Bayport Buccaneers Read online

  “Did they have a breakout at the zoo?” I asked Frank. “’Cause I sure smell something rank.”

  Frank sniffed the air. “Orangutan?” he asked. “Or maybe hyena?”

  “Har-de-har-har,” Brian said, which wasn’t much better than the way he usually laughed. “Apparently they’ll let anybody on this show.”

  “Just what we were thinking,” I shot back.

  Brian balled up his fist, and for a moment I thought he might hit me. I guess I didn’t look scrawny enough for him to pick on, though, because the next minute he relaxed and said, “You guys aren’t supposed to be in this line—it’s for people who already qualified. Tryouts are over there.” He jerked his thumb over to the other line.

  “Then we’re in the right place,” I said, brandishing my ticket.

  Brian went red in the face. “How’d you get that?” he said. “I didn’t see you trying out!”

  “We won ours in a contest,” Frank explained.

  “That figures,” Brian said. “I spend half the summer chasing this show around, trying to get an audition, and you guys just waltz in without even trying. You Hardys sure have the luck! It’s like you were born on a silver platter or something.”

  I ignored his bungled metaphor and shrugged. “Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good. Though, of course, it’s better to be both” I smiled my most annoying smile at him. I figured if he hit me, they’d probably toss him out of the contest.

  Brian didn’t take the bait. “Well, then get to the back of the line where you belong,” he said. “It’s first come, first served here.”

  He turned away from us, and I can’t say that I’m sorry he did. Any opportunity not to look at Brian’s ugly face is an opportunity I’ll take.

  Frank and I found the back of the line and queued up. “Did you catch what Brian said?” Frank asked.

  “About following the show around all summer?” I replied. “Yeah. I caught that.”

  “Maybe Brian’s been causing a bit of trouble during his travels,” Frank suggested.

  “Could be,” I said. Brian was a well-known troublemaker around Bayport. He was mean and quick-tempered, with a tendency to bully everyone he could. He’d caused his share of vandalism during the last school year—more than his share, actually. In fact Brian’s middle name was Trouble, and everybody in school knew it. He practically lived in the vice principal’s office.

  “What would he gain by causing trouble for the show?” Frank wondered.

  “Who knows?” I said. “Maybe he was mad ’cause they kept turning him down as a contestant. Breaking a few small things is just Brian’s way of saying thanks.”

  “I don’t know,” Frank said. “I can see Brian sabotaging something to get back at the show, but drowning someone? That’s too much, even for him.”

  “You’re right,” I admitted. “Assuming he did it on purpose. But wasn’t Olson’s drowning supposed to be an accident? Maybe Brian set up some prank and it went wrong.”

  Frank shook his head. “I’m still not buying it,” he said. “It would require intelligence and planning.”

  I had to admit, that seemed to rule Brian out. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll just have to sniff around and see what we can find out about the death as well as the show’s other trouble. Didn’t the disc say the accidents started up after Olson died?”

  Just then a woman with a clipboard and a megaphone appeared at the front of the line. She was attractive, in her late twenties or early thirties, and had shoulder-length brown hair done just so. She put the megaphone to her lips and said, “Good evening. My name is Marlene Krall, and I’m the producer and director of Buccaneers”

  The crowd cheered, so we did too.

  “If you’re in this line, you’ve already passed an audition and gotten your ticket to appear in the show,” Ms. Krall continued. “Anyone who does not have a ticket is in the wrong line. You need to join that crowd, over there.” She pointed to the other, much longer line. “People in that line will still have a chance to compete in the show, but they’ll be starting tomorrow morning. Those of you who already have tickets are starting tonight.”

  Another cheer, and this time I felt some of the crowd’s excitement.

  “In just a few minutes, you’ll meet our host, Miles Stillman,” Marlene said. “You may remember him from his roles in Count Alucard’s Death Cruise, Snakes on a Ship, and of course Bermuda Buccaneers.” Again, cheering. “But before you meet our star, we need to get you outfitted for the show. So if you all will stay in line and follow me to the costuming tent, our costumers and production assistants can get you started.”

  With that she waved her megaphone like a bandleader waving a baton and headed for a big tent staked up on one side of the park. The crowd followed after her, keeping fairly orderly—though I thought I saw Brian cut a place or two.

  Inside, the tent was like a circus. There were long racks of pirate-style clothing, and people from the show—costuming assistants, I guess—were running around, checking tickets, and then handing out costumes.

  No one came to help Frank and me when we got to the head of the line, so I stopped a pretty girl with bright blond hair as she dashed by.

  “Hey, since everyone’s so busy,” I said, “maybe we should just start on our own. If you can just tell us which costumes to pick from—”

  “How should I know?” the girl said. “I’m not a costumer.” I noticed now that she had a pair of heavy pliers in her hand, smears of paint on her jeans, a greasy blue rag sticking out of her pocket, and a heavy ring of keys at her belt. She definitely didn’t look like a costumer.

  “You’ll just have to wait your turn,” she said. “Excuse me.” And with that she ran out just as quickly as she’d come in.

  “That’s a record for losing a girl, even for you,” said Frank.

  “I’ve seen you lose ’em faster,” I shot back.

  “Oh, yeah?” Frank retorted. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, aiming for a costuming girl with curly black hair. The girl was helping someone else, but Frank didn’t seem to care. “E-excuse me,” he said. “We need to get our costumes.”

  The girl smiled at him, if you can believe it. “I’ll be right with you,” she said.

  Frank nodded, having used up his allotment of stammer-free words, and stepped back beside me. “See?” he said. “I did okay.”

  “Sure,” I said, meaning just the opposite.

  “At least my girl didn’t run away,” he pointed out.

  We spotted some other people we knew in the tent while we were waiting. There was Brian, of course, now decked out in—appropriately enough—a black pirate costume and hat, and Daphne Soesbee, too. She wore a maroon and white outfit that nicely complemented her red hair.

  The costumer came over to us soon enough and helped us pick our sizes from the racks. The clothes, as it turned out, were pretty flimsy, kind of dingy, and held together with Velcro.

  “With so many people to dress, they can’t go for top-of-the-line costumes,” Frank said. “I’m sure these will look fine on camera.”

  “They’d better,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to seem less than perfect for my public.” I stuck my nose in the air and propped my hands on my hips, imitating a movie star pose.

  “Who are you supposed to be, Johnny Dupe?” Frank asked.

  “Better than being Depp Jam,” I told him. “Look at you in that outfit! Dreadlocks don’t suit you, bro.”

  Frank took off the wig the costumer had given him. “I guess I could lose this without them noticing,” he said.

  “You two,” said a commanding voice from nearby. We looked over and saw the producer, Marlene Krall, standing near the edge of the tent. “You look ready, and we need contestants. Head out to the ship.”

  Frank and I left the tent and went to the dock where they had the pirate ship tied up.

  They’d made some changes while we were getting costumed. The ship now looked as much like a TV studio as it did a pirate vessel. A
big neon Buccaneers logo blazed on the ship’s landward side. The sails were gone, and a camera platform was attached to the main mast in the middle of the ship. Two sets of rigging, like big rope ladders, led up to the crow’s nest. A metal gangway went from the crow’s nest to the forward mast, and a set of spiral stairs led back down to the deck from there.

  Maybe some of the other people in the crowd knew what to expect in this challenge, but Frank and I sure didn’t. Before we could ask anyone, Marlene Krall climbed to the ship’s bridge—in the rear, where the steering wheel was—and held up her megaphone.

  “Okay, everybody, thanks for coming,” she said. “We’re about to start filming, so please remember that this is a TV show and be on your best behavior. Anyone who acts up will take a quick trip to the unemployment line, courtesy of our security chief, Jorge Alex Villatoro Junior.” A burly security guard standing nearby nodded and smiled menacingly.

  “Having said that,” Ms. Krall continued, “we also want you to act like Buccaneers. Let’s make this show fun, both for the viewers and for ourselves. And remember, you’re only contestants on this show; the star is Miles Stillman.” The crowd began to applaud, but she motioned for quiet. “Do what Miles says, remember your place, and I’m sure you’ll have a great time. And of course you’ll have a chance to win two million dollars.”

  Again, applause and cheers, along with a few piratelike growls of “Arrgh!”

  “Okay,” said Ms. Krall. “It’s time to start the show. We’ll count down from five and then roll cameras. Let’s get it right on the first take!” She clambered off the ship and took up a position near a camera on the docks.

  “Five … four … three … two … one … we’re rolling!” Ms. Krall called.

  Instantly a big man in a fancy pirate costume strode out onto the upper deck at the rear of the ship, near the captain’s wheel. Everyone instantly recognized Miles Stillman and began applauding.

  “Avast, ye swabs!” Stillman said in an over-the-top pirate voice. “Welcome to the Bayport edition of Buccaneers!”

  Again the crowd broke into applause.

  Stillman stared skeptically at the crowd on the docks. “I understand that some of you cutthroats think you have what it takes to join my crew. Well… we’ll see. We’ll see!”

  The crowd kept clapping and shouting, “Arrgh!”

  “I think what we need is a test to see who’s worthy,” Stillman went on. “More than one test, methinks. So first we’ll start with a test of basic pirate seamanship. Every able-bodied buccaneer has to be able to climb to the crow’s nest quick as lightning. So you’re going to climb the rigging as fast as you can. That’s a hundred and ten feet straight up, in case you were wondering. Are you ready?”

  As one, the crowd said, “Aye, Captain!” Except for me and Frank, of course. We’d never seen the show and didn’t know that was a catchphrase.

  “Great! Cut!” Ms. Krall yelled. “Good job, Miles. We’re moving on. You PAs, get the contestants in two lines and start them climbing. We’ll go as soon as we’re ready.”

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t go again?” Miles Stillman asked. “I think I was a little hoarse on that one.”

  “You’re a pirate, Miles,” said Ms. Krall. “It was fine. Let’s keep moving.”

  “PAs,” as it turns out, is short for “production assistants”—a legion of faceless people who keep things moving behind the scenes of a show by doing whatever the producers tell them to. Two gals in Buccaneers T-shirts quickly got us contestants formed into two lines, next to the ladder-like rigging setups. More PAs, dressed as pirates, were stationed throughout the ship to keep things going. Two more, with stopwatches, stood atop the crow’s nest, keeping time.

  No sooner was the last person in line than the cameras were rolling again and Stillman started shouting, “Climb, me hardies! Climb!”

  Contestants began climbing as fast as they could. The first two guys up had clearly come prepared. Despite their pirate costumes, they climbed quickly, hand over hand, from the deck to the top of the mast. The guy in the red beat out the guy in the blue by just a yard or so. Of course beating the guy you were climbing against wasn’t as important as how fast you climbed.

  Next came a blond girl and a guy I’d seen play football for Jewel Ridge, one of Bayport’s rivals. The girl made it up okay, but the guy lost his footing halfway. He dangled by his hands for a few seconds before losing his grip.

  I thought he was going splat! but he slid harmlessly down to a big impact pad on the deck. I hadn’t realized that every climber was safety-clipped to the outside line of the rigging.

  The two climbers behind that guy had to dodge out of the way (which slowed them down a bit), but no one got hurt. Stillman, who was stalking around the bridge at the stern of the ship, laughed piratically as the guy fell and then shouted encouragement to the next climbers.

  After climbing, the contestants walked across the gangway between the two masts and then down the stairs to the ship’s bow.

  From where Frank and I were standing, I couldn’t tell what time we needed to beat to continue the game. We had to make it, though. ATAC was counting on us.

  Frank and I were in separate lines, but we would be climbing the rigging at almost the same time—dead last. Unfortunately, through the luck of the draw, Brian Conrad was climbing right in front of me. I don’t know which is worse, the sight of Brian’s front or his back. I knew one thing, though: I was going to make it up to the crow’s nest faster than he did.

  Brian started, and when he got a third of the way up, the PAs gave me the go-ahead.

  I started climbing, hand over hand, as fast as I could. The rough, prickly ropes scraped against my bare palms as I pulled myself up.

  No way was I going to let Brian beat me, though. He had a big head start, but as we went, I started gaining on him. I angled for the left side of the rigging, since Brian was on the right.

  We were about twenty feet from the top. Brian was only a few rungs ahead of me now. He’d looked back and saw me getting close.

  Then, without warning, the rigging lurched and something went snap. Fine, powdery dust sprayed around my head, and the ropes beneath my feet gave way I glanced down as the huge swath of rigging below me fell to the deck.

  I found myself dangling by one hand, clinging to a single strand of rope in midair. Brian saw the predicament I was in, but did he stop to help? You bet he didn’t. He scrambled up to the crow’s nest as quickly as he could, leaving me swinging.

  I tried to get a grip with my other hand, but the rigging swayed like a loose hammock and I couldn’t catch hold. The prickly rope was cutting into my palms; my fingers began to ache. Even worse, since the ropes had fallen away, my safety clip was now attached to nothing.

  Without meaning to, I looked down. The people on the deck below looked like dolls. They were running around frantically, trying to figure out what to do.

  But none of them could help me.

  If I lost my grip, I was a goner.

  5 Rotgut Rigging

  I was almost all the way up to the crow’s nest when I heard a pop and then a loud snap!

  I saw Joe dangling in the air, hanging on by one hand to the only rope left. He tried to swing up and grab hold with his other hand, but the rigging swayed precariously and he couldn’t catch on. His knuckles went white; I knew he might lose his grip at any moment.

  The PAs waiting at the top of the mast leaned down, extending their hands, but they were too far away to help.

  I looked around frantically, trying to figure out some way to keep my brother from falling. A spar for hanging sails ran across the mast right near the top, just a foot above me. There were ropes attached to it for hoisting the sail. The ropes looked sturdy, and several hung all the way down to the deck.

  I raced up that last foot, grabbed a rope, and unclipped myself from the rigging I was climbing. As Joe’s grip loosened, I swung out between my rigging and his.

  “Joe!” I called.

&nbsp
; He turned and saw me just as his fingers gave way.

  I swung into him, grabbing with my free arm. He grabbed me with both of his.

  Oof! It felt like being hit with a sack of cement, but both of us held on. Joe’s added weight caused the rope to swing back toward the rigging I’d been climbing.

  We reached the netting, and Joe grabbed hold with one hand. He pulled us in until we could stick our legs through the climbing loops. I let go of the swinging rope and we both grabbed on tight. The rigging swayed precariously under our weight, but it held.

  We scrambled up to the crow’s nest as fast as we could.

  “Thanks,” Joe said, panting. “That was close.”

  I nodded; I was too out of breath to do anything else. The production crew rushed over and helped us to our feet. I checked the event timer; it looked bad. “Not quick enough!” I whispered to Joe.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he whispered back. “At least we’re alive.”

  “But how are we going to stay on this case if we can’t compete?” I asked.

  Disheartened, we walked over the catwalk to the far mast, and then down the spiral stairway to the foredeck. Everyone on the ship was cheering our narrow escape, but Joe and I barely noticed.

  What we did notice was Marlene Krall racing across the deck of the ship. She didn’t come to see Joe and me right away; she went to one of her cameramen first.

  “Did you get that?” she asked frantically. “Did you get that?”

  The cameraman nodded, but his face looked very pale. I think he was more scared than Joe and I had been!

  Ms. Krall reached us just after we set foot on the foredeck. A bunch of PAs and other production people were crowding in, trying to make sure we were okay, but Ms. Krall pushed right through them.

  “Are you boys all right?” she asked.

  “We’ve been better,” said Joe.

  The answer threw her. “Do you need a doctor?” she asked.

  “Nah,” I answered. “We’ll be okay.”

  “Good,” she said, and then turned to the crowd. “All right, everybody, that’s a wrap for the day! We’ll pick it up again tomorrow morning—six a.m. for the others who are competing in the first round, ten a.m. for those who competed tonight. See you all bright and early!”