy with what we know about him already,” Jupe said. “But President Harper wants us to find the man Barry Norman is working for. A task at which we have so far failed.”

“Hey, whatever happened to the old it’s-not-over-till-it’s-over Jupiter Jones?” asked Bob.

Jupe put his head down on the table. “I’ve been jumping around in a parrot costume all night. I’m exhausted! I can’t solve a case with no sleep,” he moaned. “We should be going home, not waiting here for the newspaper.”

“We won’t have to wait much longer,” said Bob, pointing to the door. “The papers are here.”

Bob got up and hurried to join the line at the cash register to buy a newspaper. Bob went because Hank was so weird that he sometimes insisted that people line up alphabetically. Andrews was the best last name among the three of them.

“Hey, Jupe, are you going to eat the other half of your meatloaf-tuna sandwich?” Pete asked.

Jupe pushed his plate over to Pete. “Sometimes I think if I weren’t on a diet, you’d starve.”

“Hey, Pete. They didn’t just write a little story about you,” Bob said, dropping an open newspaper onto the table. “It’s the headline story. ‘Long Shot Wins Game.’ ”

“Wow! Look!” Pete said, grabbing the newspaper away. “It’s even got a photo of me!”

There was a picture across the top of the page taken by a photographer who must have been standing high up in the bleachers. The photo showed the whole court, with Pete standing on the far side of midcourt. Everyone was watching the ball, which had been frozen in midair.