Lights Out

What was that? Frank wondered as he opened the door between the locker room and the pool. The sound was something between a plop and a plop, as if someone had tossed a sack of potatoes into the water.

Frank glanced around the pool area. No one there—and no one around the lockers, either. Where had Joe gone?

Just as he was turning to leave, something in the pool caught Frank’s eye—a single flip-flop floating on the water.

With a sense of dread rising up in him, Frank stepped closer to the edge of the pool and saw a human form sinking to the bottom.

Fully dressed, Frank dove into the water, knifingdownward toward the blond-haired figure. It was Joe!

Seconds later Frank was hanging on to the side of the pool, supporting his brother as Joe sputtered and coughed up water.

Frank noticed an angry-looking red welt on the side of Joe’s forehead. “What happened, little brother?” Frank asked after pulling Joe up onto the pool deck. “Dive into the pool and bang your knucklehead on the bottom again?”

“Ah, c’mon,” Joe said, carefully touching the sore spot. “I was eight years old when that hap penned.” He made his way over to the pool bench and angrily grabbed his towel. “All I know is I put my thongs on, and about two seconds later the concrete’s kissing my forehead.”

Frank noticed the second thong near the pooi ladder. He retrieved the thong and rubbed his index finger over the bottom. It felt oily.

“Your flip-flop’s been greased.” Frank inspected the slick substance. “Looks like Vaseline. A lot of swimmers carry it for chapped lips from being in the water so much.”

Frank could see blood pumping at Joe’s temples. “I want to know which guy put that stuff on my flops,” Joe said angrily. He tossed Frank his towel and said, “I would have drowned if you hadn’t come when you did.”

Frank had been thinking the same thing, but didn’t want to say it. Drying himself off, he followed his brother into the locker room.

“Did you see anyone in the pool area besides Callie and Iola?” Frank asked, stripping off his wet clothes. Luckily, he had a reasonably clean set of sweats in his locker.

“No one,” Joe admitted. “But I was swimming laps, and it’s pretty hard to see much from inside the pool. It would’ve been easy for anybody to monkey with my thongs. They were next to the bench, and the bench is right near the locker-room door.”

Frank put on his sweats while Joe changed into his street clothes. “We’d better make tracks. It’s already past closing,” Frank said.

“Where to?” Joe asked, slamming his locker shut. “Home,” Frank said firmly. “We should get some ice on your head. Unless you want to be sporting a goose egg at the game tomorrow.”

They arrived home to find the place empty. “Aunt Gertrude’s still taking care of her sick friend, and Dad’s out on a case,” Joe announced, reading a note in the kitchen.

“Just as well,” Frank said. “Then I can throw this stuff in the dryer without answering twenty questions.”

He was wringing out his jeans down in the basement laundry area when he felt something squishy in the back pocket. Digging inside, he found a soggy lump of green paper—the remains of a paper airplane.

“Oh, man!” Frank burst out, charging up the stairs.

He found Joe in the kitchen, munching on one of Aunt Gertrude’s leftover sandwiches. “What’s up?” Joe asked.

“That fall down the hill must have rattled my brains,” Frank said, carefully unpeeling the soaked paper. “The night I got pushed behind the rec center, we found that program with the telephone number written on it. It’s been sitting in my pocket ever since.”

“So it took a swim with you,” Joe commented, watching Frank’s carefully working hands.

Frank sighed with relief as he unfolded the crumpled wad to reveal the telephone number. The scribbled digits were blurred, but he could still read them.

Joe glanced at the number, punched it in on the kitchen phone, then handed the receiver to Frank.

“I can’t believe I forgot—” Frank stopped speaking as the phone on the other side of the connection was picked up. “Coates residence,” a pleasant female voice chirped in his ear.

“Uh—ah, is Todd in?” Frank improvised.

“I’m afraid not.” The voice on the other end sounded a bit less friendly. “Would you like to leave a message?”

“Urn, no—no. I’ll catch him later.” Frank hung up and stared at the phone for a moment. Then he turned and reported his conversation to Joe.

“Todd has some serious explaining to do,” Joe said angrily. “Those must have been his boot prints we saw. That means he wasn’t just passing by when he saw you pushed down the hill—he was the one who ambushed you! The program must have fallen out of his pocket while he was waiting.”

“Hold on a minute,” Frank said. “Why would Todd have his own number on a program?”

Joe was stumped. “You got me on this one,” he admitted to Frank. “I think my brain might be waterlogged.”

it didn’t make sense. Nor did it make sense for any of their other suspects to have Todd’s number. Jake Berman and his bully friends weren’t likely to pal around with Todd. And Glen Revelle didn’t even know the guy.

Frank stared in frustration at the soggy green paper. He’d hoped it might provide some answers. Instead, it just seemed to raise new questions.

As Frank headed for the locker room the next afternoon, he felt as unhappy as Mr. Hooley looked, mopping the halls under the eagle eye of Mr. Chambers. With a deep breath, Frank tried to shove away all the unanswered questions of the last few days. He had to get suited up for the champion ship match.

Chet Morton shook his head as he looked over the Bombers sitting on the locker-room bench and standing by their lockers. “I dunno, Frank. Be tween your ankle, Joe’s head, and BifFs green face, we already look like the team that lost.”

“Bite your tongue!” Joe commanded.

Frank knew it would be a tough game. And someone had been doing everything possible to see that the Bombers lost. If only we’d solved the case before this final game, Frank wished. But he wasn’t going to let himself feel defeated before the game even started. Instead, he’d work out his frustration on Jake Berman and the Ocean City Slickers.

The game was tight from the opening tip-off. Frank’s ankle was a lot better, but Biff was still a little weak from the rat poison. At half-time, the score was tied.

Frank knew from experience that it took Berman most of the first half to warm up to his full playing intensity. And he was right. By the fourth quarter Jake was hot.

Joe tried to keep Jake covered. It took every ounce of strength he had to keep up with this top player, who was not only strong and fast, but also wily.

With only minutes left in the game, and Joe draped all over him, Berman drilled another bas ket. Even as he shot, Joe rammed into him. The ref whistled Joe for the foul.

“I’ve been hearing a bunch of stupid rumors about the Slickers trying to sabotage the last game,” Berman spat at Joe as he headed for the foul line. “Let me tell you something, Hardy. I don’t need to cheat to beat you guys. I can do that playing blindfolded.” As if to demonstrate his point, Berman shut his eyes and threw the foul shot in. Joe took the inbound pass and dribbled up court. Berman dogged him all the way. “It’s over for you guys,” Berman said, reaching in and trying to steal the ball. Joe dribbled the ball out of Berman’s reach and raced up the court. He bounced a pass to Tony Prito, racing along at his flank. Berman stayed on Joe. “You’re looking tired, Hardy,” Berman mocked. “Maybe you’re out of your league.”

With a burst of energy that tapped all his re serves, Joe tore ahead on the race to the Bombers’ basket. He took Tony’s pass, dribbled once to get to the basket, double-faked his shot to get Berman in the air, then threw up a soft fade-away that eased through the hoop, hitting nothing but net. Jake came down hard on Joe, fouling him.

“Bombers! Bombers!” The crowd’s cheer re sounded throughout the stands as Joe stepped up to the foul line and calmly sank the foul shot. The Slickers’ coach signaled for a time-out. But Berman waved his own coach off. Gathering his team about him, he screamed at them, “I am not going to lose this game!” Frank could hear his bellow halfway across the court.Still fuming, Berman took the inbound pass and dashed the length of the court. Tony tried to block the shot, but Berman stuffed the ball in Tony’s face. Then Berman jumped in a twisting lay up to tie the score with only ten seconds remaining in the game.

Buff passed the ball in to Tony. Frank took Tony’s pass, dribbled twice toward the basket, tossed a no- look pass to Joe in the corner, and continued to the basket. Joe’s pass had eyes, finding its way through a crowd of defenders as if it were a missile homing in on its target.

Frank was waiting for it. He caught the ball, spun around Berman, and, riding a tide of pure adrenaline, slammed the ball through the hoop at the exact moment when the room was plunged into darkness.