Boardwalk Bust Page 3

  “Probably get themselves into more mischief,” Aunt Trudy grumbled.

  Aunt Trudy loves us, but she’s always afraid we’re going to get hurt. And I guess she has reason to be nervous. Joe and I have gotten into more dangerous situations as kids than most people do in their whole lives. “And how are they going to get there?” she continued. “Not on those motorcycles, I hope! Do you know how dangerous those things are? And look at the way they looked last night!”

  “It’s true,” Mom said, balling her napkin up into a knot. “Fenton, they only just got back—why do they have to leave again? Can’t it wait till next week?”

  I gave Dad another look. This couldn’t wait.

  He cleared his throat. “Um, actually, I’ve got the wood for the new backyard fence being delivered next week I was hoping the boys could help me with that. This week would be better.”

  “Well,” Mom said, turning to me and Joe, “I hope at least you won’t take your motorcycles this time. I’d feel better if you gave them a rest for a while.”

  “We won’t, Mom,” I promised. “Right, Joe?”

  “Nope,” he said, giving her a smile and crossing his heart.

  “They still have buses that go down there from the city, don’t they?” Mom asked.

  “Um, actually,” I said, “we thought we might fly down.”

  I’d been saving this information till we got permission to go. Now I sprung it on them, knowing full well how they’d react.

  “Are you serious?” Aunt Trudy said.

  “What? We’re licensed pilots,” Joe pointed out.

  “Yes,” Trudy agreed. “But that doesn’t make you good ones.”

  “Now, Trudy,” Dad said, “I’ve flown with the boys, and they’re both perfectly fine pilots.”

  “Then why is it that every time they fly, something terrible happens?” Trudy asked.

  “Mayday! Mayday!” Playback screeched, flapping his wings. “SOS! We’re going down! Mayday! Mayday!”

  “Shhh!” Trudy silenced him, giving him a cornflake. “Last time they flew a plane, as I recall, there was engine trouble—or at least that’s what the story was.”

  “It was engine trouble, Aunt Trudy,” Joe said.

  “Really? Well, it just so happens Adam Franklin is an old friend of mine. He swore up and down that he’d looked over that engine six ways from Sunday before you boys took the plane up.”

  Joe and I exchanged a glance. We knew we were caught in a lie. That plane hadn’t had engine trouble—it literally had a monkey wrench thrown into it. And it wasn’t Adam Franklin, our trusty airplane maintenance man, who’d thrown it.

  “And then there was the time before that. What was it, a mysterious hole in the gas tank?”

  “Look, it’s probably just a run of bad luck,” said good old Mom. “I know my boys, Trudy, and they’re certainly not reckless pilots.”

  “So it’s settled then?” I jumped in, before anyone could say anything else about our flying skills.

  “Just be careful,” our dad said, putting a merciful end to the discussion. “You boys have enough money for your trip?”

  I thought of the cash that had come in the cookie box. I also knew that, thanks to ATAC, the flight down to Ocean Point would be covered separately.

  “We’ll be fine,” I said.

  “All right, then,” Mom said. “When do you mean to go?”

  “Right after breakfast,” I told her.

  Joe had already shoveled his breakfast down his gullet. I now followed suit, and we got out of there. We had a mission to start, and I didn’t want to have to tell any more lies—at least not to our family.

  As we left the kitchen, I heard Playback serenading us, displaying his usual sense of humor.

  “Mayday! Mayday! We’re goin’ down, boys! SOS!”

  “You sure she’s fit to fly?” I asked Adam Franklin as we climbed aboard our two-passenger Piper—Joe at the controls, me sitting behind him to navigate. We’d called about an hour ahead so he could get our plane ready.

  “Oh, you bet!” Adam said, taking off his Red Sox cap and scratching his bald head. “Last time your Aunt Trudy gave me what for about it!”

  “Hey, that’s ancient history,” I said. “Don’t worry about it, Adam. Let’s focus on this time.”

  “No prob,” he said, giving us a wave and patting the silver side of the plane. “She’s in perfect shape. Weather’s good too. You boys have a nice flight. Take my word for it, it’ll be a safe one—long as you don’t do any loop-de-loops.”

  Soon we were airborne and headed south.

  We picked up the Jersey Shore at Sandy Hook and kept it in sight as we went. We passed over Long Branch, Monmouth University, and the Shark River Inlet.

  It was right about when we hit Long Beach Island that the fog bank rolled in from out of nowhere.

  Within the space of two minutes, we were flying totally blind, relying only on our dashboard compass for direction. These little one-engine jobs don’t have radar, in case you were wondering. You’re basically not supposed to fly them in bad weather.

  “Where did this stuff come from?” Joe asked, frowning at the fog. “I thought Adam said the weather was going to be fine.”

  “You know Jersey. If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute.”

  “I know our luck with airplanes,” Joe replied. “And so does Aunt Trudy.”

  “Just keep us headed the right way,” I told him. “This can’t last long.”

  Mmm hmm. Famous last words.

  The fog lasted for a good ten minutes. And when we finally came out of it, there was another plane coming right at us.

  5. Beach Bound

  “Bank left!”

  I didn’t need Frank screaming in my ear to know what to do. In that moment I was all instinct. I pulled on the throttle and my stomach turned as we banked hard left—so hard that we were upside down for a moment before we came back around.

  “Whew!” I said. “That was close!”

  “Too close,” Frank agreed. I could feel him grabbing my leather jacket for all he was worth. He was holding on so tightly that I couldn’t move to maneuver the plane.

  “Dude, let go of me,” I said. “I’ve gotta fly this thing.”

  He let go, but the plane kept bucking. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Frank looked behind us, then yelled, “There’s something caught on our tail!”

  Just for a second, I risked letting go of the controls to get a look.

  Sure enough, there was a big piece of cloth caught on our tail. It was flapping wildly in the wind, dragging the back of the plane down. If we didn’t get it off, and quick, it was going to make us stall out.

  Not good.

  Neither of us needed to say anything. We both knew we had only one option—one of us had to climb out onto the fuselage and pull the cloth free, or we were going to take a fatal dive into the Atlantic Ocean.

  “I’ll go,” I said.

  “No! You stay put—just try and keep us steady.”

  Before I could argue with him, Frank pulled back the cockpit cover and climbed up and out, onto the top of the fuselage.

  I couldn’t bear to watch, and anyway, I had to keep the plane sure and steady so he didn’t fall off We were a good thousand feet up, and as good a high diver as Frank is, there was no way he could have survived a plunge like that.

  I happen to be a crackerjack pilot, but this plane was getting almost impossible to control. (You try keeping a small airplane steady with someone climbing on it!) The closer Frank got to the tail, the more he was throwing off the plane’s balance, and the harder my job was getting.

  I felt a sudden easing of the drag, and a minute later Frank tumbled back into his seat behind me. “Whew!” he said. “That was exciting.”

  “What in the world was that thing?”

  “One of those banners—you know, the ads planes fly back and forth over the beach?”

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “That plane tha
t almost hit us …”

  Now it was clear what must have happened. We’d avoided hitting the plane, but the banner it was trailing got snagged on our tail. We were just lucky it had snapped off the other plane, or it could have dragged both aircraft down.

  “It took a little chunk out of our tail,” Frank told me. “How’s she flying?”

  “Not too bad,” I said, “but we’d better take her down before we lose anything else.”

  “Where are we?”

  I looked around and saw the familiar shapes of Atlantic City’s many casinos in the distance. “There you go.”

  “Atlantic City? But that’s forty miles from—”

  “I know, dude,” I said. “We’ll just have to get there some other way. I’m not risking it. We’ve had enough excitement for one flight.”

  He didn’t argue. I guess we were both a little shell-shocked. First the grain bin and now this—and all in the space of twenty-four hours!

  We finally landed at the Atlantic City airport and phoned Adam to let him know what had happened. Adam’s in on the ATAC secret, luckily. He said not to worry about it, that he’d take care of it with a few phone calls.

  Now the only problem was how we’d get to Ocean Point. We’re not old enough to rent a car, and our bikes were back in Bayport. Being stranded in Atlantic City with a bunch of cash may be some people’s idea of a good time, but we had a mission to accomplish in Ocean Point, and no way to get there.

  “How ’bout a taxi?” Frank suggested. He pointed to a row of cabs parked outside the terminal building.

  “No way,” I said. “Ocean Point is forty miles from here. Do you know how much that would run us? We’d be blowing a big chunk of our budget before we even got there! And I am primed for some serious spending.”

  Just then I felt somebody tapping me on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, son,” a deep, booming voice said. “Did you say you needed a lift to Ocean Point?”

  I turned around and took a good look at this human megaphone. He was a big, brawny guy—I guessed about fifty years old, six feet, maybe 230 pounds, with a bushy head of brown hair that was getting gray around the temples.

  This guy looked like he spent most of his time out in the sun. His tanned face brought out the whiteness of his big teeth when he smiled. The smile looked like a professional dental job—a really expensive one.

  “Yes, sir,” Frank said. “We were headed there in our plane, but we had a little trouble with it.”

  “Oh yeah? What sort of trouble?”

  I told him about our near miss. He shook his head and frowned.

  “Mmmm, yeah. Some of those banner pilots are real cowboys,” he said. “You boys are real lucky to be alive.”

  “You can say that again,” I said.

  “Name’s Bump,” he said, holding out his hand. “Bump Rankowski.”

  I shook it, and he nearly crushed my hand in his grip. Whoa. This guy was strong. “Joe Hardy,” I said. “And this is my brother Frank.”

  “Good to meet you, Frank,” Bump said, crushing Frank’s hand in turn.

  I flexed my own, just to make sure it wasn’t broken.

  “So you say you’re headed to Ocean Point? Well, that’s where I’m headed too—just got clearance from the tower. Would you like a lift? No charge.”

  To tell you the truth, getting back in a plane just then was the last thing I wanted to do, and I’m sure Frank felt the same. On top of that, we didn’t know this guy from a hole in the ground, and who could tell what kind of pilot he was?

  On the other hand, if he wasn’t a terrific pilot, either of us was plenty good enough to help him correct a mistake or get out of a jam.

  Besides, what better choice did we have? Opportunity was knocking, and we weren’t about to let a lucky break go by.

  “Excellent!” Frank said.

  “Sweet,” I agreed. ‘You’re sure it’s not—?”

  “No problem,” Bump said. “I’ve got me a four-seater. Unless you’ve got company, I count three of us. You ready to fly?”

  He gave us another dazzling smile and put a powerful arm around each of our shoulders. “Come on—she’s parked right outside.”

  “This is really great of you, Mr. Rankowski,” Frank said.

  “Please, call me Bump. Nobody calls me by my last name. Not once we’ve shook hands.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, “Frank said, “how did you get—”

  “The name Bump?” he finished, laughing. “That’s how—check her out, boys. She’s good for a bump or two, all right!”

  Removing his arms from around our shoulders, he pointed to a Day-Glo red Cessna parked across the runway. The teeth and eyes of a great white shark were painted on the sides.

  “Awesome!” I said, going over to take a closer look. “Oh, man! This thing rocks!”

  “Meet Jaws. She’s my pride and joy,” Bump said, patting the side of the plane. “Go on, hop in.”

  “Whoa,” Frank said, admiring the instrument panel. It was all sporty; all the dials were phosphor white.

  We got strapped in while Bump started going through his preflight checklist. “My birth name was Arnold,” he said, “but I never liked it. So when people started calling me Bump, I let ’em.”

  He started the engine. “So, what brings you boys to Ocean Point? Little vacation?”

  Frank gave me a look of caution—like I didn’t know to watch what I said. I mean, give me a break! “Fourth of July weekend,” I said. “Gotta hit the beach, right?”

  “You bet!” Bump said. “You look like you could use a break, Joe. Get punched in the eye, did you?”

  “Um, sort of.”

  “Kicked, actually,” Frank volunteered.

  I kicked him in the ankle to keep him from saying anything else about it. “It’s a long story,” he said, wisely leaving it at that.

  “Well, anyway, you can’t find a better beach than Ocean Point. Best spot on the whole Jersey Shore—and I oughta know. After all, I’m the mayor.”

  “The mayor?” Frank said, sitting bolt upright in his seat. “Wow!”

  “Yup, that’s me—live and in person.”

  Bump gunned the engine, and we started taxiing down the runway. The noise was deafening, but Bump had the kind of voice that can cut through anything—a politician’s voice. “Lived in Ocean Point all my life. You want to know something about the place, I’m the guy to ask.”

  Frank and I exchanged a quick look. This was a perfect chance to start our investigation—but we had to be careful. Bump Rankowski seemed like a friendly guy, all right, but as the mayor of a town with a crime wave, he might be sensitive to certain kinds of questions.

  We sat back and waited till Bump got us airborne. He did a slow turn, and we headed back north, keeping the shoreline on our left. There was no trace of the fog bank that had nearly killed us.

  “Boy, the weather sure changes fast around here,” Frank said.

  “You got that right,” Bump said. “Gotta keep your eyes open when you’re flyin’ the beach.”

  “Flying the beach?” I repeated.

  “I’m a banner pilot too,” Bump said. “I own a six-plane outfit. You see a banner being flown this week, it’s probably me or one of my boys.” He pointed to a big white button above his head. “See that? That unfurls the banner.”

  “You own the company?” I asked.

  “That’s what pays for things like this baby.” He patted the ultra-high-tech dashboard with its expensive wood and gold trim.

  I thought of the pilot who’d nearly killed us less than an hour ago. “You weren’t up flying today, were you?” I asked.

  “Naw, not with the fog,” he said. “I grounded my entire fleet at four o’clock when we got the forecast…. Oh, I get what you’re thinkin’! No, it wasn’t me, or any of mine. Ha! That’s funny!” He laughed hard, slapping his knees.

  It wasn’t that funny.

  “Are there other companies that fly the beaches?” Frank asked.
>
  “Oh, yeah. There are three or four outfits that run advertising up and down the shore. Some of ’em will hire any old pilot too—sounds like you boys ran into a real cowboy.”

  “I don’t think he saw us coming, any more than we saw him,” Frank said.

  Bump shook his head in disgust. “He shouldn’t even have been up there. Once fog rolls in, it’s way too dangerous—well, I guess I don’t have to tell you that!” He laughed again. “Listen, I’ll try to find out who it was. Can’t let him get away with shenanigans like that.”

  I hated to see somebody get fired, especially since there was no way it was intentional. “Aw, that’s okay,” I said. “I think we’d rather just let it go….”

  “Now, you just leave it to me,” Bump said, turning back to look at us. “It’s my job to keep my town safe, and that’s what I’m gonna do.” He nodded slowly. “I know people, and I can get things done. You just watch me.”

  There was something about the way he said it that gave me a chill. Underneath his friendly politician act, I could see that Bump Rankowski wasn’t somebody you’d want to cross.

  The sun was setting, and lights were coming on all along the shore. “There’s Ocean Point now!” Bump said, pointing to a cluster of lights in the distance. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

  We nodded in agreement, staring down at the town as we approached. I could see a boardwalk with lots of stores, restaurants, and attractions. There was even a small pier with rides and arcades—sort of a miniature version of Seaside Heights or Asbury Park.

  “Looks like a good time,” I said, giving Bump a wink.

  “Oh, you boys are gonna flip for it,” he assured us. “No place like it.”

  Frank cleared his throat, and I knew what was coming. “Um, didn’t I read something somewhere about some robberies happening there recently? What was it, jewelry stores?”

  I could see Bump’s face freeze into a mask. His smile was still in place, white as ever, but his eyes had changed somehow. Behind them, the wheels were working.

  “Oh, that,” he said, forcing a laugh. “Just a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of thing. You know, people come into town from all over. Once in a while, there’s bound to be a bad apple.”